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oxbellows · 5 months

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Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost.

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory.

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it?

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king.

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope.

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it.

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him.

Perhaps.

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised.

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition.

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

"Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap.

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears.

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

Your father thought you dead.

Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward.

He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him.

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered.

Faramir would never plan a suicide mission.

Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones.

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

He reached the top of the stairs.

A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.”

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

Boromir ran like he had never done in his life.

For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

“Faramir?” Boromir called warily.

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!”

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot.

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand.

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir.

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying.

Boromir dropped to his knees.

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell.

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill.

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart.

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it.

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs.

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

“No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief.

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

#@emilybeemartin #lotr fic #Boromir Lives AU

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mj2606k · 9 months

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Cockwarming

Kinkmas Day 1

Pairing: So’lek x fem!Sarentu!reader

Warnings: MINORS DNI 🔞, P in V, raw sex, semi!dirty talk, praise, cockwarming, (technically) breeding

A/N: I decided at literally last minute that I wanted to join in on Kinkmas, so this might seem a bit rushed. Hope y’all still enjoy it though! :)

Summary: So’lek took the Sarentu he had grow closest to on an overnight trip to observe a nearby RDA site, but they get stuck in a cave during a heavy storm. They build a small fire but they’re both still freezing, so they come up with another way to keep each other warm.

So’lek grunts in annoyance as he climbs further up the steep hill, rain pelting him in the face and nearly making him lose his hold on the outcropping rock he had been holding onto. He regains his hold quickly before glancing behind himself at the other Na'vi with him — one of the female Sarentu. She was the one that escaped alone when he was helping Alma rescue her and the other remaining members of her clan from TAP.

She’s right behind him as they climb the rock, and only a few minutes later So’lek reaches the top of the hill and the foot of the cave, reaching down to grab the Sarentu’s hand before lifting her up into the cave beside him. They both just rest there for a moment, catching their breaths as they watch the middle of the storm finally reach them, the rain pouring down outside the cave nearly enough to form a small waterfall.

After a few moments the girl Na’vi stands and heads deeper into the cave, finding a few dry branches and setting them up to make a fire. So’lek does his best to scout the area around their cave without getting himself drenched by the rain, then he makes his way over to her just as she lights the fire.

She adds a few more sticks and small branches to the fire before carefully stripping off most of her coverings, leaving herself only in her tewng, chest covering, and her chest plate. So’lek watches her silently, his eyes trailing over her body here and there, pausing over the small bruises on her hips and the occasional bite spread out over her inner thighs from one of their most recent endeavors.

Hours later the pair are huddled together as far back in the cave as they can get, the Sarentu visibly shivering even as So’lek adds more wood to the small fire. He’s more discreet about his lack of warmth, but he’s quick to huddle back up behind her once he’s finished adding the remainder of the wood to the fire. So’lek takes a moment to consider his options before leaning in and wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his forehead against the back of her neck as he gently pulls her closer in an attempt to share their body heat with one another. The Sarentu smiles as he leans in close, resting one of her hands over his even as she continues to shiver, her teeth chattering quietly.

Both of them try desperately to sleep but even as So’lek begins warming slightly, the girl’s chattering teeth and insistent backing up to get closer to him does nothing but keep him awake. This goes on for another ten minutes before So’lek thinks of something new to try and begins softly pressing kisses to the back of her neck, his tail curling gently around her’s when she gasps softly.

Only minutes later the Sarentu had given him verbal consent and now So'lek had pulled her tewng to the side, lazily thrusting two of his own fingers inside her, groaning softly at the quiet moans she let out as he stretched her gently. As if she wasn't already practically putty beneath his hands, he was also finding amusement in whispering little comments, whether he meant for her to hear them or not she wasn't sure. "Nìtxan 'ekxin...tswìk oe nemfa nìtxan nìltsan. (So tight...sucking me in so well.)" So'lek murmured right beside her ear, chuckling softly as her cunt fluttered around his digits.

The Sarentu whimpered needily, bucking her hips against his hand before grinding her hips back against him through his tewng, “Please, So’lek.. Oe nìtxan mek, kin nga mìfa. (I’m so empty, need you inside.)” So’lek coos softly, nuzzling his cheek against her shoulder as he gently pulls his fingers from her before moving his own tewng to the side. He used her juices on his fingers as lube as he stroked his cock once, twice, before lining it up to her entrance and slowly pushing into her.

It seemed that they both held their breaths until he was fully bottomed out inside her, a soft whimper falling from her lips as So’lek muffled a groan against her shoulder. He allowed her a few moments to adjust before he began slowly pulling out until only the tip remained, then slowly but deeply thrusting back in, repeating his movements until little moans were spilling from her on each thrust in.

As he steadily rocked against her, soft groans and quiet curses continuously slipped out of So’lek’s mouth, little murmurs of “O-oh, fuck-” or comments muffled against her shoulder that make her stomach flutter and her cunt clench around So’lek’s cock. “Tsä’ pxaw oe.. nafì’u sìltsan ‘evenge. (Gushing around me..such a good girl.)” the words were whispered right against her ear and her inner walls gave another flutter around him, a choked moan falling from her lips as his tip grazed her g-spot, “Nga kop txukx… (You're too deep…)” So’lek groaned again before pressing a soft kiss against her shoulder in response to her words and her tone.

She could tell when So’lek was close to his release by how his cock twitched inside her, how he wet a few fingers on his free hand before reaching around and beginning to rub quick steady circles against her clit to mask the way his thrusts were starting to get sloppy and uncoordinated. “Lu nga tstu si? (Are you close?)” he asked her, his voice pitching up slightly at the end as he swallowed down a soft whimper at the way her walls were beginning to milk him, bringing him dangerously close to the edge that he was desperate to push her over before him.

The Sarentu was about to answer him when she suddenly felt his tip brush against her cervix. A loud gasp left her mouth before her inner walls spasmed around him, properly milking him as her arousal squirted out and partially soaking both their thighs. So’lek let out a quiet broken moan, thrusting hard into her a few more times before pushing as deep in as he could go and stilling, panting quietly as Sarentu shivered slightly from the feeling of his cum painting her walls white.

A few more minutes passed as they both just relaxed, panting quietly until So’lek gently adjusted their position, returning to properly spooning her while letting her warm his cock, both of them purring softly while he pressed light kisses up her jaw, his hips lazily grinding against her. “Lu nga sang set? (Are you warm yet?)” So’lek broke the silence after a while and the Sarentu couldn’t help the quiet chuckle that left her until they were both laughing quietly, the loud but calming sound of the rain outside the cave eventually sending them both to sleep.

#mj2606k #mj2606kwrites #avatar #avatar writer #na’vi avatar #avatar12daysofkinkmas #avatar12daysofkinkmas2023 #avatar kinkmas #so’lek frontiers of pandora #so’lek smut #so’lek #avatar frontiers of pandora

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platinumshawnn · 27 days

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A Union of Ice and Stone | Cregan Stark — prologue

A/N: hi, sorry this is late but I’m finally here with my boy cregan <33 i have zero control, i should be focused on finishing my benjicot fic but nah -- anyways!! i will probably establish a masterlist for this once i have more done, so bear with me.

Synopsis: As the war between Targaryen kin looms, the young Lord of Winterfell, Cregan Stark, marches in favour of rightful heir, Queen Rhaenyra, gathering men for his army. His path leads him to the foot of House Arryn’s door and the Lady Lysara Arryn.

Content Warning(s): adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexual content.

inspiration playlist

word count: 3.4k

Lysara's heart pounded in her chest, each step a struggle against the slick, rain-soaked earth. Her cloak, heavy with water, clung to her frame as she sprinted through the open field, heading south of her house, blinded by the unforgiving dusk that did nothing for her vision as she blindly navigated the grass by memory; she knew these fields like the back of her hand, every tree and bush, every dip in the ground that threatened to trip her as she bolted.

The high grass whipped at her skin, her dress drenched and weighing down her movements as she struggled for air, her lungs screaming for adequate oxygen that she was not successful in sucking in with each deep gasp she inhaled; suddenly she regret all those years of not joining her brothers as they trained in the yards, building their stamina, as her limbs burned with exhaustion but she could not afford to slow down as she was still within sight of the Arryn men who patrolled the boundaries of their land should they have come this way at any given moment — her head twisted to look behind her as she readjusted her tight hold on the skirts of her dress as the the fabric dipped momentarily, her eyes wide and terrified as she stumbled a step in the process when her toes caught the hem — if she had been caught now, surely that would be it. Her head would be on a spike somewhere on the gates of the Eyrie, on display for all those who cast their eyes upon it, both a warning and a promise — a show of strength from her cousin who did not need to try to succeed. Her reputation never failed to precede her. The thought of being caught now, when she was so close made her nauseous and sick at the thought of being dragged back — her arms flailed out in front of her in an effort to steady herself as her right foot shot out as she threatened to fall forwards, the pain radiating up her ankle and into her knee as her weight slammed into it, eliciting a gasp.

Despite the radiating pain that caused her now to limp, she continued to run.

The storm's fury mirrored the turmoil inside her, each thunderclap a reminder of the risk and imminent danger her current position placed her in. She had prayed that the rain would hold off, the clouds rolling in as she had retreated to her rooms for the night after dinner, but as some cruel reminder of how little control she possessed, it had downpoured the moment she had snuck out of the gates; scarcely sneaking past the guards that were planted at the front -- it had only taken her weeks of being practically held captive inside to bribe her way out, wanting to crawl out of her skin as she made promises she was not proud of -- but anything was better than staring at the plain walls of her room for several weeks again.

She had tried for weeks to get out, but Jeyne seemed to keep on her heels as best she could, and if it was not her; it was one of her men -- one of her personal guards who hovered close every waking hour, always watching her from some corner of the room, ensuring she did not step out of line or try anything that she had not already been warned about time and time again. She was already treading thin ice, but there was nothing worse than being held captive in your own home; considered something of a traitor by your own people and no longer possessing the trust of your kin. She heard the whispers and saw the looks, she wasn’t stupid by any means -- but worst of all, she knew her father would have been disappointed had he been able to see her now.

A loud burst of thunder sounded from above her as she tumbled forwards, her stocking becoming soaked by the grass that brushed her legs with each step as she neared the river that separated her from the only place she had ever known peace these past three years; a little patch amidst the dense forestry, concealed from prying eyes and shielded by the trees from the rain. She was so close…

Lysara's breath hitched as she reached the edge of the river, the torrent of water mirroring her frantic heart. The cold seeped through her soaked garments, chilling her to the bone, but she hardly noticed. All she could think of was Gareth, waiting for her on the other side, hidden amongst the thick underbrush where they had spent countless stolen moments together. The thought of his warm embrace, his whispered promises of love, gave her the strength to press on.

With a determined push, Lysara waded into the river, the icy water biting at her ankles. Each step was a battle as the current tugged at her, threatening to sweep her away, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself forward. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she refused to yield. She couldn’t afford to.

Finally, she reached the other side, stumbling onto the bank with a cry of relief and clawing her way up onto the riverbank with desperate hands, the soil embedding itself under her nails. She didn’t pause to catch her breath, instead, she plunged into the forest, her steps faltering as the pain in her ankle flared anew. The branches snagged at her cloak, leaves brushing against her face as she pushed deeper into the woods. She could hear the river behind her, the rushing water almost drowning out the sound of her own heartbeat. Almost.

“Gareth!” she called out, her voice barely a whisper above the storm. Panic gripped her when there was no immediate answer. What if something had happened to him? What if Jeyne had found out and set a trap?

But then, from the shadows, he emerged. Tall and broad-shouldered, Gareth stepped into view, his dark eyes filled with concern as he rushed to her side and dragged her into the trees, whilst his eyes quickly swept the bushes behind her.

“Lysara, what happened? You’re hurt,” he said, his hands immediately going to her arm, steadying her as she swayed on her feet.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, though the pain in her ankle told a different story, “I don’t have much time.”

She heard the unbelieving scoff as he knelt by her side, pulling the hem of her dress up enough to snake his hand underneath the fabric and gently brush his fingers along her ankle -- the soft gesture elicited a sharp hiss, flinching in pain as she leaned into him with a hand planted on his shoulder, “You need to be seen by the maester,” He scolded as he looked up at her.

Her eyes widened, “Come, I can carry you back,” Gareth insisted, standing and beginning to wrap an arm around her waist to support her against him, “We can tell her I found you between the borders, I was on patrol and you were there…”

Lysara shook her head, “No, you can’t.”

“She’d understand, surely”

“She’s not stupid, Gareth,” She snapped, her voice panicked as she attempted to tear from his hold, “Why do you think it took me so long to come back? She’ll kill me this time-- if not worse, she would have you killed on the spot.”

“If that is what it must come to, then I am willing to face it with a stiff lip-- but I will not allow you to stumble back like this, not in this weather.” He muttered, attempting to crouch to sweep her off her feet; an arm coming behind her knees.

“Lysara Arryn!” The shout echoed through the trees, carrying over the wind and pinning the couple where they stood; frozen in fear. The colour drained from her face as she quickly shoved his hands away, pushing him in the direction of the bushes that concealed them; an effort to hide his presence, “Come out! You are found, girl!” Ser Harrold called.

“Go!” She harshly whispered, eyes wide in fear as Gareth stumbled to his feet, “You cannot be found, hide!”

Her hands planted against his chest, shoving him so hard he nearly fell into the bush head first, still reaching for her -- she could hear as the heavy hooves of his horse trampled through the trees; the leaves crunching under the stead’s weight, “We know you are here, as does Lady Jeyne! There is no use hiding!”

His eyes continued to peer out at her as he ducked into the shrubbery; using her body to shield him then as her back pressed against the bush, whipping around as Ser Harrold and his men burst through the trees and into the clearing. He stood in front of the men who rushed forward to surround her, her breath heavy and panting, eyes wide and flushed cheeks as her fingers touched the leaves of the bush that concealed the man only a mere inches away from her, “Where is the boy?” He asked, approaching her.

“What boy?” She quickly replied, feigning an innocent confusion.

“Do not play me for a fool,” Harrold warned.

A silence passed through them as she snapped her mouth shut, her bones tense with anxiety and clenching her jaw to keep from shaking as she spoke, “I know nought of what you speak.”

“The Royce boy!” He finally snapped, “Where has he gone?”

She lifted her chin, her fists balling at her sides, “Nowhere, I have not seen…” “Enough with the lies!” He interrupted her, dismounting his horse that whinnied. He released its reins to close the small gap that separated them, his gloved hand closing around her upper arm and jerking her towards him, “It has never been your strong suit, Lysara, so let’s cut the messing about.”

She writhed against him, trying to free herself as he then tugged her upright and on her feet, earning a yelp as a jolt of pain tore through her shoulder, “I have not seen him, he did not show! I am alone, please!” She insisted.

His grip tightened, sure enough to leave bruises as he let out a frustrated sigh; dragging her through the dirt and towards his horse, “You probably hid him and gave him a head start, he is probably too far gone and back over the boundaries of his own land by now, you ungrateful little girl.” He grumbled, forcing her against the horse, her hands flying out to stop herself from going face first against its side, “Your cousin has tirelessly defended you time and time again and you continue to defy her but no more. You know, you are lucky it has been her who has handled you, should it have been my choice--”

His hands closed around her waist, hoisting her up and forcing her over the saddle of the white horse that stumbled underneath her sudden weight; the rein pressing into her ribs uncomfortably, hardly allowing her a chance to swing a leg over and mounting in behind her -- she wanted to be sick and gag as he pulled her flush against him; his chest pressed to her shoulders as he tightly gripped the the reins in his hands, “You can’t threaten me, how dare you!” She exclaimed.

His breath fanned d against the back of her neck, every hair standing in alert as she cringed away from the feeling only to be drawn back by a hand that gripped her nape and brought her back into him, “You are hardly a respectable woman, much less a daughter of Arryn— your father would be disappointed to see you’ve taken after your brother’s stupidity.” He said, releasing her neck with a shove forward.

With a sharp jerk on the reins, the horse launched forward and turned, rushing back out towards where she had come from only moments prior — with a last glance behind her, her eyes settled on the bush where she knew Gareth remained; growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared from view. Only then did she relax, the feeling of dread finally sinking in as she leaned into the horse, her arms wrapping around its neck and closing her eyes.

The journey back to the Eyrie was a blur. The rain continued to pour, soaking through her already drenched clothes, but Lysara felt numb to the cold. Her thoughts were consumed by the dread of what awaited her. Jeyne Arryn was not a woman known for her mercy. Lysara had defied her one too many times, and she knew that this time, the punishment would be severe.

As they reached the gates of the Eyrie, Lysara felt the weight of her situation settle on her shoulders like a leaden cloak. The men dragged her through the courtyard, up the stairs, and into the main hall where Jeyne awaited her. The Lady of the Eyrie sat on her high-backed chair, her expression unreadable as she watched Lysara being brought before her.

For a moment, there was only silence, broken only by the sound of the rain against the windows. Then, Jeyne spoke, her voice quiet and calm but her eyes bordered rage as she stared at her, “Have you no shame?” She asked, standing from her seat, “No honour? I spare your life, despite pleas to disinherit and banish you and this is how you repay me? Have I not been merciful in your favour?”

“I am grateful, Jeyne,” She insisted, stepping forward as she tugged herself free from Herrold’s grip, “I am. I do not know what your men have told you, but I promise you, I have done nothing to imply otherwise…you and our house are where my loyalties have always been.”

Her expression remained blank, but there, at the corner of her mouth, was a twitch of a frown, “Do you think so lowly of me as to be that stupid?”

She stilled, her mouth hanging open and unable to respond, like a terrified animal as she stared back at her cousin, wide-eyed and stammering, “N-no, of course not!”

“Then do not treat me as such,” She snapped, beginning to approach her, “Do you think I do not hear the whispers of where you disappear to? That you have disappeared off into the woods with that Royce boy, for hours on end, alone?”

She stopped a mere inches away from her, a frown etched deep into her sharp features as paused to scan her cousin’s features and trying to gauge the guilty expression that tugged at her brow; silent and unable to protest, “You sully yourself for a boy who cannot provide for you-- for some second-born bastard who only seeks to use you as cover from his reputation like some sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. You are not a stupid girl, Lysara.”

“I am not,” She echoed, her voice small among the room.

“Then do not behave as though you are,” She argued. “I cannot protect you much longer-- the council grows restless every day and continues to press for me to wash our hands of you, every day, do you understand that?”

Lysara lifted her chin, meeting her cousin’s gaze with as much defiance as she could muster, though inside, she was trembling. She knew there would be no forgiveness this time, “Then why haven’t you?”

“Because you are my kin!” She finally exclaimed, exasperated as she spun away from her for a moment to regain composure -- Jeyne pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes squeezing shut and taking a few deep breaths before she turned to look at her again, “We have been close since our youth, I have even considered you to be a sister all these years, and even as I honour that, you continue to stomp your pretty little foot all over that. As though that has no value, as though that means nothing to you.”

“It has not stopped you before-- from slaughtering your own kin in order to protect your name, so do with me as you will. Imprison me, kill me-- whatever you see fit, just as you did my brother then,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her. “But know this: nothing you do will make me regret loving him.”

Jeyne’s eyes flashed with anger, but she said nothing for a long moment. Then, with a flick of her hand, she dismissed her men, leaving the two women alone in the hall.

“Maybe you are a fool, Lysara,” Jeyne said quietly, the weight of her words heavy with disappointment. “But you are still my blood. I will not have you put to death, though you have earned it.”

Lysara’s breath caught in her throat, relief washing over her in a dizzying wave. But Jeyne wasn’t finished.

“You will be confined to your chambers until I decide what to do with you,” Jeyne continued. “And as for that Royce boy…he will be found and dealt with accordingly.”

“No!” Lysara gasped, stepping forward, but Jeyne’s glare stopped her in her tracks.

“This is not up for debate, Lysara,” Jeyne said, her tone final. “You have made your choice. Now, you will live with the consequences. Now go clean yourself, you smell of the fields like some smallfolk.” She spat, her eyes scanning up and down to take in her full appearance -- disheveled, wet, and muddy up to her knees. She refused to move yet, watching as her cousin turned to retreat back towards her seat.

As Lysara stood in the center of the hall, drenched and defeated, the heavy wooden doors at the far end of the room creaked open. A cold draft swept through, sending a shiver down her spine causing Jeyne to pause and glance toward the entrance, her brows knitting together in surprise.

A young knight hurried into the room, his armor clanking with each step. He looked flustered, his eyes wide as he approached the Lady of the Eyrie. “My lady,” he began, his voice betraying his nerves, “I must report—Lord Cregan Stark has arrived at the Eyrie. He… he’s demanding an audience with you.”

Lysara’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of Cregan Stark, sharing her cousin’s visible confusion. What was he doing here? Her mind raced, a mix of fear and hope fluttering in her chest. Perhaps this was a twist of fate, an unexpected ally in her dire situation. But as she looked at Jeyne, she saw no relief in her cousin’s eyes. Instead, there was only tension.

Jeyne’s lips pressed into a thin line, her hand smoothing along the side of her skirts. “Cregan Stark,” she repeated slowly, as if weighing the significance of the name. “He is a long way from Winterfell. What brings him to the Eyrie unannounced?”

The knight shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “He didn’t say, my lady. Only that it is a matter of great importance and that he must speak with you immediately.”

Jeyne’s eyes flickered toward Lysara , and for a brief moment, their gazes met. She felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. Jeyne was no fool; she would have already started to piece together the implications of Cregan Stark’s sudden arrival.

“Very well,” Jeyne said at last, her voice clipped. “Escort Lord Stark to the Great Hall. I will meet him shortly.”

The knight bowed and hurried out of the room, leaving Lysara and Jeyne alone once more. The silence that followed was thick with tension and unease.

She could see the storm brewing in her cousin’s eyes, a mix of calculation and concern as her jaw tensed, clenching and unclenching. Jeyne turned to her, her expression unreadable, but there was an edge to her voice as she spoke. “It seems our conversation will have to wait but rest assured, this matter with Gareth Royce is far from over.”

Before Lysara could respond, her mouth opening to speak, Jeyne swept out of the room; her long skirts swishing as she moved. She was left standing there, her mind spinning with questions and a growing sense of unease. Cregan Stark’s arrival was unexpected.

As she was escorted back to her chambers by two guards, Lysara couldn’t shake the feeling that this unexpected visit would either be her salvation or her undoing. And with Jeyne Arryn at the helm, she feared it would be the latter.

#cregan fanfiction #cregan stark #house of the dragon #hotd2 #hotd #cregan stark fanfic #asoiaf #blood and fire #cregan stark x oc #cregan stark x reader #house stark

174 notes · View notes

bluecookies02 · 1 year

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ℕ𝕖𝕦𝕧𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖 𝕩 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣

𝕞𝕚𝕝𝕕 𝕟𝕤𝕗𝕨; 𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕤𝕥 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕒 𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕪 𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘; 𝕕𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕠𝕟 𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕔𝕪𝕔𝕝𝕖𝕤

Neuvillette hated spring.

He doesn't seem like a man that would ever give something enough attention to hate it, not to that extent at least.

He enjoys watching the flowers bloom, listening to birds chirp as he files away reports in his office right before his scheduled leave, making everything neat and organized to soothe his eyes upon his return.

Neuvillette also loves the scent of pollen that fills his senses when he opens the windows to let fresh air in.

But there's a longing in the depth of his chest that every spring brings. A heat in the pits of his stomach.

It was a reminder that he was spending another year alone, whereas his instincts yearned for him to get out and hopelessly search for another of his kin.

But his kind was either long gone across this nation or already mated.

Others were likely far away in the lands he was born in, which if he ever knew the place of, with years he has forgotten.

In those somber weeks he craved to fly free and search until his body fell tired, his wings cramped and his body could no longer wonder in circles.

He has tried, only to end up hidden in a cave when he could no longer walk nor roam the skies.

The hormones in his body tend to get uncontrollable, even for a composed man like him, leaving him hunched over, sweat sticking to his skin as he tirelessly wastes a load after load onto the rubble, knees weak and jaw clenched.

He found it pathetic often, remembering the diverse literature he read over the decades, where people referred to this act as "relief".

There was no relief for him...he would have never call it such a thing.

He might've been far from home then, but Fontaine's skies always roared with heavy rain as he wailed inside his hidings.

Desperate, naked, in more senses then one and utterly, undoubtedly defeated.

Shame often urged him to seek shelter, a place where noone recognized him, but a nation you hold dear to your heart sometimes can provide certain comfort.

He soon resorted to staying in a cabin near the borders of Fontaine, hidden between tall hills that no human would be silly enough to visit, especially during weeks where the lands were known to flood for the past decades.

There might be no tell in when it would rain during any other period in this weirdly cursed land, yet they all knew that this prognosis was spot on every spring.

Neuvillette makes himself at home after a long trip, dusting off the shelves and changing the cabin's large bed into fresh sheets.

He's long past the age of roaming.

He should be entering his sixth millennia soon? Maybe?

Yet the once cold cabin doesn't fill him with dread anymore, warmth engulfing the space as he falls into bed with his lover, one that he stopped searching for but who has found him in these recent years nonetheless.

Today makes another year of which Neuvillette embraces spring with joy, and if the people of Fontaine looked up at the pouring sky a little harder, they'd see silky white and mellow in place of dark and gloomy that once were.

#neuvilette x reader #neuvillette #neuvillette x reader smut #genshin impact smut #genshin x reader smut #neuvillette x reader

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hoeforhao · 1 year

Text

🌙 Fated Under The Rain ☆ Wonwoo Oneshot ☆

↝ pairing: ex boyfriend! wonwoo × fem! reader

↝ genre: explicit language, smut with little plot, minors dni!!!!!! mutual pining but mainly from wonwoo, fluff, slight humor, overall nothing heavy just a small sensual drabble.

↝ warnings: unprotected sex(wrap it up kids), creampie, breast play, fingering, marking. Tell me if I missed any!

↝ summary: will offering lift to the man who left you in pieces amidst heavy rain lead to something your heart has been craving for months?

↝ word count: 2k(am sorry😭)

↝ author's note: was driving back home yesterday while it was literally pouring down outside, my favorite song playing on spotify and all i could think of instead focusing on the road was this plot!

Lemme know if you enjoyed the drabble! Feedbacks always make me feel warm♡

Permanent taglist : @feat-sun @joonsytip

Amidst the rain seeping it's path down the glass panels, the heaven clan's haze shielding your view from the mundane maneuver of the blurred out world, your glistening beads have found their long craved spot onto the tall, broad shouldered man standing by the signal, hair and shirt completely soaked up from the pouring skies, while his eyes were desperately searching for a way back - was it to his brick stoned house or his lost home?

"Going back home?" thrusting on the clutch and then the brake to bring your car to a halt at the blinking bloody lights, you roll down the passenger side's window as a way to offer some sort of help to the seemingly distressed man on top of the pavement.

A familiar voices grazes wonwoo's ears as his eyes shoot up in anticipation,looking for the owner of the claimed voice, only to land them on you. Did rain cloud his vision? Cuz there's no way that you were now parked beside him, asking whether he's struggling to get back home or not.

"Y-yes" the older nervously scratches the back of his head, not sure of what to say to the person he has pained so deep.

"I can drop you off, if you don't mind obviously" only you knew how hard it was for you to maintain an indifferent composure before the one man you've cared for and treasured so dearly, being fully aware of the fact that he's highly sensitive to rainwater; 'typical cat behavior' you laugh at yourself!

"No its fine. I'll find a cab soon" wonwoo tries to be as polite as possible, even though every vein of his body wants to jump into the car right now.

"I've been watching you clawing onto your scalp in frustration for the past 30 minutes and you think i'll still believe in your 'will find a cab soon'?" you genuinely didn't realise when the old habits took over the new persona and you started acting as the protective girlfriend you were, visualizing that one time he fell severely ill for days after getting poured onto on his way to the office; a memory you never wanna revisit ever again.

"Hop on quick if you don't wanna end up amongst the white walls for the second time!! Only 10 seconds are left to go" eyes quickly deviating towards the beeping timer of the signal, while you shift up the gear and slowly start bringing up your feet off the floor, ready to drive out as soon as the light turns green.

All of wonwoo's self control leave his body seeing the same old care flash by on his lost lover's face, as he swiftly pulls onto the door's latch, positioning his nearly drenched body onto the leather seats.

The defeaning silence between the two past kins were filled by wonwoo's occasional glances at the strong independent lady sitting beside him and the radio playing your favorite songs, those which you constantly looped onto spotify throughout the entire spell of your heart longing for wonwoo.

Looks like even the gods are against you today as a warm wet hand lands on yours that were stationed onto the gear beside. As much as you wanted to engulf those palms into yours instantly and never let them go, you knew quite well that he was now not yours, not your to claim, not your to hold onto. Thus the only thing you could do was keep your eyes fixed onto the slippery road infront and drive him home safe.

But the heavens knew better. Your plans were currently going for a battle with you as wonwoo kept on grazing his soft gentle digits onto the back of your hand, everytime you shifted them to change the gear, drawing small circles on them occasionally.

The sensation now reaching the threshold of your body, making your skin call for the touch of his lips and your insides craving the warmth of his body, it was time for you to slow down your car by a deserted road and park the black shiny carrier under the moonlight.

"What do you want wonwoo?" a stern yet begging pair of eyes turns towards the passenger seat, where the big man was resting his wet body on.

"I miss you y/n. I've always missed you" wonwoo now completely engulfs your palms into his, squeezing them hard from the anticipation of what's about to come his way. "Can...can i feel you for one last time, pls?"

You see the desperation behind those black boba balls, the way those droplets of tears are being held captive in the backroom; besides it was gradually getting hard to ignore the pained screams of your body to feel him beneath you. Abandoning all the huff,anger, hurt that made their home in you for so long, you fleetly jumped out from the driver's seat while pushing back wonwoo's to make enough space for you on his lap.

Startled by the sudden presence of your wet clothed cunt over the tent in his tight jeans, wonwoo's body jolts up in the heat flowing through him, dulling his morals and senses as he only wants to fuck the life out of you right now ; and he shows no delay in his endeavor as he clings his mouth onto your neck like a beast deprived of his meal for months, loitering the supple skin beneath with his marks.

"I missed you so fuckin much y/n" he whispers into your nape, hands roaming up your waist, under your satin shirt, caressing the soft pillowy tummy he has always preferred laying on, pawing onto your boobs over the black lacey bra you wore to work, for lord knows what reasons; while his lips now clutched themselves to your plumpy vanilla lips.

"May I, please?" there's literally not a single person on the earth who can say no to those pleasing kitty eyes. So you just hummed against the kiss - not a passionate one but a longing one; wonwoo's lips were moving on yours in such insatiable hunger that it seemed like he wanted to imprint the taste onto his mouth forever, who knows if he'll ever get to feel them again....as if his lips have finally found their twin flame they've been craving for months now!

One single go signal from you and wonwoo wasted no time in tugging onto the buttons of your flowy shirt, ripping them open in just a matter of seconds. His eyes lit up like an excited puppy upon seeing your bare skin, glowing under the moonlit rainy sky....oh how he has missed this sight of yours so much, you whimpering on him, all vulnerable and begging for his touch against your heated core.

"Fuck you're still so sweet my love" he moans into your jiggly soft boobs, mouth fixed onto one of your hardened nipples, while he pawed at the other one.

The words 'my love' from the mouth of the one your heart still belongs to, still craves for and still wants to be claimed by, does no good in controlling the dripping from your already soaked pussy, as you start roughly grinding against his clothed length.

"Hmmm so impatient for my cock, aren't you pretty baby" a wide smirk creeping it's way onto wonwoo's face as he notices you getting impatient to feel him inside you. Finding it exciting and a prideful moment for him, the hand that was kneading onto your doughy mounds now trails down to your panties under the very convenient skirt your were harboring ; drawing his cold fingers over your sensitive clothed clit sending your head thrown against the windshield of your car.

"Pls..pls stop teasing and fuck me already wonu" you were yourself amazed at how desperate you seemed for his cock in your throbbing pussy.

"But I don't have a condom sweetheart" wonwoo knew absolutely well that you didn't give a damn about having unprotected sex with him as he smirked onto the skin around your nipples, teasing your wet sticky fold with his free fingers ; pulling out a string of slick from your pussy infront of you, he proudly shows you how much of a slut you're for his touch.

"You..ahh...you think...I....shit...fuckin care about having a condom right now? Just go in raw please....haven't felt your cock in me....for so long....fuck" lord if anyone ever got near to the black beauty parked on the roadside and heard the lewd sounds escaping your lips, they would surely be traumatized for days, but that was the least of your concerns now.

"As my princess wishes" and with that wonwoo quickly moves his limbs towards his pants, shoving down the chain of his trousers in the flick of an eye, while he finally releases his strained hard cock from its restraints, precum leaking down its tip as he tries to slightly palm down the pain before sheathing them into your walls.

"Just as tight as I left it" he growls onto your neck as his cock now thrusts into your slick walls at a inhumane pace, as if he slowly down, he'll forever lose the warmth of this pussy. "Fitting me so well into the mould u created only for me to fill"

The rain outside and the haze of all the juices leaking from the two bodies inside the car, creates a mystical world bounded within the tinted glasses of the vehicle, while wonwoo keeps on fucking you dumb onto his lap.

"I...I'm near wonw-- ah fuck" you lose control over your core muscles at the sensation of wonwoo's tip hitting your womb, as your core's glistening cream paints his black jeans white ; not to mention you were now embarrassed at the fact that he has to go home with such stained pants....or maybe not-

"My pretty little whore, so glowy after ruining my new jeans huh" you can feel wonwoo's pace slowing down a bit, knowing quite well what's about to follow. "Lemme return the favor and ruin your insides, ruin your pussy so that no one can get to bury themselves in you, except me.....only my hole to fuck"

Wonwoo's body falls limp onto the headrest of the seat as he shoots his entire load into you, cock still moving amongst your walls, fucking his seeds deep inside you.

"Can i have another chance, please?" wonwoo finally looks you into your pleasure coated eyes while shifting you on his lap to wrap your arms around his neck, resting his sweat forehead onto yours.

"At what? Fucking me?" you were seemingly confused at his words as you didn't think he would be wanting anything else other than sex, after how he let go off your hand in the middle of you two's promised path, 8 months ago.

"No...no...at l-loving you, pls" his voice suddenly portrays a cast of regret and pain, "I know I fucked up, I hurt the one I've loved with all my might all this time. I...I could never get you out of my head y/n, my eyes and my heart kept looking for you at every corner of my messed up life. Pls, will you give your catto one last chance?" something unexpected rolled down wonwoo's cheeks and it was none other than tear drops. Was...was he really crying for you, begging you back into his arms again?

"This time if you leave, I'll make sure to castrate you, so that you can't ever get a girl around you after me" you laugh onto his skin while placing a gentle kiss on his forehead, your fingers wiping off the dried out tears on his cheeks.

"I'll happily place my dick under your guillotine, my highness" wonwoo hasn't felt this happy since months, heart fluttering at the thought of walking beside you again, fingers locked into one another's.

Your heart swells looking at the misty scene outside, remembering how the first time you two decided to date, it was raining cats and dogs as you were pulling him under a tree to sheath yourselves from the rain...and now when the skies decided to grant you another chance at healing your soul with the one you loved, it's raining heavily - again!!!

"Eh but what about your pants wonu, how will you go home with these...ummm...stains" a genuine question you've been dying to ask him, as you surely don't have a change for men's jeans in your car.

"Who said we are going home baby"

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viiiiiiiiiin · 7 months

Text

Sent to Heaven: Shanks x Strawhat!Reader

Includes: Shanks , Red Haired Pirates , GN Reader

Important Info: The reader is the mixologist of the Strawhats. This story happens pre - timeskip , precisely a bit after the events at Sabaody. Reader was sent to an island that is famous for its alcohol and such , which is where they meet Shanks

A / N: sorry this took so long !! If yall want me to continue this , lmk.

You had been in the air for days. Way too long , if you had to give your own opinion. The last thing you remembered was the fight at the Sabaody Archipelago. Speaking of , you wondered if the rest of your crew was okay.

You were knocked unconscious by Kuma. He was the reason you were sent flying. You didn't know where you were going , or if you were even going to survive. You were starving , dehydrated , and exhausted. You were even still very , very injured. Blood coated the bottom of the paw bubble you resided in.

As if a miracle was placed upon you , an island came into sight. The bubble started decending towards the island , so you prepared yourself for the impact. Your little trap smashed into the ground and took the blunt of the blow. Though , the wind was still knocked out of your lungs.

You started coughing violently as you rolled over and spit blood on the cold , hard ground. "Fuckin' . . ." You trailed off , grumbling under your breath. You struggled to get yourself to your scraped knees.

While you struggled , a small crowd formed around you. People whispered and stared at your injured form. Your eyes trailed over to a woman and a child. The woman wore nurse scrubs and had a bag on her arm. You sighed and tried to speak. Instead of words , your throat burned from the blood from previous wounds.

Despite the pain , you croaked out a plea for help. "Please , I need a boat. I need to go back to Sabaody." You spoke , gritting your teeth. The woman turned from you and the child started crying.

After a few minutes , you started to lose hope. Nobody was going to help you or give you a boat. Suddenly , a smooth voice cut through the thick tension between you and the residents. "Why would you need to go there ?" The voice belonged to a male. You wished that you could lift your head to see him , but you fell into unconsciousness from the mass loss of blood.

---

". . . kin' up." Was the first thing you heard as your eyes slowly opened. You took a moment to stare at the blank ceiling in an attempt to figure out where you were. Your heavy eyelids , after a bit of force , stayed open.

By the feeling of the place , you were on a ship. Were they taking you to Sabaody ? You shot up , but you were quickly shocked with the amount of pain in your body. It felt like a thousand pans had rained upon your head and now it was pounding violently. You didn't know how you didn't realize the pain towards the front of your head , but you sure did now. Instead of groaning about it , you chose to ignore it.

You looked down and noticed that you had been changed. Your previous wounds were either stitched up and covered , or just covered. Your chest was wrapped in a bandage since the biggest wound was across there , and your broken ankle was suspended in the air. You blinked and noticed a tall , blonde haired male in the corner.

"So , you're awake." He spoke , a smirk on his face. "My name is Hongo. You were pretty beatin' up back there , mind tellin' me what happened ?" He asked as he sat down on the chair next to your bed.

Your mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water. Your throat burned as if there were needles stabbed into it. Despite this , you forced yourself to speak. "Fight on Sabaody. I have to get . . get back to my crew." You croaked in a hoarse voice. You flinched as you felt him take off the bandages from your arm.

"Relax , I'm just changing your bandages. You were out for a while." He said smoothly as he reached for the roll on the desk next to you. You watched him carefully . . Until you realized what he said.

Your eyes widened , mouth widening along with them. "A while ?? How long was a while ??" You panicked. God damnit , what if they were fighting off people at Sabaody while waiting for you ?!! You had to get there.

He thought for a moment. Though in thought , he didn't stop changing your bloodied wrap. "About 2 weeks. You had lost a lot of blood. You have a serious wound on your chest. If it had cut any deeper , you would have been dead. It's actually a miracle that you survived losing all of that blood." He informed smoothly , scrunching his nose as he finished off the wrap.

"2 weeks ??! Fuck , fuck , fuck. I've got to get back to Luffy." You began rambling about things you didn't even know , but Hongo was caught on one detail.

"Hold on a second ! Did you say Luffy ? As in Monkey D. Luffy ?" He asked , a smile now present on his pale face.

You sighed and nodded , attempting to relax. He laughed and stood up. "Our captain is good buds with Luffy ! Let me go get you some tea for your throat and fetch him for ya." He winked and walked out of the dimly lit office. You blinked and stared at the ajar door. Before you tried to stand , you heard him yell to you. "Don't leave the bed ! If you do , your ankle will pop back out of place and you won't be able to use it again !"

You flinched and stopped taking the sheets off of your battered body. You groaned and rolled to your side , though it was painful. You decided to take a little nap while waiting. A little shut eye couldn't hurt.

---

You woke up to some unfamiliar voices. As if on instinct , you shot up , wide eyed , and stared at all of them. They were surprised that you woke up so fast , but they didn't say anything about it. "So , you're on Luffy's crew ?" You heard from your side. You turned your eyes to the man and observed him. He had red hair , brown eyes , and a stubble. You had to admit that he was quite attractive.

"Yeah. I'm the mixologist of his crew." You said bluntly as you wiped the sweat from off of your forehead. "Then you might wanna see this." Another male said from behind the red haired man. He had gray hair and a cigarette in his mouth. He placed a newspaper in front of you. 2 of them , actually. One was from . . The war ? And the other was what Luffy did after.

You looked at the 1st one and skimmed over it. You turned to see your captain , seemingly in a state of shock and depression. Your eyes widened as you saw the big bold letters that read: "Fire Fist Ace , Executed" or something along those lines. You dropped the paper and covered your mouth.

"Take me to him. Please , I need to be there for him. He needs someone to be by his side during this time." You demanded after a small bit of recovery. Beck shook his head and pointed to the other paper. You picked it up and saw your captain again. He seemed to be alive and well , but you noticed something on his arm.

2Y.

You knew what it meant. Your anxiety faded as you made the realization. You sighed softly and smiled. "Nevermind. Thank you for showing me these." You bowed your head a bit and struggled to get up.

"If you wouldn't mind me asking , what island are we docked at ?" You asked while staring at the men in front of you. "Bebida Gallows. It's an island famous for its alcohol. I'm sure you can guess why we're here." Benn answered calmly , crossing his arms and leaning against the wall behind him.

You looked between the two of them and decided to introduce yourself. "My name is Reader. I'd like to request to fight along side you for a while. I want to train and get stronger so I can protect my captain. He does so much for us . . I have to return the favor. I won't let what happened at Sabaody happen EVER again." You declared with a fierce look flares up in you [color] colored eyes. It seems the others noticed.

"Protectin' Luffy , eh ? I can't say no to that. He needs a nice crew if he's going to be the king of the pirates." The red haired captain laughed. You knew him from somewhere , but you couldn't put your finger on it. "I'm Shanks. This 'ere is Beckman." Shanks introduced. "And this 'ere is Hongo. He was the one that took care o' ya." He put his arm around his first mate and smiled widely.

"Alright. Thank you for being able to train me." You bowed your head once more and caused the other men in the room to laugh.

---

It had been a year since you've been training with the Red Haired Pirates. You stayed on the island while they would leave , then come back. You honed any skills they taught you , while also updating your alcohol mixes. You learned a lot from those Pirates and even the people of the island.

Turns out , Shanks owns this bit of land. He has his flag flying high , protecting the people. You found it charming. You also noticed that during your training sessions , you've developed feelings for him. Rather it be because of how he was so gentle with you , his charisma , his kindness , or how he flirted with you. It all mixed together , like a drink.

Anytime you stirred one of your new drinks , you would think of him. The feeling of the stirring I'd very similar to how his presence makes your stomach feel.

Along with him , your crewmates made their way into your mind. Any time you had free , you would make their favorite drinks.

Milk Punch Cocktail for Luffy. You made it with milk , the spirit , sugar , and vanilla extract. Luffy always asked for extra vanilla extract , so you complied.

A large , Toji Moon for Zoro. Its base is made with Benedictine , yuzu and lemon juices , red bean syrup , and yuzu marmelade , which all gets topped with a frothy mix of nigori sake and egg white that's been shaken until foamy , plus a dusting of grated nutmeg. This was one of your harder sake mixes to make , but Zoro seemed to love it.

A Tangerine Dream for Nami. It's made of ginger liqueur , tangerine , tangerine juice , sugar , and lemon juice. It tasted more like a tangerine drink than an alcoholic one , which may be why Nami enjoyed it so much.

Apple Pie on Rocks for Usopp. It's made of vanilla vodka , fireball whiskey , apple juice , apple cider , carmel apple syrup , and champagne. You knew he had one of the higher tolerances of the crew , so this was something you suggested for him. Once he tried it , he LOVED it.

A Hot Ted Toddy for Sanji. It's made of honey , lemon , dark rum , cognac , black tea , and cloves. You tried this drink because it includes black tea , Sanji's favorite drink. Once he tried it , he fell in love with it.

There were so many more , but these are the first few you learned. They came to you naturally , and you found yourself making them unconsciously. You even made them for the Red Haired Pirates , who enjoyed them a lot.

---

It had been 2 years. 2 long , grueling years. You've learned so much since then. What haki was , what the government does , and so much more. One of those things was how you were attracted to red heads.

You trained with the Red Haired pirates. You ended up even developing a fondness for their captain. He was just so giddy and reminded you so , so much of your own captain.

That's why departing hurt you and him so much. You arrived on Sabaody a few days earlier than everyone else because Shanks and his crew didn't want to be seen by yours.

You knew you couldn't tell Shanks how you felt. Neither of you had the time to be in love , especially with this generation. You were ready to meet him in the New World , however. You 2 would have to be patient.

As Luffy returns the Straw Hat , you will get to finally be with the man you fell in love with under 2 years. The man who trained you , the man who showed you what the world was truly like. You'd never forget him.

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arcielee · 2 years

Text

The Past and the Pending

Summary: Aemond will find you and bring you the fuck back to Westeros. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Modern!FemReader Word Count: 3790 Warnings: Smutty smut, possessive Aemond (you know you love it, I do too, no judgement) dubcon, oral (female receiving), fingering, p in v, all the goodies. Author's Note: We are coming to the end of this depravity and there is one last part after this. I cannot express enough thanks to @f4ll-for-you for all of her help! I literally posted, “Hey, this is my first ever Reader Insert attempt, does anyone wanna read it?” And she was the only one willing and the friendship that has blossomed has absolutely changed me for the better as a writer. Thank you from the bottom of my heart ♥ lēkia - brother Tags (kindred spirits): @glitterandgoldfinds @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @fan-goddess @welcometothelioncage @hueanhdang @sahvlren @heavenly1927 @missusnora @lemonivall (I have never had a taglist before, but if you are bold it is because Tumblr has betrayed me and it will not allow me to tag you, I’m so sorry) Series: Call It Dreaming

Prince Aemond Targaryen was a quiet force that would sweep through the Red Keep, his dark presence engulfing every room he entered into. His temperament would be described as obsessional, almost consuming, whenever his meticulous mind was set on something or someone. His traits and his drive would have been admirable in a firstborn son, but instead he learned early on his fate was predetermined, understanding that his title would forever be superseded by the fact he was only a second son.

On the night he returned from Storm’s End, he came to realize that his power dynamic had shifted. Aemond was ushered away into the small council chamber, not even able to change from his clothes that hung heavy from the rain. He saw the change in the expressions around the table, the disappointment in both his grandsire and mother’s expressions, but Aegon did not share their concerns and found optimism within his err, boldly stating how his brother had, “the true blood of the dragon.”

Aemond was grateful his brother stood at his side with the new alias Kinslayer tacking onto his legacy and, in return, he devoted himself to serve his king, no matter the personal opinion on his drunken addled reign.

He was a formidable ally to Aegon, quick to push his grandsire and his self-serving counsel aside, while suggesting for Daeron to return to the Red Keep at once, which would allow Tessarion to be added on the battlefront.

Aemond then turned his focus to the retaliation he knew would come from his sister, pouring over tomes and books to scrutinize battles past and best predict the impending. It did not prepare for the attempt made, but the gods showed favor as Daeron happened to be visiting with his mother when two brutes slipped into her quarters by one of the many ingresses that lined the castle walls. The prince’s yells were quick to bring the attention of Ser Criston Cole and together they were able to subdue the would-be assassins.

The two men with the monikers Blood and Cheese were beaten until they were unrecognizable, until the needed confession spilled from their broken teeth and bloody lips: that they had been sent by Daemon.

An eye for an eye, a son for a son.

The outrage for the attempt on the little Targaryen princes allowed the uproar needed amongst the seven realms to capture and bring Rhaenyra and their uncle to trial. They were convicted and their execution was a show for the smallfolk, thus ceasing any more murmurs of who Viserys had wished to be his heir.

This led to present day, with the seven realms now under the unquestionable rule of his brother, King Aegon II, who proved to be an insipid drunk with access to the royal funds, which was used to throw extravagant revelries that allowed him to wag his cock at every woman within Westeros.

Yes, he was the king and he was kin, but Aegon was still insufferable.

His brother’s incessant celebrations left Aemond numb to their victory, with an emptiness that replaced the consuming vengeance he had felt since that fateful night on Driftmark. He always assumed when it had been rightfully served, that a sense of peace would take over but instead he found a gnawing want for something more.

“You need a woman, lēkia,” Aegon had told him with a giggle.

In that regard, Aemond had an insatiable appetite but only once it had been awakened. The last woman he took to bed was when they first claimed Harrenhal and slaughtered every Strong within, save for a bastard who served as a wetnurse.

Their chemistry was explosive, burning bold and passionate until the inevitable end of the wick. Alys spoke often of her purpose, stating the gods have given her a new destiny to fulfill, whereas Aemond was respectful of the old gods and the new, but found he often preferred the process of coming to a conclusion with thorough research, as opposed to an unseen deity’s say-so.

When he told her this, she clucked her tongue and touched his cheek. “My prince, I know your destiny and you just need to find her.”

Instead, Aemond returned to the Red Keep and fell into the mundane routine of small council meetings, training with Ser Criston, and riding Vhagar. The only time he felt a sense of purpose was backside the massive she-dragon, allowing her freedom to soar over the seven realms and trusting the gentle pull of the reins and a word utterance would return them to King’s Landing.

To return to nothing.

He had always preferred seclusion, but it wore on him as of late. His sister was busy with the twins and her new babe, a young princeling named Maelor, while his mother was devoted to breathing down Aegon’s neck and upholding his royal reputation. Daeron found his purpose within the Citadel and was forging his chains and Ser Criston allowed time to train with him, but he was dedicated to the shadows cast by his mother and brother.

So when his day’s tasks were done, he would retreat to his room and allow himself to remove his eyepatch and the façade it held, choose a book from his growing collection and seat himself in front of the fire to read.

This was how you found him.

His agitation was apparent by the rush of color to his cheeks; he could not fathom how you managed to enter without him realizing. He watched as you made a soft noise of surprise, your backside was to him and he knew, from what you wore, that Aegon had picked some whore from the Streets of Silk and slipped her in.

His tone was sharp when he questioned what you were doing and he saw you jump. Aemond was in a sour mood and he knew he was projecting, but his temper flared and he glided across the room to take hold of you by the throat, though he was careful with his hold.

What he had not expected was the beauty that seemed to glow from you, your look so exquisite and unlike anything he had seen before within Westeros. The embarrassment of you seeing him so intimately tightened his expression and you returned his look with an unabashed regard that held no tremor of fear, but your eyes seemed to brim with a sort of adoration.

His gaze rolled over your shapely legs that peered below the hem of your queer clothing and the gnaw of lust began to form in the pit of his stomach. He watched with rapt attention when you removed that flimsy piece of clothing to show the small clothes that fit with your figure with the most delicious flattery to your curves.

His passion had been awakened; he had to taste you, he had to touch you.

His fingers trailed your skin, soft like silk to his touch, and your scent warm and subtle. Your body fit so well against him and the noises that spilled from your kiss swollen lips was a sound he always wished to hear. The moment he finally sheathed himself inside your wet warmth, you mewled so pitifully and he shuddered from how your cunt molded so perfectly around his cock. Aemond struggled to pace himself, but your tightness clutched so sinfully and he swore the world anew when he spilled inside you.

Aemond pulled you beneath the covers, unwilling to have you return from wherever his brother dragged you from. He loved curling against your soft backside and how you felt pressed against his chest; there was pleasure from watching you sleep, with the subtle rise and fall of your bare chest with your every breath, while cradling his arm between your breasts.

He regretted falling asleep, for when he awoke you were gone and all that remained was the queer clothing you had arrived in, your fragrance still lingering on the thin fabric.

Aemond went to find his brother and confront him about you, only to learn that Aegon had been bedridden since late the day prior with stomach pains. “You swear you have not left this bedchamber, lēkia,” he questioned.

“Speak softer,” Aegon moaned, dark circles that amplified the purple of his eyes. “I swear to you I did not leave my room for anything last night, save the bucket.”

But if she was not his, where did she come from?

He called for Ser Erryk and together they searched every brothel within the city, questioning every madam and giving the description of your beauty. There was no lead and they tried to entice him with what they had available, but Aemond did not want the touch of anyone but you and you alone.

You had become his new sense of purpose, consuming his every thought.

It was weeks before he saw you again; there was the familiar soft gasp falling from your lips and you were back, flesh and blood, in his bedchambers. His temper flared and you were coy with your reply. There was the question that had tormented him for weeks, “Where are you from?”

“I cannot say.”

He wished for an answer, but his body betrayed him and the ache he felt only began to subside once he grabbed onto you, feeling your soft flesh and enveloped in your warm aroma. He pulled you close, appreciative of the black, simple dress that complimented the curves of your body; your nipples peaked beneath the fabric and your body arched, the soft flesh of your ass pressing into his crotch.

You were intoxicating and he was mournful with his words, “I imagine you will leave me again.”

“I will need to,” you replied, your eyes doleful. “But I will stay as long as I am able to.”

As long as I am able to.

Your words remained with him, a soft echo in his mind as he returned to the monotonous tasks of his every day. They rolled away and one night, in the quiet of his bedchamber, he laid back and stared at his canopy above his bed. His gaze held nothing, but beneath his pillow he held a grip of his dagger, the fabric of your shirt touching his knuckles.

He ached for your touch, the clothing left behind had lost your smell, and he mourned that he did not hold onto you, refusing to allow you to return from wherever you had come from.

Aemond did not remember falling asleep, but he felt the shift at the edge of his bed and the realization he was not alone in his room. He had an automated response, only to fully awaken once he saw the hold he had around your neck and your wide eyes.

The passion remained the same and how perfect your body was against his own. A sense of ataraxia washed over him with you wrapped in his arms, a comforting calm until he felt your body tense every so slight. “What is it?” He was quick to ask, wanting to resolve whatever vexed you in this intimate moment.

You turned to face him, your eyes glassy and the tip of your nose red with your words, “I only wish I was able to stay longer with you.”

Morning came and his bed was empty again, but he now understood what must be done. He returned to Harrehal and sought out Alys. When he entered the throne room, he looked up at her and she wore a wicked smile on her painted lips, but her focus was on the mortar in her hand. “What do you seek, my prince?” She asked with the lilt of her Riverland accent.

“Who,” he replied, his gaze watchful as her hands continued the motion in front of her. There was a collection of mason jars, marble bowls brimming with herbs from all over Westeros, and the wispy smoke of sage hung heavy in the air.

Alys lifted her kohl smeared eyes, a twinkle to the blue that bore into him. “You finally found her,” her tone was playful, almost teasing. “You know that I need something of hers to locate.”

He handed over your vintage shirt.

“The White Duke,” she grinned. “Is this dear to her?”

“I hope so,” he answered.

She tsked and took just a shred of the fabric, dropping it onto the marble slate in front of her before sprinkling a powder on top. A flame sparked and it reflected in her eyes. “Fate is peculiar,” she began, her tone still teasing. “She is not of this world, my prince.”

Aemond remembered your reply, I cannot say, and he asks, “Am I able to get to her? Would I be able to bring her back here?” He swallowed. “She has visited me before.”

“Yes, I am aware,” Alys continues. “I can create an access that will allow you to retrieve your destiny, as well as a potion that you must give her so she can return with you, with whatever she carries.” Her eyes focused on him, her lips drawn into a thin line. “We cannot traipse back and forth this plane of existence, my prince. I can give you two days, but after that the portal will be closed so on one else can cross.”

She paused for a moment. “This, of course, will cost you, my prince.”

But no cost could compare to the opportunity to see you again. Aemond returned that evening and noticed a chalk symbol on the cobblestone. Alys handed him a small vial with a soft purple glow emanating from the glass. “This is what she must take to be able to cross over and stay within Wetseros,” she instructed. “Where you arrive will be the same way you must return.”

He nodded, his jaw clenched.

“I will close this portal in two days, whether you return or not,” she repeated and she gave him a kiss. “Good luck, my prince.”

Aemond Targaryen found himself in your room.

Where he stood was a soft, iridescent glow beneath where he stood and it faded away. A purple lucent light remained, casting from your bedside and allowing enough light for him to look around. It was apparent the space was intimately yours, an almost chaotic cleanliness and your fragrance touched everything. He noticed a velvet chair with clothes folded on top and to his right, by the door, were your shoes neatly lined up. Aemond bent over and removed his boots, placing them alongside.

He saw a shelf that stretched from the ceiling to the floor, littered with literature and small trinkets; on the wall were pieces of artwork that hung. His gaze then fell towards the bed where you were sleeping; you were wearing a thin, white tank top and the blanket was halfway down your hips, your lips slightly open with the soft breaths of your slumber.

There was the curl of his lips as Aemond took slow steps around your bedside, his eye taking in your relaxed form in the sheer top, and he reached to gently pull the quilt back further to show the black cotton underwear that hung on your hips. His hand reached out to you, his fingertips pressing into your soft skin and his touch elicited a sleepy moan from your lips, your nipples pebbling in response.

He felt the tightness in his trousers and he pulled back to remove his tunic before moving to climb into your bed, pressing closer, his nose trailing from your collarbone to the curve of your neck, his mouth opened slightly as he took in your smell.

You shift beneath him with a sigh, goosebumps spreading over the skin that shows, and he was quick to place his palm to cover your mouth; your eyes widen and it takes a moment to recognize it was Aemond Targaryen, bare chested and pressing up against you. He relaxes his grip and your hands move to touch his face, your fingers soft on his jawline, “Aemond-?” Your voice is a harsh whisper and he moves forward to take your mouth with his own.

You moan into the kiss as his tongue massages against your own, shifting himself to move on top of you and brace his elbows on each side of you, caging you in. You move to open your legs and cradle him against your hips, your hands tangling in his silver hair.

His lips move downwards, tracing your jawline to your neck and kissing your chest. He shifts his weight to one side, reaching to grab your neckline with one hand and pulling to allow your breast to spill. His hot mouth suckles and bites into your soft flesh and you moan louder, grinding your hips upwards for friction.

You see the curl of his lips as he reaches for your stretched neckline and tears it down the center. “Hey,” you push to your elbows, your voice low. “I would have taken it off if you just asked.”

“I do not ask for what is mine,” he replies and pushes you back into a bed with a kiss that removes the air from your lungs and all thoughts from your mind until all you can think is the sensation of his lips trailing lower, his kisses sprinkled over your chest, your breasts, your ribs and lower.

You lift your hips and peel off your underwear that is soaked with your anticipation; Aemond moves to your center with a greedy lick of your silky folds, the sensation sending shivers throughout and your clit blossoms in response. “Vok,” Perfect, he praises into your cunt and you shiver again with his Valyrian.

You feel his slender finger curl into you, a tentative touch to your velvety walls until you clench in response. He hums his satisfaction before adding a second finger for a come hither motion to massage that spot within you; you mewl pitifully and bring your hand to your mouth to smother your noise.

He pulls back to look at you and you are quick to whisper, “I have roommates,” he probably does not know what the fuck that is, “I live with others here, they have their own rooms… I-I don’t want them to hear me.”

“I do not fucking care,” he growls and he dips lower until his mouth is on your cunt. You gasp at the simultaneous ministrations of his mouth and his fingers within you; your thighs begin to shake and you nearly cry when he quickens his motion, the pleasure crashing over you and your cunt clenching desperately around his fingers as he coaxes you through your orgasm.

There is a wet squelch when he pulls his hand back and you weakly look, face flushed, as he brings his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean, his grin wicked. “As sweet as last night,” he says and he moves to unlace his trousers before returning to nestle in the cradle of your hips.

Your eyes are glazed and you sigh with the pressure of his chest to your own, his hard and warm and still somehow molds so perfectly against you; he moves his hips and you feel his cock pressing against your slick slit, tantalizing your swollen lips. “Aemond, please,” you beg, your nails biting into his toned shoulders.

He reaches his hand to line himself with your entrance, the gentle thrusts of his hips to fill you and you moan at the stretch of your walls as his cock sheaths into you. He begins to rock against you, hitting deeper within, and the soft pants of pleasure spill from your lips with his every thrust.

Aemond leans forward, his mouth finding yours with a gentle kiss that does not match to the powerful pace of his hips. “Wait,” you breathe and he pauses, his expression curious as you push him back and he follows you lead to lay back onto your bed.

You take care to prop your pillows behind his back and his gaze watches as you climb on top, your touch gentle to guide his tip between your wet folds. He reaches to grip into the softness of your hips, lifting to ease the entirety of his length into you; your head tilts back with a cockdrunk grin to your lips and you slowly begin to rock against his hips, while Aemond presses to meet your motion.

You look down at the prince and his gaze is intense in return, one sapphire eye and one lavender eye that bore through you. The lighting of the room gives him an ethereal beauty and your eyes admire how the shadows spread across the rivets of his chest and abdomen when he flexes to meet you with the motion of his hips. His silken hair spills on both sides, a contrast to your dark sheets, like a silver halo for this deity clenched between your thighs.

“Aemond,” your voice is so low, but he is rapt to your attention. “Jenigon nykēla.”

Touch me.

He releases one hand and reaches between your thighs, his thumb gentle with his touch until the slick on your cunt coats his tip. He finds your pearl and moves in circles to match the rhythm of his hips, his touch igniting the passion that coils in the pit of your stomach. Your nails bite into his chest, leaving creases of red crescent moons on his pale skin; you bite your bottom lip, quickening the movement of your hips.

Aemond returns your passion, rutting upwards until your breath hitches and your velvety walls begin to clench around him, coaxing his own release with a guttural groan from the back of his throat; his arm pushes himself upright and the other moves to slip around your waist, burying his face in the juncture of your neck and shoulder, soaking in your scent.

He falls back and pulls you with him, his arms wrapping around you and you nestle against his chest; your smile is unable to leave your face as you press a kiss to his chest, moving to press your lips to his neck. He hums, his cheeks dimpling with a closed lip smile, and you whisper, “Aemond, how did you find me?” Your voice is soft. “This has to be a dream.”

He hums again, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “I will tell you everything in the morning,” he promises, nestling with you beneath the quilts on your bed.

Your fingers trace the hard planes of his abdomen, the softest touch to test if he was really there. But in the morning you will be gone, you don’t say and, instead, his steady breathing lulls you to sleep.

#the past and the pending #Aemond Targaryen x Modern!FemReader #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x modern!reader #hotd fanfic #aemond smut #thanks for reading #and thanks for all the love #♥

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thesoftestmess · 9 months

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this might not be canon, but personally i need furina to struggle a whole lot longer and harder with post-prophecy depression and mental illness. She's played the same tiring and painful act for five centuries, was constantly in a life or death scenario and had to hide her true self from the world the entire time and she won't just recover in a few years from that.

There's parts of her that will never ever be compatible with a simple human lifestyle, and parts of her that are irreparably broken. She isn't sure of her personality after everything that happened and the lie she had to live. She slips between personas and her archon temperament comes through like a defensive mechanism at any sign of conflict or trouble.

She's plagued by nightmares. Of the flood, of the trial, of the people closest to her conspiring against her behind her back, and of being found out in a million terrible ways. Of saying the wrong thing, making a wrong decision. Of being found out, of being found out, of being found out.

Lying or keeping a secret feels existential still. Being honest still feels life threatening sometimes. Putting herself first feels like putting both hands on a hot stove.

She doesn't live in the palais anymore, doesn't have to sit through trials anymore, but her heart and soul are still there. In her dreams she's still at the place she spent her entire life's memories at.

Yes, she can make new memories, but it'll take time. More time than she has, maybe, now that she's the closest to being human she'll ever be.

She'll never be human in the way the people around her are.

What sort of human has 500 years worth of memories after all? What human tells personal anecdotes and mixes up their centuries?

What sort of human can feel the absence of their divinity like it's a physical thing? A voice that will never speak to her again, or keep her alive? What human has no family, no childhood?

What human remembers so little, but still remembers death somewhere deep within?

She jerks out of sleep from it sometimes, gasping for air, and spends the rest of the night awake, almost frozen by fear. The flood is over, but it's hard to convince her racing heart that the danger is too.

Humans have entire family trees that go generations back, but Furina was put into this world a solitary creature, her blood heavy with sin ever since she turned human.

She owns a hydro vision now and doesn't know how to yield it, but the ocean still calls out to her some days. Sea creatures flock to her like they can smell she's not human enough.

She learns how to make little hydro companions for herself, so the darkness and emptiness of her apartment feels less ominous when she lies awake at night.

She can't turn her vision into a weapon quite yet, but when it rains the droplets seem to cling to her. She's watched them roll upwards along her arm, watched them gather in her palm like kin. She wonders if sea creatures flock to neuvillette in a similar way, or if his immense power makes them recoil. She wonders if elemental dragons can feel regret. Wonders if he, too, ever feels entirely foreign in that human body he was given. If he, too, lies awake trying to grasp faint memories of a past life.

She's extremely human in the way she's plagued by body pains from not being able to relax just one day in five centuries. The years catch up with her once she gets out of survival mode, and fatigue is a constant companion now. Sleep comes difficultly and getting out of bed was easier when the fate of a whole nation depended on it. On her. She's never lived for just herself before and some days she's not sure she wants to.

She did her duty and earned her retirement and the story turned out well, all things considered. She still has people by her side, some of them.

Still, she feels raw and tired and overwhelmed by the life lying ahead of her. As a human and as someone who will always be Something Else.

#you can have your perfectly competent fully healed hyper independent furina #if i can have my mess of a person multiply-disordered and trying her best furina #like i'm sorry but this babygirl can fit sooooo much ptsd and depression and personality disorder into her #that's a girl with lifelong chronic pain from not being allowed to relax for a day in five centuries #that's a girl who needs a teeth protector at night because she'd grind he #*them into a fine powder from all the tension she still holds #that's someone who gets so low so suddenly and loes all her joy in the matter of minutes #that's someone who wants to catch up on a lifetime of being human but is bone-deep exhausted #and crushed by fatigued #my disability beam went all over her like neuv's water gun #now she's sopping wet and shivering i'm sorry #genshin impact #furina #fari talks fic

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silverskye13 · 1 year

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"In the deep dark woods

In the hermit lands

There lies an ancient fortress

Where the wary dare not go-ee-oh

Where the wary dare not go.

There the trees are tall

And the ice, it bites

See it's buried in the snow

Where the wary dare not go-ee-oh

Where the wary dare not go."

Scar adjusted his grip on the reigns as his sled continued on through the snow. For the last day of his trip, the ground started doing its best impression of a mountain glacier -- more ice than anything -- and while it made for better footing for the horse, his ride had gotten noticeably more uncomfortable over bumps and rocks. The ground just sounded harder here, and the myriad of jostles made him wince. Still, it was far safer than sledding down the river, which marked itself as a tempting makeshift road, winding through the valley. He could see runner tracks on it, something he was sure the locals found reassuring, maybe even integral to survival in the cold, dark winter. Scar wasn’t from here though, and the rivers he knew were temperamental and treacherous. One fall into frigid water was more than enough to end a life, and had ended several in the town he came from. So he watched the river warily and let his horse pick her way across the snow-laden banks.

"Abandoned by

It's craftsman's hands

And cursed by all that see it

Where the wary dare not go-ee-oh

Where the wary dare not go

The dungeon keeper

Sleeps deep inside

With the spirits he's devoured

Where the wary dare not go-ee-oh

Where the wary dare not go."

Scar’s sleigh hit a root, or some animal's bolthole or something, forcing a sudden, heavy lurch through the sleigh. He winced at the loud rattle of his supplies as they threatened to tumble out. Across his legs, Jellie let out a low, complaining rumble. The massive white and gray snow cat, currently doing the very important job of keeping his legs and feet warm, cracked an accusing green eye at him, as though it were his fault the ground was so bumpy.

Scar ruffled a hand through her fur placatingly. "Oh hush, you big 'ol lazy thing. You’ve done nothing but sleep all day, anyway.”

Jellie let out a loud harrumph, the white bloom of her breath freezing against her whiskers. Her eye closed again, and she didn’t make another sound.

"Lazy cat," Scar hummed affectionately, and ran his gloved hand across her fur again. He was tempted to take the glove off so he could feel the softness of her coat, but he resisted the urge. Scar has never known a cold like the cold in this part of the world. He knew winter, sure, everyone did, but there was something malicious and present in the way the cold worked here. It was the kind of cold that seeped into bones and rotted there, blueing and blackening the skin, almost sentient in its ferocity. Even lacking any wind save for the breeze of the running sleigh, the air here gnaws and tears like an animal, like peeling skin. Even the trees, blasted and twisted and tenacious, mark the winter wind's passing with the lean of their trunks. Evergreen needles bristled in undulating waves, sparsely broken by the dead, leafless limbs of deciduous trees. Here and there, trunks ruptured and scarred by the aftermath of freezing sap shattering them open stood like gravestones amidst their crowding kin.

It’s the dark remains of leafed trees that Scar finds the most interesting. While seasons do happen here, he had always been told it was too cold in this part of the world for a proper summer. There was only a season where it rained and iced more than it snowed. The fact that leafed trees had even tried to claim these forests was a marvel, here where even the evergreens started dying off the further he went. It was a bitter reminder to him that some of the death from this winter wasn't all from brutal, natural cold.

"In the deep dark woods

In the hermit lands

There lies an ancient fortress…"

Scar hummed to himself quietly, craning his head back to watch the looming, dark shape rising against the sky. The Frozen Citadel glared down at him with toothy, icicle sneers that laced every dark window and balcony. Its great black towers splintered the sky like obsidian blades, and icy ribcages clutched the spine of the road to its entrance. Despite the terror and foreboding the Citadel instilled, Scar felt a thrill of excitement as it grew nearer. It was like standing in the shadow of the corpse of some ancient monster, unfathomably old, unapologetic in its claim to existence. Villages die. Frost melts. Bones turn to dust. The Frozen Citadel remains.

"And we're going to get inside it," Scar grinned, and the frigid air on his teeth made his jaw ache.

Scar’s sleigh found the old cobbled road and glided across it, a flea scaling the trunk of a mastodon. The horse slowed its gait the farther up the road they went, casting nervous glances to the dead and dying vegetation around the Citadel. So close to the great structure, the trees looked more like ice sculptures than any living thing, and had probably died centuries ago, though the layers of ice built around them kept their silhouettes ever still. The world here was deafeningly quiet. All the small crawling, flying things of the forest didn’t dare stir, if they lived here at all. Even the wolves, haunting companions that had stalked Scar across the wilderness, had stopped their howling several hours ago. There was only the creaking of branches, the crackling of brittle snow, and the sleigh. Fanciful things came to him in the silence: the impression of a shout or an echo, the jibber of whispered voices, the refrains of old campfire songs. It was thrilling and strange to know the only thing making a sound around here was him. Haunting, oh, that was a good word. To admit it was haunting though, would be to admit he found it scary, and he couldn’t do that. Scar hadn’t admitted he was scared since he first read about the Citadel in his bedroom as a kid, hadn’t admitted he was scared when Jellie was still vicious and tried to bite his hands when he trained her, hadn’t admitted he was scared when he bought his sleigh and his horse and first struck out nearly three weeks ago. He would not admit he was scared now.

The horse knickered nervously, ears pressing back, and finally hauled them up to the Citadel entrance -- or as close to the entrance as the horse would allow. The gaping, toothy, maw-like doorway yawned open in front of them, showing the glimmer of blue fire within. He tried to coax the horse forward, reasoning to it about warmth and shelter and food, but something about the mouth-like portal made it rear and whinny, and finally give the sleigh a heavy kick with its back hooves.

“Alright alright! You don’t have to be so angry about it, stupid thing!” Scar chastised it, though he wasn’t able to keep the grin from his face. He could make camp outside, that was fine. Or maybe he would just picket the horse out here and make his camp inside. Yes, he liked that idea a lot, actually. Then he and Jellie would be safe and warm as close to the treasure as he could get, and tomorrow, oh tomorrow, he would delve in. Scar rubbed his stiff hands together greedily, and cleared his throat.

“Alright Jellie, time to work!”

At the command, Jellie harrumphed one more time and got to her feet, shaking out her fur. The moment her weight was off of Scar’s legs, a cold chill darted its way up his spine. He wiggled his toes -- All still mobile and full of feeling! -- and pulled his legs over the side of the sleigh.

“Help me down, Jellie,” Scar hummed pleasantly, and the large cat hunkered down beside him, the soft handles of her cloth harness within his reach. In a practiced motion (that had really taken way too long to train in hindsight) Jellie pulled her owner out of the sleigh, supporting most of his weight on her back as she went. When he was secure on the ground, she trotted to the spot at the back of the cart where the smaller toboggan was hooked in place. She pulled it to him, patiently waited as he got situated inside, and waited even longer as he clasped her harness to its tethers with his clumsy mittens.

“Alright!” Scar crowed triumphantly when everything was in place and securely fastened. “Take us in Jellie!”

The great snow cat shook out her fur and started forward, only bristling a little as she stepped towards the shadow of the Citadel’s interior.

“Absolutely not!” a voice boomed suddenly, startling both cat and handler to a stop. “Are you stupid or what? Get-- get away from that door!"

Scar turned as best he could in his toboggan to look over his shoulder -- at the three horses and riders who seemed to have popped out of the snow. Two of them he noticed, with the startled clarity of someone who wasn’t used to being on the business end of a weapon, had bows and arrows trained in his direction.

Scar, for lack of anything else to do, smiled and raised his hands -- partly in greeting, but mostly to keep from being poked full of arrows. “Well hello there!”

#the barking writer #decked out 2 #goodtimeswithscar #goodtimewithscar #decked out 2 au #No Place of Honor #This is No Place of Honor #No Place of Warmth #<- just gonna throw all my working titles there because why tf not #anyway im not working on another big project <- lying

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solid-white · 1 month

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I have a few TF2 prompts I'm too lazy to write out so I'm posting them in hopes someone else will adopt the idea:

5+1 of scout saying things that sound homophobic and the team having to hide the fact that heavy and medic (and/or whoever else) are gay. But it's revealed that scout is in fact gay (probably dating sniper or smth) and thought everyone else knew.

Modern, chat fic au of the team where they're all youtubers. They're still mercs, but everything they do is publicized now because something-something the administrator.

Spy takes off his mask and has the entire team (excluding scout and the younger members) simping for him.

Just a horror fic. I really want more horror fics of the blu team after reading "it came with the rain" and "kith and kin"

Sniper and spy, scout and spy, heavy and scout, or whoever, learn each other's skillsets.

The blu and red team are forced to work together trope.

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asumofwords · 2 years

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Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: 'I'm not here to fuck spiders' type of vibe. I am just going to warn you now, the reader is definitely a 'fuck around and find out' type of gal. "Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't'" - Lady Macbeth, the original man eater, my guiding light.

Chapter 30: Fire and Blood

For days you bobbed beneath the surface of consciousness, breaking through the waves rising to the top, looking around to observe your surroundings, your body still heavy as a stone before you crashed down into the abyss once more, tart liquid on your tongue.

You emerged from the turbulent waves again, eyes sliding open, head turning sluggishly to the seat beside your bed. Each movement of your head against the pillow made nausea climb up through your throat.

The world spun as you were finally able to concentrate on the figure that sat rigidly beside your bed. Donned in a tight green dress sat Alicent, watching you unmoving, with her lips pursed into a tight line.

She sat so stiffly, you would not be surprised if a rod had been shoved inside of her. As though you were to blame. As though by some inexplicable reason, that she had been put out by the actions of her own son, who had been encouraged by her bitterness for years.

How dare she fucking look at you like that.

Fury burst through you as you struggled to pull yourself sitting, desperately dragging your body up from beneath the sheets, grunting. The pain in your side was raw as you heavily laid your back against the board of the bed. You sucked in greedy breaths, holding in whimpers of pain as your side was alight with pulses.

She watched you impassively, having not moved as she waited for you to pull yourself upright. She did not offer help, nor twitch at the sight of you struggling, or in pain. She was every inch an Ice Queen.

You looked at the tables beside your bed, they were empty. No cups to throw at the Green Queen, no blade to slit her throat with, no makeshift weapon to avenge your family.

You stared at her, begging to keep your grief at bay, and let your anger rise above it all. You needed to hold strong. You needed to be a dragon.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, head tilted as she spoke.

How were you feeling?

Her son murdered your brother in front of you, chased you about the skies tormenting him. For years she and her kin have made your families lives a living nightmare. Her son usurped the crown from your mother as she forced people to support him. She made the realm a more dangerous place for women, ensuring that you would never become heir to the throne.

How were you feeling?

You watched silently as she fidgeted with her hands in her lap, pulling and twisting, waiting for your response, though none came. The skin around her nails were raw and bloody as they twisted in her lap.

You wished she would bite through the bone next time.

“I prayed to the Seven every night for your speedy recovery from certain death. You fell and Aemond caught you. The Prince brought you here, gaunt, pale, wet with rain and blood. The Maesters were sure you would not survive, but Prince Aemond insisted on saving you."

Saved you?

Saved you??

He was the reason you were in this godforsaken bed.

It was almost laughable. In fact, you did laugh, though the dryness of your throat caused your lungs to seize. A ragged cough forced itself from your lips as you doubled over in pain, clutching your side.

What had he done to you?

What was wrong with your side?

If he had saved you, why do you feel broken?

You sucked in an agonising breath as you leant back, pulling the white chemise up your side higher and higher from your body, slowly exposing your skin to the room. You grunted with every movement.

Around your ribs were thick bandages pulled taught against you. Blood stained the left of the creamy strips. Tentatively, you went to pull the bandages away from your skin, to look at what lay beneath.

“Aemond saved you.” She repeated, as though you hadn’t heard her.

You scoffed, but the rush of air caused your side to flare with pain. You sucked in a shallow breath, snapping your head to the woman at the side of your bed.

Her face had not changed. Ever the martyr. Ever the goddamn self righteous woman of the Gods who could do no wrong. Who could never be held accountable for the domino affect of her actions.

You swore to yourself then and there, that once you were healed and ready, you would kill her. Present her eyes... No. Her head to your mother as a gift.

As you looked down at your side, large bruises peaked above the bandages, dark purples and reds blooming across your skin. You breathed shallowly, fingers resuming their pulling on the bandages, more discolouration becoming visible to your eyes.

“He saved you from the fall, a certain death if you were to hit the waves below you.”

Your fingers pulled at a bandage with dried blood away from your ribs, the strips resisting as they had stuck to the wound below. You held your breath as you pulled the bandage further away, feeling the scabs pull from your wound, a sharp stinging spreading across your side.

Beneath the bandages, your skin was deeply bruised. A large gash ran around the side of your ribs from your front, to your back. Its edges were jagged, as though a blade had been roughly pulled along your flesh, the tight skin snapping apart from the tension.

Through the ragged and torn flesh were lines of hastily done stitches, their dark thread holding the wound tightly shut together. Every movement pulled on them. And the wound was swollen and red, there was no sign of infection to be seen.

You sucked in a stuttering breath as you placed the bandages back against your side, slumping as you watched the woman in front of you ramble.

“The Seven heard our prayers and saved you from The Stranger. Princess Helaena has prayed for you too, as did the King. You are safe here. We have made sure that you have had the best medical treatment in all the realm.”

You felt bile rise up in your mouth. You stared at her, unblinking until finally you spoke.

“My brother is dead.” Your voice cracked dryly.

Alicent stiffened in her seat, sitting up straighter as her hands came to a stop in her lap.

“I grieve-“

“Lucerys was murdered…” You cut her off. “By your son…A Kinslayer.”

Every word twinged your side in pain.

You breathed heavily, the strumming pain curling around your lungs as you waited for her to respond. The Dowager Queen simply stared at you, waiting for you to talk again.

You both sat like this for some time, willing the other to talk as thoughts whirled through your mind. You gave in to the silence.

“I suppose you have informed the Queen that you have me as your prisoner?” You inquired dully.

The Dowager Queen's perfectly manicured brows twitched above her eyes, lightly scrunching in the centre as she suddenly shifted in her seat.

Her fingers picked at her skin more openly.

Realisation dawned on you, as you leant your head back, looking down at her from your nose.

“They do not know I am alive,” You prodded, “Do they?”

The Hightower did not respond.

There was your answer.

A huff of laughter jerked out of your mouth, side twinging. Your lips pulled into a wide smile as you began to laugh, the pain from your wound ignored as joy coursed through your veins. You wondered if anyone else in the Keep knew of your survival, except those trusted by Alicent to tend to you.

You laughed loudly at the predicament as the Dowager Queen sat rigidly in her seat, fingers clenching in her lap. Your laughter peeled across the room dryly, wisps and croaks following after.

What a delight to know that Alicent truly had made a grave mistake.

The door to your chambers opened as Ser Cristin Cole and Aemond walked into the room, watching as you laughed heartily, clutching your side in agony as you felt the stitches pull tightly in your wound, fresh blood soaking the bandages.

You laughed louder at their entrance, their confusion evident on their faces as they came to stand beside Alicent, looking down at her, eyes searching for answers.

Aemond watched you intently, almost unsure of how to react.

Oh Gods, it just got better.

They think you've gone mad.

A cough worked its way up your throat as your laughter turned into a string of hacks, pain capturing your entire body. The bitter taste of blood pooled in your mouth as you coughed, hand coming to touch your lips delicately as you smiled through the pain.

“They do not know I am alive.” You laughed, hand pulling back to look at the spots of blood on them.

You leant heavily against the board as you looked at them all grinning, blood in your teeth. Aemond watched you curiously, eye patch once again gone, as he looked at your hand covered in blood.

You pushed your arms below you, pulling yourself up to sit higher against the wooden board behind you, as you shook your head gently at the woman in green, tutting her as you did.

“You’re all going to die.” You beamed viciously, “You know this… Don’t you, Alicent?” You pushed out a grunting laugh again as your eyes skimmed to Aemond, watching him as you spoke again.

“They’re coming for you. All of you.” You mimicked Rhaenys warning. You slid your eyes back to Alicent who’s head sat higher on her neck. “Oh Alicent, I thought you were smarter than this.” You chastised her, “Mothers favourite son, and fathers favourite daughter?”

You laughed again at the absurdity.

“You really should have told them that I was alive.”

You looked pointedly out of the window across the room, sighing dreamily as you spoke, the room silent except for your voice, “I suppose they should be here very soon.”

Aemond shifted on his feet as he stepped forward, placing his seated mother behind him. Always the protective young man you thought, as your laughter turned into little huffs of giggles before you finally calmed yourself.

The bitter copper taste in your mouth made you run your tongue along your teeth to clear it.

“If you continue to allow the Queen and King Daemon to believe that both I… and my brother were slain, you will find the Keep burnt to ashes before the morrow. If you were clever, I would send a raven.” You mocked.

“We have tended to your wounds, brought you back from the brink of death, kept you safe he-“

“Safe? You have imprisoned me in my old chambers,” You looked about the room as you spoke, smiling through the pain, “Your demented son chased me and Prince Lucerys around the skies when we were messengers, and allowed my parents to believe that they lost two children at the hands of your Kinslayer son.” You hissed.

“I would have sent a raven by now, though I have no issues with dying in the Keep with you all.” You smiled, looking directly at Aemond, “At least I will get to hear you scream.”

Alicent pushed up from the seat beside your bed turning to Ser Criston Cole, before swiftly leaving your chambers, the dark haired knight trailing after her as you guessed they were to send a raven to the Queen.

“Send my regards to my mother!” You called out as Aemond stood stiffly beside your bed, looking down at you.

You stared up at him as you sat lazily against the board of the bed, fatigue slowly working its way through your body as your side began to throb viciously.

You sighed as you looked at him, his demeanour confused you.

The silver haired man looked tired, large bags under his eyes standing out against his pale skin. Most likely due to celebrating his murder and capture of his obsession.

The One-Eyed Prince went to turn away from you, but you stopped him.

“Aemond wait.” You called out to him, false desperation in your tone as he halted to turn and look at you, eye searching your form before it paused on your bandages.

You swallowed thickly, looking down into your lap before looking back at him, pulling your face tightly together as you faked a sob. The tall man twitched forward towards you as you pulled your hands up to your face, hiding your sneer.

You dropped your hands back to your lap, looking at the man before you. Nothing but violent rage curled through you as you looked at him. Images of your brother dying, flashed behind your eyes.

You sniffed.

“You saved me.” You spoke quietly, looking him in the eye.

Aemond shifted on his feet as he looked at you, saying nothing.

You sniffed again, wringing your hands in your lap before touching your side gently, “Thank you.”

He still said nothing.

Simply observed you.

Come on you bastard.

“Thank you for saving me.” You looked at him with pleading eyes. You watched his form relax, the tension moving slightly from his shoulders.

Men.

They are so easy to manipulate. How dull they all are. You simply bat your eyes, put a little bit of stupidity in your tone and flash them your cunt, and they will do anything you say.

Anything.

"Thank you, uncle." You sniffled as you gave him a sad smile.

The Prince took two steps towards you, still towering over you as he watched. You looked into your lap, twiddling your fingers together as he stood beside you.

Look innocent, and sweet.

Quite the performance you made as you reached a hand shyly to grasp at his that was by his side.

And he let you.

You reached for that hand and held it as though you were a maiden, shy and unsure. You pushed down your disgust and the way your skin crawled at the contact of your brothers murderer.

You rubbed your thumb over his knuckles softly as you gazed up at him, before you brought his hand towards your face. You felt him stiffen slightly, hesitant, and so you put the act on harder.

You almost dropped his hand, uttering a gentle whisper of 'sorry'. His hand squeezed yours gently, keeping it in your grip. He was reassuring you.

You had him.

Hook, line and sinker.

Letting your lips pull into a mournful smile, you looked down at his hand before you brought it up to your lips. You had to use every ounce of energy within you to not bite his fucking fingers off.

Those rough fingers. The ones that had been inside you. That had touched you. That have held blades and swords, and books and wine. The same ones that had taken life, touched your lips as you pressed a slow and gentle kiss to them, shyly looking up at the Prince.

It was every mans wet dream.

He leant into your touch, his eye blinking. He seemed almost shocked.

Good.

You rubbed your cheek against his hand, looking at him with your sweetest doe eyes. Something you had learnt from your father. He said the eyes carry a thousand words that your lips cannot.

As you leant your face into his hand that was still clutched in yours, you smiled sadly at him. Pathetically. Like a bird with a broken wing, singing a sad song to its captive.

And as you watched his shoulders sag, and the tension leave his brow, and his lips relax from the god awful purse he always wore when angry, you let yourself smile.

A soft smile, just a hint.

A sort of smile you give to someone you might pity.

And you did pity him.

What a stupid fucking man.

You opened your mouth, closing it again for show as if in thought on how to thank him next. Perhaps he was thinking you may ask him to bed you. He could certainly crawl into bed with you, and you would certainly bite off his cock.

What an exhilarating thought.

You opened your mouth again and spoke in the most sickly sweet manner that you could muster.

"Thank you, uncle. For saving me. For saving my life."

You paused for effect.

“Now that I live... I will get to watch you die screaming.”

You smiled cruelly at him. Hand still holding his gently against you.

And then tension was back in his shoulders and face, and the spell you had cast was broken as the older Prince seemed to come to his senses, his one eye locked on yours as silence captured the room.

“You really should have killed me, uncle.”

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut

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chaos-creature-on-the-roof · 1 month

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Hello! New Intro b/c I deleted the old one on accident oops

-- Name: Rowan, Lore, Leo -- Gender: Transmasc + Genderflux -- Pronouns: Varies. Ask. -- Age: What are you a cop? (Under 18) -- From: America (sadly) -- Religion: Practicing Eclectic Pagan -- Anxiety fueled insomniac -- Notes: Im a solarpunk leftist! -- Typologies: (MTBI) ISTP [TiSe, NiFe], (Ennegram) 8w7, (Tempermants) CholSang, (hogwarts but fuck pottermore) Slytherin, (Tricenter) 8-3-6, (Socionics) LII-2Ti, Chaotic Neutral, sp/so (instinct variant), (Attitude Psyche) VLEF, (SLOAN/Big 5) 66d1275e9069e86c55cf034f, (Jungian) IT(S), Soldier (soldier, poet, king)

Interests/Likes

-- HISTORY -- Cooking/Baking -- Music! -- Reading/books -- Gardening -- Bone Hunting -- Collecting (vinyl, cassettes, bones, shiny things, buttons, shells, coins, stamps, cds, stuffed animals, etc.) -- Rain/Storms -- Nature (Hiking, Walking, playing in mud) -- Oc making! i have a 37 slide google presentation with 2-3 slides per oc! -- Winter and Fall are my favorite seasons!

Dislikes/DNI

-- Israel Supporters -- Trump supporters -- Radfems/transmeds/terfs -- transphobes, queerphobes, homophobes -- anti-therians/anti-kins -- 'men dni'/'women dni' -- transandrophobes -- maps/pedos - heavy nsfw blogs (nothing wrong just make me kinda uncomfy) -- anon haters -- yelling, fighting

Tag System!

-- screams: posts by me -- sticky note: posts I add to -- stolen treasure: silent reblogs -- calls: tags/mentions -- cries: vents

all dividers are by @steddiecameraroll-graphics

ALL DONATION ASKS WILL BE DELETED AND THE ASKER WILL BE BLOCKED!

^ my mixes. i play both at once

#Screams #intro #Dni #likes #dislikes #name #donation asks #tag system #about me #dividers

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midnightanxietytm · 4 months

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Carve my wounds (lick them clean)

Summary: Lamb thinks over the cannibalism trait, ends up liking it a little too much, Narinder encourages it.

WARNINGS: Cannibalism, semi-graphic depictions of violence, CANNIBALISM again just in case you missed it, mutually obsessive relationship.

A/N: Rejoyce, Narilamb be upon ye! Once again i was possessed by the spirits (hyperfocused) and these are the consequences. My lamb is a fucked up little thing and everyone is into it, apparently. Also, if you catch me switching from they/them to he/him for the lamb you can just ignore it, I was writing wangxian b4 this and my brain scrambled, but I think I corrected most of those cuz I just prefer to use they/them for the lamb.

The Lamb's fingers run through the words that describe the ritual in their grimoire with a certain reverence. Outside, the wind and heavy rain rage on, the farms prosper, and there is really no need for an extreme ritual such as this one, but the leader is a curious one.

The deity that looks over them knows of that curiosity, relishes in it, and encourages it. “My lord..?” Comes the awaited call as the Lamb removes the crown from their head and places it in front of them, looking into its eye, knowing there is someone beyond to listen. “Why did you recommend such a ritual? We are not going through famine, I don’t see any other need for it…”

There is no answer, not really, but a shiver runs through their spine, and they hum, leaning back on their chair. “How would it generate devotion? I mean, sure it’s a way to dispose of bodies at least…” Suddenly, the crown startles, floats up and settles on their head. “Oh, should I visit?” They smile oh-so brightly, standing up from their chair, little lamb tail shaking excitedly. “It's been so long since you asked!”

A dagger is quick to be fetched, merely a decoration item, but it would work. And the Lamb looks around, searching for a place where their temporary death would be less messy. They settle for the fountain, where the water would dilute their blood quickly. They remove their fleece and get into the fountain, not minding their wool getting soaked.

The dagger is driven through their heart, by their own hand, without hesitation, and their mind is quick to accept death.

When they open their eyes, they are laid down, curled upon the pentagram on the stone like they had been peacefully sleeping there all along. They sit up, crossing their legs and looking up at their beloved Death.

The One Who Waits had grown to appreciate how eager his little vessel answers to his call; how unafraid they are when their consciousness starts to drift and their vision to go dark. They perk up so easily too; quick to offer a smile, a greeting and to bleat until their little mind can’t even come up with a new subject. It's not everyone who treats death with such casualty.

“You were asking about the ritual Consumption of a Kin…?” He reminds them, his voice reverberates even in the infinite space of his domain, but his lamb no longer flinches upon hearing it.

“Oh! Yeah, I was wondering how it would help with devotion, maybe it’s because I’m herbivore, but I don’t really see it…” Says the lamb, swinging their body back and forth slightly, the bell around their neck jingles softly with each movement.

Death laughs, a heavy sound, deep and gravelly, reaching their hand to completely envelop the little lamb, then carefully picking them up and bringing them up to his face. “It’s different from simple consumption for nutrition, my little vessel.” The vessel in question leans back on his hands, making themselves comfortable, ready to hear. “It’s to feel closer to something, someone, to make them… part of you. Besides, it’s literally taking something dead and using it to fuel new life… Do you understand, Lamb?”

“I think I do… It’s all about a deeper connection with death, right?” They hummed, curling up on their god’s palm. Said god only nods in agreement and hums, rubbing his thumb over his vessel’s soft wool. “Have you ever tried it? I mean, have you ever eaten someone?”

Their teeth ache and itch, a gift from their deity, begging to be tested. Try it raw, says a faraway voice inside their mind, and they hesitate, but slowly lifts a bloody hand along with an equally bloody piece of meat into their mouth.

“Once, during a banquet.” Said death. “You should do it, little lamb… Maybe I’ll give you some predator teeth to match…”

...

The moon shining through the windows is their only company as they carefully drive the knife through the still-warm body on the counter, the process requires focus; they rip through skin and cartilage, separate tissue and then finally start separating each piece.

Their new teeth rip through it with ease, and a metallic taste fills their every sense, the texture is foreign, and blood drips from the corners of their mouth. It’s amazing. They hastily cut another piece, bring it up to his mouth, licks the spill on their hands, hum in pleasure and their eyes roll back as they chew.

Narinder is honestly surprised this habit has lasted until now.

The crown watches as the soon to be god of death indulges their newfound need, for death must consume everything eventually.

...

He watches with feign boredom as his usurper brings the raw meat up to their lips as if it is the most delightful thing they will ever taste, their sharp teeth easily tearing the piece of flesh, pearly white being tainted by the crimson blood that drips down to their chin and trails down to their throat before they wipe it off with a hand.

It’s a quiet night in the temple, the remains of the banquet served that night were wiped away, the followers gently coaxed to their shelters, and only the Lamb and their darling disciple remained.

“Are you sure you don’t want any, Nari?” They asked, honeyed words coated with the blood of their lips. Their legs were nonchalantly thrown over the arms of their mighty throne.

“No, I’m saving for the main course…” He answered, using his claws to mindlessly pick at the pomegranate on his plate.

“Oh?” Hummed the Lamb. “And what would that be?”

“Lambchops.” An empty threat, as were the many others he had thrown at them though the last half a century.

Still, the Lamb laughed with gusto for a good few seconds. “Come on, My Lord,” They said with a smirk and stood up, bringing their plate over and sitting on the arm of his chair. “You suggested that I eat in the first place… Maybe take it as an appetizer; It’s not as tasty as me, but it should do, right?” And they brought a piece of flesh, dripping with blood, up to his lips.

Despite all the talk, Narinder took a bite, and it was just as tasty as he remembered it to be, flavor melting in his tongue. The Lamb giggled and smeared a bloody finger over his lips. He swallowed and licked the blood before roughly pulling the cheeky lamb onto his lap and claiming their lips.

Indeed the Lamb’s taste was far better, Narinder thought as he bit their lip and was bitten in response, their blood mixing in their mouths.

A/N: For the first time in forever, Hozier was not involved in the making of one of my fics. Cheers to that! Anyways hope yall enjoyed this, my asks are open, byee!

#midnight writes #asks open #fanfic writing #cotl lamb #cult of the lamb #narilamb #narinder x lamb #cotl narinder #tw cannibalism #cannibalism as a metaphor for love #and obsession #cannibal Lamb #wait that wasnt a tag????#taking requests

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rinwellisathing · 7 days

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Papa Bhaal's House of Horrors: Part 1

“Fuck fuck fuck...Why did you piss him off, Aryn?” The young elven woman sobbed, sliding down to a sitting position, legs not able to carry her any further as she hugged her knees to her chest. “You should've left him alone, why'd you piss him off?” “Hey it's not my fault, Brynna! How was I supposed to know he was crazy?” The human shot back, pressing his back to the door of the shed as it strained against the vicious knocks against it from the outside. “Guys...please stop fighting, the Fist will be here soon, I'm sure...it's gonna be okay we just have to stay calm and....” The dwarf was cut off as she and the human were thrown across the shed as the door splintered, sending them sprawling. Four pairs of glowing eyes lit up the darkness and the blade of an axe gleamed in the pale moonlight. Screams pierced the night. ----

“Good afternoon, Moonrise County. It's Alfira coming to you from Last Light FM, your local source for weather, traffic, news, and some good mood tunes. It's getting chilly as harvest season begins, so druids get those crops harvested quickly now. We are also likely to see rain for the holiday weekend, tough break for those last minute tourists looking for a woodland get away. Traffic heading towards Baldur's Gate is at a stand still thanks to a stopped vehicle across the roadway. Now here's our chart topping local favorite three years running, The Sirens' cover of local folk song 'Down By The River'” Alfira removed her headset and nodded her head gratefully as her partner handed her a cup of coffee and the morning paper. “Thanks Lakrissa...” She took a sip and then eyed the headline. “More tourists disappeared, huh?” “Yeah, fifth group this year....I think the cult is getting restless.” Lakrissa grinned, her tone sing-song and teasing. “There's no cult, Lakrissa. Honestly it's probably just overconfident city people getting lost in the woods without enough supplies. It's sad, but not some crazy murder conspiracy.” Alfira frowned, shaking her head. “And I'm not going to entertain the idea it is and get everyone in a tizzy.” “But it's fall, Alfira. Spooky season! Don't you wanna do a little themed broadcast and get those numbers up?” Lakrissa's grin widened, eager and excited. “Gods know the station could use it.” Alfira stifled a laugh and looked deadpan at her lover. “Lakrissa, it's Moonrise County, population like...MAYBE two hundred at best...Those numbers aren't going anywhere.”

--- “Move it a little to the left, Orin.” Sentry frowned, making a frame with his hands and scanning the hanging corpse dangling from a meat hook in the shed. His little sister repositioned the head just a little closer to the shoulder, slightly off from where it would naturally have been, and looked quizzically at her brother. “Yeah! Perfect! Just like that!” He reached into the pocket of his denim cut offs and produced a heavy needle and some waxed thread. “Now just hold it steady.” “There's room for a second head at this angle, slaughter-kin.” Orin pointed out with a grin as blood dripped down the front of her hand sewn red dress. “Shit, you're right. What are we thinkin', pig? Sheep?” Sentry pondered as he moved the needle expertly through the skin, sewing the head into place. Orin pranced over to a cold chest in the corner of the shed and lifted the lid with a pale, thin arm, one long braid swinging over her shoulder as she peered inside and began to poke around. She ran her hands over the various heads the freezer contained, finally gripping a pair of horns and lifting it with a grin. “Mmm...This one!” She smirked, holding up the head of a dark grey goat, its strange yellow eyes gazing sightlessly forward.

“Great choice, little sister.” Sentry grinned, beckoning her back over as he finished his final stitch. “Now, just place it in position, and....” He paused a moment, ears pricking up at the sound of a car horn outside.

Orin grimaced and rolled her eyes, making a gagging noise as she watched her brother scamper to the door of the shed and throw it open, rushing out the door, waving eagerly as the deep emerald green convertible parked on the long dusty drive of the 'manor'. Polished black shoes, far too nice for this bumblefuck of a place, stepped from the car, followed by designer black slacks with gold embroidery and then a matching jacket over a deep green button down, the top five or so buttons undone revealing gold chains resting against a next of dark chest hair, a glimmering obsidian pendant in the shape of a clawed hand hanging from one. The man had deep tan skin, a few scars at his chin and cheeks, a nose that had never quite healed right after being broken more than a few times, and unkempt stubble. He wore a pair of stylish dark glasses and his messy black hair was just barely brushed. Still, Sentry fawned over this guy like he was a rock star. “Envyyyyy” Sentry grinned as he made his way over to the newcomer, swaying his hips as he did, unable to keep his tail from wagging like an excited puppy. “ Is this a social call or d'you have a job for us?” The tiefling asked, standing practically up against the human, one long nailed finger tracing that magnificent chest hair absently. “I'm afraid I'm here on business, dear Sentry, but then again, a bit of pleasure wouldn't go amiss, I suppose....if you aren't busy.” Enver's eyes cast towards the shed even as his hands rested on Sentry's hips. Those tacky, tattered denim shorts certainly made the younger tiefling a tempting little distraction. “Well he IS busy, oil-slick interloper.” Orin frowned, folding her arms across her thin chest, eyes narrowed. “We were just in the middle of a project!”

“Interloper, hmm? That's a big word for such a little girl.” Enver chuckled. “And also inaccurate, you know I have an understanding with your family, I provide my services in the procurement of victims, I make sure they don't leave the county, and in return, I acquire information, valuables, et cetera that you have no use for. I am a perfectly welcome guest, why, one could call me part of the family almost.” He ran a hand down Sentry's bare thigh, earning a gentle purr from the tiefling. “What ever you say, lickspittle. But my brother and I were in the middle of creating art! You can't simply pull him away.” The little girl huffed, her expression murderous. “Aww, Orin, don't worry, I'll come back in a bit...Can't be a poor host, though, can I?” Sentry chuckled, grabbing Enver by the hand and leading towards the house, hips swaying as he did. ---- “It's getting chilly as harvest season begins, so druids get those crops harvested quickly now. We are also likely to see rain for the holiday weekend, tough break for those last minute tourists looking for a woodland get away. Traffic heading towards Baldur's Gate is at a stand still thanks to a stopped vehicle across the roadway. Now here's our chart topping local favorite three years running, The Sirens' cover of local folk song 'Down By The River'” The radio crackled through the speakers of the used but well cared for car that made its way down the winding backroads of Moonrise County's deep woods. “Aww...well, there goes the idea of stopping for a picnic or something.” Jaina frowned as she leaned back in the seat, pulling her hoodie closer around her shoulders. “Though in fairness, that's on me for not putting the better jacket up front.”

“You know you can always borrow mine.” Wyll smiled gently, squeezing her hand, keeping his other hand firmly on the wheel. “And anyway, it's not TOO far outside of the city, so once we're settled in we can come back if you see the perfect picnic spot.” He beamed, eyes focused on the road ahead. Neither of them saw what tore through their tires. There was nothing visible there in the road ahead of them, but within a moment, there was the tell tale POP! Sound and their car swerved and bumped, Wyll trying to regain control as they swerved into a ditch by the side of the road. The car rolled and flipped, Jaina clinging tightly to the handle above the window while Wyll gripped the wheel tightly, their faces set in looks of shock as the sound of shattering glass and crunching metal filled the air. Finally, the dust settled and the car rested precariously on its side. “Hells! Are you alright?” He quickly looked to Jaina with concern. She winced as she sat up in her seat. “Yeah, my skin's tough, remember? Not a scratch...I'm just a little shaken up. What about you?” She reached to run her fingers across his face, searching for any scrapes or cuts where the window glass might have hit him. Thankfully nothing. “Same.” Wyll confirmed, reaching for his seat belt. “But we're not likely to get any further like this...Maybe we ought to get out and try and flag down some help.” Jaina quirked a brow as she undid her own seatbelt. “On this dead stretch? We'd probably be better off trying to find a town or a phone or something.” Wyll clamored out of the car, managing to force his door open and climb out, holding out his hand to help Jaina to follow him. Wyll sighed dejectedly and shook his head. “You're right...I don't think I've seen one other car the entire time we've been driving.”

Both of them peered down the long, foggy stretch of highway that had come from Waukeen's Rest. The highway stretched on into the mist before fading into a thick copse of trees as far as the eye could see. They both turned to look ahead, Jaina's sharp eyes fell on a hill peeking up through the thick woods. Was that a roof? She picked out the outline of a fence around a small balcony peeking out from what appeared to be an attic floor of a large house. A widow's walk? Out here in the woods? “Hey, there's a house that way. I mean...it's probably a long walk, but if we start now, we might be able to get there by dark.” She suggested, gently placing a hand on Wyll's shoulder and pointing towards the hill. “Right, let's check out the creepy house on the hill all alone in the middle of the woods. Surely nothing bad could happen to us in this perfectly innocuous scenario.” Wyll gave a small chuckle. But he knew she was right, it was the only sign of civilization they had any chance of reaching before night fell and the temperature dropped and waiting here was practically a death sentence. Jaina fished a flashlight and two water bottles from the back seat and handed one bottle to Wyll. He nodded gratefully to her and the two headed off. ----

“I see you've got hospitality handled, little brother.” The imposing white scaled dragonborn smirked, arms folded across his chest as he watched Sentry lead Enver into the house. Sentry turned and smiled up at him playfully. “I mean, you can certainly join in, big brother.” He winked, pausing a moment. “I'm sure he'd like it.” “Ah! Good to see you again, Gary.” Enver gave the dragonborn a charming, roguish smile. “You know, I find I'm seeing you less and less at my office lately. It's terribly depressing.” Gary grinned, his long, sharp teeth glinting in the light. “I've been busy...and honestly, so has Sentry.” He gave his brother a pointed look. Sentry rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. “You really need to relax more, brother. One of those folks out in the shed had a cassette tape with them about burn out and stress, it can kill you, y'know.” Gary exhaled deeply and rubbed his temples. “And why are you bothering with their junk? The protocol is very simple, little brother, you loot the bodies, set aside things that are useful to Enver or Ketheric, the rest goes to your geeky little friend at the pawn shop who doesn't ask questions.” “I was just curious if it was like music or something...I can't just get by with whatever's playing on the radio, it's got no bite!” Sentry pouted. “Besides, Sorcerous Salvage is full up on cassette tapes, Rolan will bitch about it if I bring him anymore.”

Gary sighed and shook his head. “You and Orin will be the death of me, brother...” “Well yes, I thought that was pretty much father's plan...or you'll be the death of us.” Sentry replied, once again grabbing Enver's arm. “Now, are you coming or not?” The Dragonborn's red eyes moved from his little brother to the charmingly sleazy human and then back towards the door. He shrugged. “I suppose there's time, Sarevok is still below the house praying, Jackal is still out on the road hunting, I haven't seen the others, so there's time.” He joined his brother, his arm slipping around Enver's waist, sharp nails digging into his hip. “But we'll use my room, yours is a disaster even by Bhaalist standards.” Sentry rolled his eyes but nodded. “Fine! Your bed is bigger anyway.” ---- Wyll and Jaina had been walking for nearly an hour by now. The going was slow and the trail was not particularly well kept. A grim sense of foreboding filled the air as the two of them gripped one another's hands for comfort. The sun was threatening to set any moment and neither one was entirely sure this path would lead to the house they had seen in the distance.

A twig snapped and Jaina's eyes darted towards the sound, her heart hammering in her chest. Nothing. Just a lonely path dappled with autumn leaves. Wyll squeezed her hand gently. “We just need to keep moving, we'll get there, we'll find help.” She nodded. “I just hope sooner rather than later, these woods are giving me the creeps.” She shuddered. The rustle of leaves underfoot and a few more sickening cracks seemed to sound all around them. Subconsciously, the two began to move a little faster, sweat beginning to bead on Wyll's brow as Jaina felt her blood run cold. The two were practically running down the trail when a voice barked. “Hey! Watch where you're going!” And they just barely missed running into a stocky male drow in hunting gear. His face was scarred and pock marked, whether from illness or habit they weren't certain. Bright lilac eyes scowled in their direction and his dark grey hair was sweat soaked beneath his battered brown and green cap. An antique bow was strapped across his back alongside a quiver full of arrows. His jacket was the same shabby brown and green as his cap and his pants matched. Heavy boots crushed the leaves and sticks beneath his feet, well, at least they knew who'd made the noise. “What in the hells are you two doing out on this trail at this hour? People hunt here and you idiots are fixing to get shot.” He growled, eyeing them up and down, sizing them up. Wyll noticed that he was more wary of Jaina than he was of him, but he supposed it was in the nature of a drow.

“Our car flipped on the side of the road, sir. We're just looking for some help.” Wyll explained cautiously, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. “We don't want any trouble.” Jaina followed Wyll's lead, nodding her head along with what he was saying. “We saw a house in the distance, we thought maybe someone there had a truck...or we could find a phone?”

The drow gave a little chuckle and smirked. “Shit, alright....that's my house up there, mine and my family's. We ain't got a phone, but I got a truck, I'll give you two a lift to town in the morning.” He offered with a nod of his head. It was still getting darker out by the minute, the sunlight barely permeating the foliage overhead anymore and Jaina shivered, leaning in closer to Wyll, who looked to the man in confusion. “Damn you city folk are thick, aren't you? The invitation to stay the night's included.” The hunter adjusted his quiver and turned back the way he'd came, giving a sharp nod for them to follow. “Now come on, I'll lead you there.” He grinned wickedly, turned away from them so neither caught sight. “You don't wanna be out here when night falls.”

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