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cardierreh15 · 2 months

Text

Variants

This is just part one of two! Enjoy ⚡️🐺

***I do not give anyone consent to copy, translate or repost my work!!!

Warnings 18+: Cursing , Angst , Mild Violence .

Pairings: Logan Howlett (Cavillrine) x Ororo Munroe also known as Storm ⚡️

Description: Ororo wakes up in another universe, she meets someone familiar…

Word Count: 4.8K

Song: Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen (but whatever your favorite version is)

Earth-811, Days of Future Present (my own twist) to Earth-199999

Side Note: Please keep in mind, this is not at all accurate and I am only writing something I thought up. Anything from how she got to this Earth from to her meeting Logan is not canon events.

Side, Side Note: Lyrics are in regular italics. Ororo's thoughts are in Italics Bold and OG Logan's voice is in orange italics.

Part One

Now I've heard there was a secret chord

That David played and it pleased the Lord

But you don't really care for music, do ya?

It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, the major lift

The baffled king composing "Hallelujah”

It was a beautiful day on Earth 199999. Not a cloud to be spotted. The birds chirped and there was even a cool breeze to combat the humid air that the season had brought in on its back. But all of that was about to change.

With the bat of an eye, dark heavy clouds rolled into the view of the sun. Blocking out any rays that were toasting up some skins and feeding flowers. Violent lightning bolts filled the sky and loud thunder shook the ground beneath the feet of man. Rain beat down like rocks and the wind blew so strong, it toppled cars and pulled trees from their roots.

In the middle of that chaos, was a woman who would change the entire timeline of this world. Though, she had no idea where she was or whether she was even alive. But she was what this world needed.

Falling unconscious from the thunderous clouds, she collapsed into the pacific. Engulfed and swallowed up by the merciless deep blue. One would think that was the end of this Storm Goddess. But fate and destiny were willing to bend the rules when it came to fulfilling their name.

Upon her contact, the impact of her landing had not only caused hurricanes but water spouts that could tear up an entire island and record breaking tsunamis. Countless lives had been lost upon her ascend.

Months had passed on by and the world was slowly healing from the detrimental damage that came with Ororo’s hard landing. Reporters and storm researchers tried to get to the bottom of what could’ve caused something like this to happen so simultaneously and without warning. The UN (United Nations) had already started on their own journey trying to get to the bottom of it; if it was mutant related and purposeful. As if they give a damn about that really. On her Earth, the United States were the reason why she was here in the first place.

Ororo was found caught in a fishing net in Vancouver. She was well preserved and oddly enough, still warm to the touch. Yet, still knocked into a deep coma that not even inhaling water could wake her from.

A man, not from this plain, had noticed that she wasn’t exactly human. And if the other fisherman had suspected her of being a mutant, they’d have her shipped off to a lab somewhere in the US after they collected their reward. So, he took her back to his home in Alberta, Canada. Far away from society and where he could be himself.

The stranger would come check on the brown sleeping beauty every once in a while. Everyday in the morning before he went to chop wood to aid her fireplace and then once before sunset. She looked familiar to him, but he couldn’t exactly pin it. She was enigmatic! And the feeling of limerence grew the longer she stayed. The way her white finely twisted dreads lay splayed out beneath her head, her thick white brows and lashes. How the shade appeared to enhance her skin and feminine features. Even in her time of nadir, she took his breath away.

Almost like a forbidden kind of beauty. The one that came with a dark past.

Those days had turned into weeks and finally a month had passed since her arrival at the stranger’s residence.

Ororo’s eyes had flashed open, white as her hair as she inhaled so much air that instantly burned her lungs and choked her out.

Sitting up, she placed her hand over her chest before gripping the linens that she wore. She wheezed as salty tears streamed down her face as she fought to breathe. Her vision blurred, her head felt so heavy and it throbbed with an achy vengeance. The words of her lover repeated in her ears.

I love you, Ororo. You don’t have to come back for me. If you find a perfect world, stay there.

She coached herself to steady her breathing as her snowy eyes had faded into something more human. Brown as the Earth’s soil. Ororo hiccuped as her awareness finally hit her like a ton of bricks. She scanned the bedroom for anything to tell her where she was. Or at least, which part of the Multiverse she had landed in.

Pulling herself from the warmth of the heavy comforters, she felt as if she’d been only asleep for a day. Her limbs and balance worked as they did when she was fleeing from the Sentinels. Though, it came with only a little bit of soreness. That was from the battering of the waves.

She whimpered as she rotated her arm to aid the soreness there. ‘Aah. Where the hell am I?’ The bedroom was a piece of paragonal work. Lots of natural light that was let in by 3 large arched windows and a large skylight window that made stargazing comfortable when night came.

The furniture was vintage; carved out of mahogany and donned with gold handles and knobs. All of the furniture was dusted clean, the mirror at the vanity didn’t see a speck or smudge. A telltale sign that someone had been in here to visit her quite frequently.

With the bedroom’s cleanliness, came no clues of where she was. Ororo began to rummage and search through the dresser drawers and the nightstand.

Breathing heavily as she felt herself growing anxious with tears filling her eyes, she felt herself falling apart.

Don’t come back for me.

Logan please.

I mean it, thundercloud. If you find a perfect world, stay there.

‘Ooh! Fuck you, Logan!’ She exclaimed through gritted teeth as tears fell from her eyes. ‘Fuck you! Fuck you!’ She exclaimed as she slammed her fists into the mahogany wood that cracked beneath her strength.

A loud thunder crack echoed outside, with a bolt hitting right outside her bedroom window.

Tiny bolts of lightning danced around her fists as she brought them up before opening her palms. The tiny bolts flickered before vanishing completely and a tear fell in their place.

Wiping her snotty nose with her sleeve, she took a deep breath and wiped her tears with her free wrist. How was she going to make it without him?

The sound of 80’s rock and roll brought her out of her misery. The same kind of music they’d listen to together on his motorcycle when times were much simpler. She used to peel the clouds out of the sky or simply push them over the next city so they could go riding.

The smell of his cigar smoke mended into his brown leather jacket. The way his thick dark hair used to fluff about in the wind and how he used to risk their lives by rubbing her arm when she held him tight.

Good times.

Ororo rushed towards the large wooden door and tugged it open with its golden knob. She was met with fresh air when she rushed outside. The sound of the music was no longer muffled by the thickness of those wooden walls. Yet it did echo and bounce off of trees in the surrounding area.

Quickly making her way down the wooden steps, she founded the calls and howls of the infamous Axel Rose. It didn't take her long to find the host; just a cut around the cabin and she was standing in front of it. Catacorner from it was a makeshift garage. Old broken down cars, motorcycles, and tires lie scattered about.

This looked just like Logan’s garage. A mess and unkept.

She felt as if this was all some kind of fever dream.

Inclined to meet the person who saved her, Ororo began to journey forward until she came across a mature and very large Fir tree that sported claw marks. She walked towards it as the fast music became a blur in her ears. She ran her finger tips over the marks.

9 claw marks but in threes. She knew only one person who could pull this off.

‘Oh my god— JAMES!’ Her heart fluttered like crazy as she sped walked to the garage and pushed the doors open. ‘JAMES!’

There he stood, back turned as he worked on his bike. He wore his classic white wife beater, denim jeans and brown boots. His skin was covered in a thin sheet of sweat as he squeezed the clutch of his bike. She was sure that he couldn’t hear her over the shouting of Guns N Roses and the purr of his motorcycle, so she reached her hand up towards one of the hanging lamps and shot a lightning bolt at it.

A gleaming smile curled up on her lips with a twinkle in her eye.

That caught his attention, causing him to stand up straight.

There was a long pause before the individual reached over and turned down the old school radio that sat on the toolbox.

‘You know it’s been a long time since someone called me that.’

His voice… He didn’t sound like the Logan she knew and loved. Though from this angle, he was the spitting image. Her smile remained. ‘Wh-what do you mean we—‘

The male finally turned around to face her. But the cloud of smoke from the cigar that he puffed on, made him impossible to make out.

She used to hate the smell, now she lived for it. Craved it.

‘You still smoke those-‘

Stepping through the cloud, the individual revealed himself.

His hair was curly thick, styled up to resemble ears as if he were a puppy. The same way her James used to style his hair. He even sported that very same beard cut with the center of his chin shaved and his jaws furry.

His eyes were bright blue unlike the original Logan’s, comforting brown.

Her smile faltered as she placed a hand on her stomach and took a step back.

‘Hmm.’ The man grumbled as he reached behind him and scooped up a white dirty hand towel to wipe his hands. He held his lit cigar in his jaw before taking it out with his clean fingers.

Ororo stood there, her eyes wide in shock and confusion. Her mouth opened to ask a question but the words just wouldn’t come out!

‘I didn’t think you’d ever wake up. You seem to be walking well.’

He was the one that saved her.

‘H-‘ she swallowed, ‘How long was I out?’

Tossing the dirty cloth on the toolbox, he placed the cigar back between his lips and inhaled greatly. And when he exhaled, another large cloud of smoke shrouded the garage.

‘Well,’ he grumbled, ‘You’ve been here for about a month. I uh— suspect you have no idea what’s going on… do you?’

A month? There’s no way I have been here for a month! I stepped in that portal yesterday!

Ororo placed her hand on her neck as she felt her blood pressure begin to spike. Her body began to gently rock side to side as her stomach twisted and turned.

‘Wh-where did you find me a-and where am I?’

‘You’re in Alberta…’

Her eyes grew, ‘CANADA?!’

‘Some fishermen in Vancouver found you sleeping in a net with some salmon.’

She brought her fingers up to her temples and began to rub that spot when her head began to throb.

And right on cue, thunder roared outside.

Logan looked up at the roof as rain drizzled and created a song atop the metal. Then he looked back at her. She appeared to be fighting a migraine. And the more she fought, the heavier the drizzle became.

Then it clicked.

‘You alright over there? Need some pain meds?’ He mumbled with his cigar in his mouth.

‘Mmph! It’s okay just—.’

‘Uh-huh. Y’know, there’s been some dangerous storms going on. Tsunamis, Hurricanes, typhoons, the whole nine.’

‘Mmm.’ Ororo grimaced at the pain, squeezing her eyes shut tight as she clenched her jaw together. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘I don’t know. But, the storms started about 4 months ago.’

I’ve been here for four months?! Oh my god.

‘I think I’m gonna be sick.’ Ororo whimpered as her vision blurred once again from tears. Her chest began to heave and her heart thudded hard in her chest.

‘Oh, whatever you do just—‘

Barf. Clear bubbly flim mixed with yellow bile splattered on the smooth concrete.

‘Take that… outside. Aw shit.’

The woman collapsed to her hands and knees as he rushed over to her aid. She choked as her insides forced and fought to be on the outside. The taste of the raw acid burned at her esophagus and mouth. The rancid taste only made her gag more.

‘Hey, it’s okay.’

It’s okay, Storm. If we’re meant to be… we’ll be.

Her eyes turned white with tiny bolts dancing around them, heaving harder as she stared at the disgusting vomit.

‘You have to look away! Look at me!’

As soon as Logan snatched up her hands, lightning zapped him to hell.

Fortunately nothing that’ll kill him, but it stung like shit. ‘Aah!’ He hissed as he snatched his hands away, fanning them painfully. ‘Fuck!’

You’re my strong girl.

Ororo shut her eyes tightly as the heaving turned into a sob. ‘I can’t do this without you…’

The drizzle had turned into a heavy pitter patter. Thunder roared outside, causing the tin can of a garage to rattle.

Logan’s brows tugged into one as the burning tingling began to fade into his hand. He watched as the woman crumbled into herself.

This wasn’t tears of fear or confusion. But of mourning and grief. He could practically smell the pain exuding off of her. Logan knew what it felt like to lose someone. To be completely lost in a world that didn’t accept who he was. To be alone.

Reaching out to her, tiny lightning bolts reached out to embrace his fingertips as if they were familiarized with his energy or aura.

They didn’t burn him this time, just tiny manageable pinches. He placed his palm on her back and sighed softly.

If we’re meant to be…

His mouth parted to say something, afraid to say the wrong thing.

Ororo blinked her eyes open before looking over at him.

He was almost the exact same replica of her James. That same mean scowl that she adored greatly.

‘You’ve got blue eyes.’ She said in a hushed tone as she stared into his eyes.

‘You’re very observant.’ Logan said sarcastically with a small chuckle leaving his lips. ‘What is it that they call you?’

My Stormsy. Hey there, my lil’ thundercloud. Hang on lightning bolt! Stormy.

‘Oro—‘ she sniffed, ‘Forgive me but, I don’t think you’d be able to say my name, white boy.’ She scoffed.

Logan raised his brow, ‘Oh yeah? Try me.’

She tried to muffle her giggle but it fell through, ‘Ororo.’

His brows rose and he blinked hard once.

‘Oro—OK, do you have a nickname?!’

Ororo’s small smile from her giggle had turned into a charming grin as laughter escaped her, ‘Yeah,’ she sighed softly. He was just like him. From his facial expressions to how effortlessly hilarious he was. She was comfortable near him.

‘Storm. Just call me Storm.’

‘Now that sounds… do-able.’ His smirk curled up into a small smile before he felt a raindrop fall upon his shoulder. They both looked up at the ceiling. Another fell on his forehead.

‘Well, that would explain the weather.’ Then wiped his head free of the water and looked back over at her, then it clicked. He was a terrible host.

Her white eyes began to fade into her brown ones.

Glancing down at the barf, he then glanced back at her, ‘You must be starving.’

‘No, no. It’s OK, I’ve been too much trouble already just—‘

‘No, I insist. You haven’t ate—‘

Wrrrrr. Ororo slapped her hand against her stomach as it sang its hunger song, as if she could shut it up like a finger to a set of lips. She snatched her eyes away from his gaze and shut them in defeat.

‘Mmm. I thought so. Alright, up, up, up.’ He took his large hands and helped her to her feet. ’

Rolling her eyes at his condescending tone, she pushed herself up to her feet with his help.

‘Ya alright?’ He asked as he slowly pulled his hands away.

‘Yeah,’ The electricity vanished once again within her, ‘Thank you.’

‘Mmm,’ his head fell to the side, ‘Don’t mention it. Look, I’m gonna get this cleaned up—‘

‘James, please—‘ she paused.

He looked down at her for a long moment. ‘You’re the only one who can get away with calling me that.’ Turning away from her he walked towards the far corner of the garage.

Ororo let out a sigh and placed her hands on her hips. Were they all the same in every universe? Hardheaded and guileless. Arguments were always challenging with him.

‘You don’t have to clean up after me, I'm not some kind of damsel in distress.’

‘Well,’ he scoffed as he picked up a bucket and a mop, ‘You were just kind of sleeping beauty for ‘bouta month. I’d say you’re pretty damn close enough. Oh, and— Aurora… mind easing up on the rain until we get the food here?’

Her mouth fell before she stammered over her words. ‘We—I—‘

Wait a minute did he just call me beautiful? Damn, they are just alike.

And he left her inside of the garage to retrieve water for the bucket.

***

Ororo did not in fact keep the rain in check. Instead, when she went back into the cabin she found herself missing James more and more. But, how could she miss him when he was right outside?

Oh, she was so confused. Stuck in a whirlwind of emotions. But she had to count her blessings. Who knows what would’ve happened if he didn’t find her. She could’ve been poked and pried at beneath wandering eyes. Chopped up in itsy bitsy pieces and thrown in a particle accelerator to be sold to the highest bidder.

At least that was more humane than the chaos that ensued on her world.

A knock echoed in her bedroom and the sound of the knob twisting followed.

Ororo was bent over the vanity, checking for any oddities that the portal could’ve left her with. So far, so good. The door creaked open and she turned torso to the side.

‘Hey—whoa—‘

With her voluptuous rump in view, she rested her chin on her fist, ‘Your mama ever taught you to knock? What if I was naked?!’

‘Well for one, I did knock. And my mama, didn’t exactly raise a gentleman if you want me to be honest. Come, I’ve got Chinese.’

***

The pair sat in silence as they indulged on their take out. Ororo did her best not to inhale all of it so she ate slowly.

Logan chuckled, ‘That’s cute!’

Shit, he was on to her.

‘Mmm? What?’ She grumbled as she placed her hand over her lips so that she wasn’t spitting out food.

‘Oh nothing. It’s just you’re trying so hard not to kill all of your food. Eat! Trust me, you definitely need it more than I do.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ She said as she stifled her giggle and took another bite out of her food.

‘Right.’ He snickered and took a sip of his beer.

The dining room grew quiet once again, soft thunder filled the silent void between them. Not necessarily on purpose but she was studying him. They were eating sweet n sour pork.

James hated pork. He hated the smell, the salty-ness, the texture and the tummy ache and headache that it gave him after it all. She remembers having to cave in to buying turkey bacon.

The things you do for love. The sacrifices you make.

James was also right handed. Everything he did started with his right side and eventually the left would aid it. Not that the left was as strong as the right, but when it came to swinging his claws, it always got the job done.

This Logan was an ambidextrous individual. Using both of his hands to work into his food without looking funny. It was so natural.

‘I can feel you burning a hole in my face.’ He murmured as his bright blue hues remained glued to his plate.

It was then when she finally blinked, ‘sorry you just— you just remind me of someone I—‘ she paused as her head fell into her lap.

Logan’s eyes flickered up at her for a second, reading her like a book. ‘Boyfriend?’

She remained quiet.

‘Yeah, I know that look. Sported it a few times myself. Would you like to talk about it?’

Oh she wouldn’t even know where to begin. Should she start with Mystique mercilessly murdering Senator Robert Kelly? Or how her blood contributed to the industrial process of the Sentinels that killed mutants or threw them into concentration camps? How this Logan sitting in front of her could be one of hundreds and maybe thousands of variants of her dead lover?

That was a lot to take in. He wouldn’t even believe her.

‘I—Honestly, I wouldn't even know where to start.’

‘I’ve got nothing but time.’

You take up all my time, Lightning Bolt. A punishment when I have to leave but a reward when I come back home to you.

Inhaling deeply through her nose, she let out a gentle breath. ‘I’m —‘ Ororo tried to process it herself. If she hadn’t lived it, it wouldn’t have even made sense to her either.

‘This is going to sound crazy.’

‘Trust me, I’ve seen and heard crazy. There’s nothing you can say to me that I haven’t already heard.’

He mustn’t be so sure.

Even that little comment was something James would’ve said. Verbatim.

‘Alright.’ She sat up straight and let out another breath of air, ‘I’m not from… here.’

Logan sat quietly. She had his full and undivided attention.

‘I’m not from… here.’ She repeated.

‘Oookaaaay, I think I got that the first time.’ He sighed and folded his arms together. ‘What do you mean?’

Damn it was a lot harder to say than she thought. Perhaps she try a different approach. She would talk about… him.

‘My boyfriend… he uh— he was one of a kind. Smart, goofy, sweet… he was everything I dreamed of. He uh— and his brother had it rough. His family was well off… and in most cases the mother and father weren’t around much thus, was raised by their nanny. One night, some man comes into their home and kills their father. It was then when he discovered his powers. He grew—‘

Ororo glanced down at Logan’s fist as his fingers tapped against the table cloth.

‘Claws.’ Her gaze rose to his once again. ‘He stabbed the man in hopes of getting to avenge his father… but it was then revealed to him that the stranger was in fact he and his brother’s biological father.’

Logan stared at her in complete horror. But he remained calm.

Your faith was strong, but you needed proof

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew ya

She tied you to a kitchen chair

She broke your throne and she cut your hair

And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.

‘What then?’ He asked before picking up his beer once again.

‘He and his big brother ran away. Fought in World War II. Years later he met me at Xavier’s School of Gifted—‘

‘Youngsters.’

‘Youngsters.’ She repeated slowly.

He stared at her for a moment before shaking his head, ‘How do you— How do you know all of that?!’

Swallowing her spit, Ororo pressed her lips together, ‘I know — so much more, Logan.’

‘So what, do you read minds like Charles?!’ His voice was a little bit more stern than before.

‘Ja-Logan, it’s not like that! I—I come from a different timeline!’

His eyes grew in disbelief and he raised his hands, ‘Alright. That’s enough sweet n sour pork for you. Now you’re just talking out of your ass.’ He reached over to grab her container but she grabbed his wrist tightly. It was heavy. Just as she thought.

‘Has it ever occurred to you why or how a complete stranger would know your name?!’

‘Maybe you’ve been looking at my mail?!’

‘Your name is James Howlett! You had a brother named Liev, also named as Sabertooth—‘

‘What?!’ He chuckled.

‘You were born 1882! Here in Alberta, Canada.’

‘These are all things you can look up on google sweetheart.’ He said as he gently pulled his fist away.

‘That would make sense if I could use google in my sleep!’ She bit back. She watched as he pulled her styrofoam container away. ‘And I don’t think you added your Adamantium skeleton to the census.’

I did my best, it wasn't much

I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch

I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool ya

And even though it all went wrong

I'll stand before the lord of song

With nothing on my tongue but hallelujah

He stared at her for a moment before swallowing hard.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about? That metal doesn’t even exist.’ He added as he carried off their take out to the kitchen.

Now, she was annoyed. She folded her arms across her chest and slouched back against the wooden chair with her full lips in a slight pout. That was until she realized what he said.

‘Wait—‘ she quickly stood to her feet and walked into the kitchen, ‘I never said anything about Adamantium being metal!’

Logan opened the refrigerator to place the containers inside, ‘You didn’t? Well, it sounds like it would be metal. The “Tium” at the end of it adds the razzle dazzle.’

Ororo was growing irritated with his banter. So she snatched the refrigerator door handle and slammed it, not caring much if the food was in there properly. Her backside was pressed firmly against the cool stainless steel.

‘Hey!’ He glared at her.

‘You asked me if I wanted to talk about it and I AM—‘

‘I didn’t ask you for a damn biography on my life!’

Her head fell to the side before looking down at his fists.

‘Show me.’

Logan stepped back, his thick brows tugging into one. ‘Show you what? There’s nothing to show you!’

‘I want to see them! Show me!’

‘Lady, you’re really losing it right now.’

‘I WANT TO SEE THEM— NOW!’ She exclaimed as her eyes glowed white with lightning and she raised her hand to cast a lightning bolt at his chest.

The white electricity sent him flying back against the wall, leaving a large cave in, in its place. He fell to his hands and knees as he groaned and howled in pain. White lightning bolts danced and trickled around his torso, arms and neck. ‘GUH—AAUURGH!’

She hadn’t realized what she’d done until it was too late. ‘Oh my god! James!’ Ororo rushed over to him but stopped in her tracks when she heard the unsheathing of his blades.

She blinked away her glowing eyes as he painfully pulled himself up to his feet. Bubbles of saliva dripped from between his teeth. At his sides were those infamous Adamantium claws. They were beautiful.

She glanced up at him in caution as she began to slowly approach him.

Logan growled, taking a step back as he breathed heavily through the pain.

‘James please, I’m sorry! I know all of this sounds crazy ok? You have to believe me.’

‘B-believe y-you?! Hell, I d-don’t even know you!’ He sputtered through the pain.

The words pained her, ‘I-I deserve that. But I know you.’ She finally walked to him and reached out to wrap her small hand around his fist. Logan turned his head away from her.

Maybe there's a God above,

but all I've ever learned from love,

was how to shoot at someone who out drew you.

And its not the cry you hear tonight,

its not somebody who's seen the light.

‘In a different time— you loved me. And looking at you now…’ she placed her hand against his jaw and turned his gaze back towards her, ‘Means that I have a second chance. Think about it, you went all the way to Vancouver … you had no idea I was there but you came there for me.’

Logan stared down at her, his heaving panting began to slowly return to normal.

‘I know that you hate New Age music, I know that your hobbies include choking down cigars and chopping wood. I know that you love riding your bike on sunny days in the mountains! I know that you dreamed of living in a small cabin like this one.’ Her voice cracked as she did her best to fight back her heartbreak. He never got to see the life he deserved.

It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.

‘I know that you’ve moved far away to keep from hurting others. I was there, Logan.’

Ororo’s words were almost inaudible; being choked up with tears, she stared up into his eyes as she fought hard not to cry again.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.

Sheathing his blades back into the safety of his knuckles, he reached up to grab her fist gently into his large hand.

‘How much did you love me—him?’

‘Oh James…’ her eyes fluttered as a thick warm tear fell down her cheek. ‘With all of my being…’

Those words ached him a little as if he knew that she did, as if he witnessed her love for him. He’d fallen in love many times. But they never amounted to anything in the end. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

Maybe—

If we’re meant to be— we’ll be.

Ororo burst into a gut wrenching sob before Logan brought her into his strong, heavy arms. He rested his cheek atop her head as she soaked his filthy wife beater.

Hallelujah.

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imperiuswrecked · 1 year

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Let me feel your light Let me speak your name Goddess of the night Goddess of the rain

Art: Russell Dauterman, Rafael Domingues, David Nakayama Lyrics: Goddess of the Rain - Burn the Ballroom

ID below the cut

[ID: A series of comic edits featuring Ororo Munroe in her Hellfire Gala outfit, (black bodysuit, gold necklace, gold bracelets, hair a white cloud, black boots, lightning bolt earrings, lightning bolt hair piece) with a focus on colors of orange, black, red, yellow, and gold; Edit 1 - Ororo looks off into the distance while using her powers of electricity, a flashing gif of lighting overlays the edit with the words written in small white letters; you spoke once of power. you do not know the meaning of the word. I will show you power. Edit 2 - Ororo smiles while her head and shoulders are encircled in a shining golden sun with black background. Edit 3 - orange, red, yellow stiped background with the words of; goddess, weather witch, mistress of the elements, walker of clouds, storm, ororo munroe, windrider repeat under the image of ororo in a lighting bolt cut out. Edit 4 - Ororo stands and looks off into the distance, her eyes are pure white while smoky black clouds move around her in a animated gif with a gold flecked black background. Edit 5 - two halves of Ororo's face are on opposite sides of the edit with one being upside down over a yellow/orange background. Edit 6 - Ororo is flying through the air while using her powers set over a background of a tornado made of light with her name, Storm, in gold script. Edit 7 - Ororo looks out at the viewer in a haze of circles and light in red, yellow, and orange. The words "am I not Beautiful? and Terrible? Do you not fear me? you should" are scrawled across in light yellow coloring. [/End ID]

#ororo munroe #storm #ororomunroesource #hellfire gala #comicedit #image described #cw: flashing gif #cw: eye strain #impedit #she's the love of my life your honor

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 11 months

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 9: We’re Friends When You’re On Your Knees]

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

Chapter warnings: Y'all, you are not ready for this one. Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), murder, Aemond "there are other Targaryens" Targaryen having feelings again (good ones?? not good ones?? both?? who knows bestie, not me!), an unexpected family reunion, must be the season of the witch... 👀

Series title is a lyrics from: "7 Minutes In Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn’t Get Sued" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 8.4k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

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You watch her from the shadows of the dungeons, rusted iron, phantom echoes of falling water, chilling drafts that come from nowhere and everywhere. She has not yet noticed you. She is beautiful, regal, arrogant, even as she sits gnawing on crusts of bread and the gristle of chicken bones, scraps that Lord Larys throws to her like she’s a pig nosing its way through a trough, an animal that is clever and yet condemned. And if she is livestock, then what are you? A creature of darkness, of nightfall, lethal and treacherous, a wolf or a bat or a spider. You step forward and into a ray of light that cuts across the stones like the path of a comet.

Baela gasps and drops the tibia she’d been working on, cracking it in two, sucking out the dead-blood marrow. Her wide-set, almond-shaped eyes catch on you. She is not afraid; you have never known Daemon Targaryen’s eldest daughter to be afraid of anything. She is fascinated.

“I’m sorry,” she says, crawling across the floor of her cell. She grips the metal bars and peers out at you, kneeling there like she’s praying. You suspect Baela has never prayed to anyone or anything. “I didn’t mean to almost burn you. I didn’t realize you were standing on the steps with him until after I’d given Moondancer the order. It all happened so quickly.”

You cannot appear to be angry. You have no reason to be angry if you are Aegon’s captive. “I take no offense. I wasn’t harmed.”

“No one had any idea the Usurper was here,” Baela says. Still her eyes are bright, entranced. “We believed Dragonstone to be vacant.”

Good. You give her a dismal smirk. “No. Not so vacant after all.”

“Are you with child yet?”

A bolt shoots down your spine like cold lightning. “What?”

“That’s what he’s trying to do, isn’t it?” Baela says. “He wants an heir from you. His wife is dead, his sons are dead. He couldn’t get his claws on me or Rhaena. But you can give him a Valyrian-blooded prince.”

Aegon has never mentioned having children with you. You don’t know if this means he doesn’t want them, or if he does not wish to place demands upon you, or if he is indifferent, or if he believes it to be impossible. “I have nothing to show for his efforts.”

“Has it been unspeakably awful?” And if Baela seeks to console, this is secondary to her personal interest; she is curious, she is absorbed. Her fingers close more tightly around the iron bars. “He’s a drunk, a degenerate. He’s vile. He’s deformed. Has he tortured you? Has he violated you in a hundred different ways? Does he tie you down, does he strike you, does he cut and bruise you?”

And this is the Blacks’ story, one they could never begin to suspect might be fiction: that you are a martyr, that Aegon is a monster. In place of an answer, you give Baela the treasures you have brought her. You pass them through the gaps between the bars: a bottle of ink, parchment, a quill with a point like a blade.

Baela takes these objects, amazed. “You can help me send a letter back to Harrenhal?”

“I don’t know if I will be able to get to the rookery. But I’ll try.”

“The Usurper allows you this much free rein?”

He trusts me. He loves me. He’s bedbound and in agony. “He’s rather distracted at the moment.”

“He’s dying, hopefully,” Baela says. She has already begun to write. And there’s a reptilian sort of coldness that is snaking deeper into you, constricting around your bones, gliding through the blood-slick chambers of your heart, too much a part of you to ever rip out. But now Baela’s face softens. She looks up dolefully. “Moondancer, she’s…she’s gone, isn’t she?”

You bow your head as if this is something tragic. “She did not survive Sunfyre’s attack.”

“Fucking beasts,” she seethes, resuming her writing. “When my father learns of this, he and Caraxes will come to rescue us. And he will burn the Usurper alive.” She finishes her letter, rolls up the parchment, and hands it back to you.

“How will Daemon know that you authored this and under no duress?”

“My signature,” Baela says, grinning. “I end all of my correspondence to him with Your ever-obedient daughter. It is a joke between us. If it was absent, he would notice. His suspicions would be aroused. That is how I would signal if I was ever forced to write to him against my will.”

There is dark satisfaction like a spell shimmering in your arteries, nerves, the void-black pupils of your eyes. You return her smile. “Perfect.”

“Don’t fear,” Baela tells you, and reaches through the rusted iron bars to clasp your hand. You fight the reflex to tear away from her, this woman who certainly maimed Aegon and might have killed him. You find yourself studying her, measuring her height and weight, calculating how much milk of the poppy it would take to end her life. “Cregan Stark is south of the Neck now. He will move heaven and earth to possess you, everyone knows that. Soon we will have Northmen marching through the Riverlands with Caraxes and Sheepstealer safeguarding them from above. And after the Riverlands they will be in the Reach, and then finally King’s Landing to stabilize the capital. The Usurper and Sunfyre cannot fight. Daeron is scarcely more than a boy. The Betrayers are avaricious, overconfident drunks. The Greens will be vanquished before winter.”

“And what about Vhagar?”

“Together, Caraxes and Sheepstealer can bring her down.” But there is doubt in Baela’s voice, yes, a vacillation that is rarely heard from her.

“I hope so,” you reply, one of countless lies.

You take Baela’s letter to the rookery, open it, examine it carefully for the subtleties of her handwriting: slopes and dots and lines. Then you get a fresh piece of parchment and painstakingly draft a very different message. Not a plea for help, but an assurance that all is well; not a summons to Dragonstone, but a confirmation that the castle was found to be unoccupied and is now held firmly by Baela and Moondancer.

And you end the letter before tying it to a leg of the raven trained to fly to Harrenhal:

Your ever-obedient daughter, Baela Targaryen

~~~~~~~~~~

“Please eat something, Your Grace. I beg you.” Lord Larys Strong’s face is creased with servile, attentive worry. On the plate before you is fresh, warm bread and a dish of salted butter. In your bowl is a crab soup thick with vegetables, the broth tomato-based and red like Autumn’s hair, like blood.

“I can’t.”

“Would you like me to bring you something else? I could have the chefs prepare roast chicken, or duck, or boar…”

“No.” You push the bowl of soup away. You and Larys are alone in the Great Hall, seated at the high table which presides over a silent, vacuous chamber. The room was built to resemble a dragon lying on its belly; the entranceway is its mouth, two massive doors edged with stone teeth. There are dragons everywhere, these talismans of Aegon’s house, these creatures that are monsters to some and saviors to others.

Larys studies you closely. His voice is tender. “Your Grace, please. Can I do anything for you?”

You consider him, an enigma that is useful and subtle and dogged in his loyalty. “What is it that binds you so faithfully to Alicent and her children, Lord Larys? House Strong was so favored by Rhaenyra. Her heirs were your blood, no matter how much she tried to deny it. You could have risen high in the Black Council. Make no mistake, I am very thankful for your service to the Greens. I am glad to count you among the greatest of our fortunes. But what inspired you to turn your coat?”

Larys smiles at you. He has eyes like rain, the wavy abundant brown hair of his spurned family. His hands rest on the handle of his cane. “Your eldest brother is an acclaimed swordsman.”

“Yes,” you agree, caught off-guard.

“And so was mine,” Larys says. “House Strong, is it any wonder what we valued most? My father loved Harwin. He was so fiercely proud of him. He was interested in him, he understood him. They would whisper to each other all through feasts, all through tourneys, conspiring, chortling, enmeshed in this synergy that left no air for anyone else to breathe.”

“And your father never understood you.” Just like Bartimos Celtigar overlooks Everett, a son gifted with books and quills instead of horses and swords. “Never even tried to.”

“It is a terrible thing to be in the midst of your family and yet feel alone.”

“It is,” you say, remembering the Blacks’ festivities in King’s Landing.

“Now Lyonel and Harwin Strong whisper to no one,” Larys says, his smile widening into a dark, victorious grin. “And I am the Master of Whisperers.”

You remember the words that Otto Hightower spoke to you as he waited for his execution in the dungeons of the Red Keep: These dark, contagious facets of life change us all. They ruins us. Time, heartache, violence. You become capable of inconceivable things. You would scheme and deceive. You would murder. “Do you ever regret it?” you ask Larys softly. Becoming a sinner, a killer, a kinslayer.

“Never,” he replies. “Dowager Queen Alicent was the first person to ever truly listen to me. To make me feel worth something. Worth anything. To advance her interests in every way possible…that cannot be an injustice. It is the cleanest kind of loyalty. And I have no doubt my sacrifices will be repaid. If the Greens triumph, that is. When this war is over, Alicent’s son must sit the Iron Throne.”

“You mean Aegon.”

“Yes, of course.” But something mournful passes over Larys’ face like a shadow; he peers down at his hands to hide this from you.

He doubts Aegon will live. He foresees Aemond or Daeron inheriting the throne instead. You stand from the table, your chair squealing shrilly against the stone floor. “We should bring the king his supper,” you tell Larys. “He needs his strength.”

Aegon does not like you to be there when the maesters prod at him, scrub his wounds, rebandage his shattered legs. You were once his healer, yes, but now he believes you to be his wife. He does not want to be your patient. He does not want you to see him as a wounded man writhing in bed, as someone helpless, pathetic, weak, doomed.

The maesters are just finishing when you arrive with a tray of buttered bread and fresh soup, steam rising from the bowl of red like entrails that litter the earth once a battle has ended. The maesters are gathering up bloody strips of linen to be burned. Aegon is sobbing; his silver hair hangs in chaotic waves, both hands cover his face.

Your voice is hushed and heartbroken. “Aegon…”

“No, I’m okay,” he says, sniffling, mopping the tears from his cheeks with his bare palms. Then he reaches out to you. “Come here, come here, come here.”

You go to him, sliding the tray onto his bedside table until it clinks against the glass bottles there: rose oil, red wine, milk of the poppy. You climb onto the bed and Aegon’s arms circle around your waist, pulling you in closer as he buries his face in the warmth of your chest, your throat, covering you in hurried, imprecise kisses. Dimly, you wonder what he tastes when he breathes you in; you wonder what colors bloom in the sunless passages of his lungs.

“I missed you,” he murmurs. You can feel the dampness of his tears on your bare skin, the roughness of his scars.

“I was only gone for a few hours.”

“Too long,” he says. “Far too long. How’s Sunfyre?”

“He’s down on the beach, Your Grace,” Larys answers from the doorway where he has materialized like stars at dusk.

“Is he eating? Ambulatory? Wading in the water?”

“He’s…” Lord Larys hesitates. “He seems to be in a great deal of discomfort.” And yes, you know this to be true: Sunfyre the Golden’s wings hang in shreds, his wounds are inflamed with infection, and there is something wrong with him inside as well, a wheezing when he inhales, blood that seeps from his nostrils and his jaws. There’s nothing anybody can do for him. No one can touch him but Aegon, and Aegon can’t leave his bed.

Aegon says to Larys, low and sinister: “I want Baela dead. I want her burned.”

“She is far more valuable to you alive, Your Grace.”

“I am the king and I wish her to die.”

“Corlys Velaryon is her grandsire,” Larys implores. “If he discovers you executed Baela, he may recommit himself to Rhaenyra’s side. He may launch his own rebellion even after Rhaenyra is defeated. If you wish to win and keep the Iron Throne, I advise you to spare her.”

Aegon sighs and glares out the window that overlooks the Narrow Sea, his arms still linked around your waist. You begin to weave his braid for him. “Aegon,” you say gently. “We’ve brought you supper. Please eat it.”

“I’m afraid I’m too nauseated by my own inadequacy. Perhaps later.”

“You want to be well again. And you will be. But you have to eat.”

“I really don’t think I can.”

“Aegon, please.”

“Well…” He glances over at the bowl of soup and then gives you a mischievous smirk. “I suppose nothing tastes better than a crab, does it? Particularly when it is served in bed.”

“Or on the floor of a library.” You smile and kiss him: his pale face, his trembling lips. You finish his tiny braid like a silver chain and tuck it behind his ear. Then you pour him a cup of milk of the poppy, just one pearl-white splash, just enough to sand the serrated edges off his anguish.

“No.” He stops you, a hand on your wrist. “I don’t want to be useless again. I don’t want to be swimming in dreams. I want to be here with you.”

You shake your head. There are tears stinging in your eyes. “But you’re in pain.”

He grins, brushing your hair back from your face. “I’ve been in pain my whole life, Angel.”

And he manages to force down half the soup and two brimming goblets of wine before he sinks beneath the sea of his consciousness, while outside waves crack open against the rocks and Sunfyre leaks viscous threads the color of crimson, roses, flames.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You sent that raven a week ago,” Baela tells you when you bring her your offering, your clandestine kindness: apple cake, black tea. “More than enough time has passed for it to be received at Harrenhal and acted upon.”

You fill a porcelain cup with tea from the kettle and give it to her through the iron bars of her cell. “Perhaps the raven went astray.”

Baela ponders this as she alternates between unladylike chomps on a wedge of apple cake and slurps from the cup. “Maybe my father has been away from the castle. Maybe he’s out on the battlefield with the Stark men.”

Or maybe he believes you and Moondancer to be perfectly well and presiding unopposed over Dragonstone, and therefore not in need of his attention. What a welcome delusion to live under. I’m sure he’d rather be fucking Nettles anyway. You take the empty cup when Baela has drained it and refill it with tea. Baela accepts the nearly overflowing cup gratefully. She has had nothing to drink since she was taken captive except muddy rainwater that pools in one corner of each cell, guided by stone gutters that run along the outside of the castle. The tea is cloudy with cream and laced with sugar; still, her nose wrinkles a bit when she swallows it down.

“Bitter,” she notes distractedly.

“It’s made from leaves grown here on Dragonstone. Formidable, but not very sweet.”

Baela cackles; it echoes through the dungeon. This is the same voice that commanded Moondancer to brutalize Sunfyre, to send Aegon plummeting to the sand. Are her eyes already losing their viperish sharpness, is her heartbeat slowing? “Just like me!” She finishes her cup of tea and eagerly holds it out to you through the bars. You pour it full of the earth-colored brew once again.

You ask her as she licks apple cake crumbs from her fingers: “Why is Cregan Stark so determined to wed me?”

“He wants you. He considers you worthy of him.”

“But he doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t really know who I am.”

Baela shrugs indifferently. “None of us love anyone because of who they are. We love them because of who they make us believe we are.” She sips her tea and blinks groggily. “In any case, he will be your honorable savior, and you will be his illustrious damsel, and when the traitor dragons are dead he will spirit you away to Winterfell to bear his wolf pups. It’s not so bad a fate, I think. Not for someone like you. You aren’t ill-suited to matrimony. You are docile enough. A caretaker, a healer. You seem like the sort of woman who would be content with just one man.”

Yes. If he was Aegon. As you watch her kneeling on the stone floor of her cell, Baela sways and almost nods off, seemingly unaware that she is doing it.

“Burning might be too swift a death for the Usurper,” Baela says, smiling dazedly. “Cregan should have some of the Boltons flay him. They can all take turns wearing his hideous scars.”

“Yes. Skins shed, skins regrown, some of us change them over and over again.”

Baela stares at you inanely. She is beyond comprehension. Then she collapses to the stone floor, the porcelain tea cup spilling from her grasp and breaking into jagged white shards.

You take the key to the cell off the hook out in the corridor and unlock the door of iron bars. You step inside, still holding the tea kettle in one hand. You set the kettle down and drag Baela until she is propped upright against a wall. Her pulse is slow, but still present; she moans feebly as you position her. But it is all for a good cause; you must ensure she drinks the rest of the tea, the witches’ brew of leaves and cream and sugar and a fatal dose of milk of the poppy. Outside you hear a deep, prehistoric rumble as Vhagar flies over Dragonstone and scouts for a landing spot large enough to host her. Aemond is back again.

You angle the spout of the tea kettle between Baela’s paling lips and ply her with a small amount, less than a mouthful, then you rub her throat in just the right place to trigger her reflex to swallow. You know this trick well; you have used it on grievously wounded soldiers. You used it on Aegon after he was burned. You repeat the steps until the kettle is empty. Then you lay Baela flat again and watch her chest rise and fall slower, slower, slower until it stops. But still, you leave nothing to chance. You nick Baela’s wrist with a paring knife from the castle kitchens, until now tucked away in a pocket of your gown, emerald green silk to match the side of this war that you are pledged to. Her blood, unpropelled by the rhythm of a heart, dribbles sluggishly rather than spurts. She’s gone; she’s with her mother and Luke and Jace and the young sickly Viserys and Rhaenys, Otto and Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor and Autumn’s silver-haired son that she never had the chance to name. You wonder if the struggle goes on in the afterlife. Perhaps presently Otto and Baela are scratching and yowling at each other in a castle made of clouds.

Upstairs, Aemond is already in Aegon’s bedchamber. They are speaking in whispers when you enter, and you catch only pieces of the exchange: capital, Cregan, marriage, Daemon, crown. Larys stands in the corner of the room, his hands laced atop the handle of his cane. He gives you a reverent bow in greeting. He might not be so pleased to see you once he learns what you’ve done.

Aegon stops talking abruptly when he spots you and gestures for Aemond to go quiet as well, a commanding sweep of his hand. Aemond follows his brother’s gaze to the doorway. His lone blue eye climbs up and down you like a man on the rungs of a ladder. His hair is in one thick braid from his flight; stray white-blond strands that have been ripped free hang in disarray around his stoic, unreadable face. Aemond does not bow to you and never will. He only leers, a silver-haired wolf, a hawk with unhollow bones.

“Hello, Angel,” Aegon says, beaming or at least attempting to. He is frail and pallid and too thin and dripping sweat. There are indigo rings around his eyes like bruises. His legs are swollen, grotesque mountain ranges beneath the blankets. You rush to him and sit on the edge of the bed, feeling his forehead for fever and combing your fingers fondly through his hair.

Aemond sighs irritably. “Anyway, I’d like to torture her.”

“My prince…” Larys urges.

Aegon holds up a palm. “Now now, Lord Larys, let’s hear his proposal. Exactly how much do you intend to torture Baela?”

“Quite a bit,” Aemond says.

“To death?” Aegon asks hopefully.

“I don’t see why not.”

“My prince!” Larys says again. “Please, consider the possible ramifications, she is a prisoner of substantial strategic value, if your mother was here she would caution—”

“I’m afraid that Baela can no longer be interrogated,” you confess, and they all turn to you. There is a long, laden pause.

“And why is that?” Aemond says.

“Because she is dead of poisoning.”

“What?!”

“In her cell. Her body is there now. Feed her to Vhagar or Sunfyre, throw her in the sea, do whatever you wish with her. But she has paid her debt for the harm she inflicted upon us.”

Slowly, a grin splits across Aemond’s face. Larys shakes off his shock and resigns himself to it. But Aegon is neither proud nor reconciled. “You did that?” he says softly.

“You wanted Baela dead.”

“Yes, I did. But you don’t take life,” Aegon says, remembering what you once told him in King’s Landing. His oceanic eyes are stunned and fearful; not because Baela is was murdered, but because you were the one to end her. Because until now he was still able to tell himself that you could somehow escape this war unscarred, unruined. “You preserve it.”

“I preserve yours,” you reply. And when you offer him milk of the poppy—with no fear, for you know precisely how much it takes to kill a man—Aegon refuses it again, taking his suffering pure and sharp like the glass of a mirror.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What will happen to him?” Aemond asks you. You’re sitting on the stone staircase together under overcast midday skies, sipping wine and watching Sunfyre amble lethargically up and down the beach. You aren’t sure what’s made him so restless: his own dire injuries, Aegon in torment within the castle walls, something else entirely, some premonition that only beasts of ancient magic know. At last, Sunfyre seems to have exhausted himself and crumples onto the sand.

“I think Aegon will walk again. Eventually.”

“But he won’t be able to fight.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Fuck,” Aemond hisses caustically, glowering out over the ocean.

You look at Aemond, needing to ask but terrified of the answer. “Can you win without him?”

“Can we win, you mean?” He smiles faintly, then sobers again. “I think so. Just before I left the Riverlands to come here, I received reports that Daemon had sent his lowborn little child bride away with Sheepstealer. He is trying to protect her from Rhaenyra’s assassins. My bitch of a half-sister has thus done us a remarkable favor. If Daemon is alone, I have no doubt that Vhagar can slay Caraxes. They say Daemon has fled Harrenhal. He’s hiding from me. I will find him, and I will burn him. I will end this war.”

“You need to be with Criston when his army faces the Northmen.”

“Of course,” Aemond says; but something in his face worries you.

There is a high-pitched shriek overhead, a glimmering flash of vivid gemstone blue. You startle and Aemond’s hand juts out, grabs you by the forearm, yanks you closer to him; then he relaxes when he recognizes who it is.

Aemond sighs loudly. “Why the fuck can’t he stay where he’s supposed to be?!” Then he stands, helps you to your feet while he’s at it, and heads down to the shoreline to meet Daeron and Tessarion.

The Blue Queen circles the beach several times, Daeron peering down as if struggling to understand something, his long white-blond hair whipping in the wind. At last Tessarion lands, her claws sinking into the wet sand, ocean froth bubbling around legs. Her long, swanlike neck stretches out towards Sunfyre, soft inquisitive squeals emanating from her jaws. Daeron leaps down from the saddle and strides to where Sunfyre is sprawled helplessly on the beach.

Alicent’s youngest child is clad in mint green—including a cape that billows out behind him in the seaside breeze—and glinting gold accents everywhere, buckles on his boots and the clasp of his cape and even a freckling of studs in his ears. He props both hands on his waist as he scrutinizes the crippled dragon. “Well, you’re not Moondancer.”

“He ripped Moondancer’s throat out,” Aemond says. “And then he ate her.”

Daeron whistles and gazes at Sunfyre admiringly. “I heard that Baela and Moondancer had taken possession of Dragonstone. I came to murder them. But now I see my services are unnecessary.”

“Baela is dead.” Then Aemond adds, nodding to you: “Here is the executioner.”

Daeron considers you, then laughs and assails you with a spirited embrace that nearly knocks you off your feet. “Welcome to the family, Lady Celtigar.”

“She’s the queen now.”

“Is she?” Daeron asks, eyebrows raised. “I was not under the impression that our brother was in any particular hurry to marry again.”

“His priorities seem to have shifted,” Aemond says.

“Can I see him?” Daeron looks around the beach and then up at the castle, shielding his eyes from the greyscale daylight. “Is he not outside with you? What is he doing in there? Not reciting prayers and composing poetry, I’d imagine.”

In Aegon’s bedchamber, Daeron cannot conceal his shock, his dismay; he gawks at the king like he is a three-legged dog, a blinded orphan. He stands thunderstruck at the end of the bed, taking in the vague yet horrifying outlines of Aegon’s shattered legs, the gauntness of his face, the fact that he is incapable of playing any meaningful role in the war for the foreseeable future. You sit on the bed beside Aegon, Aemond lurks by a window, Larys observes intently from a respectful distance, his eyes following every word as they flit through the air.

When Daeron recovers somewhat, he says: “I need to know what to do about Hammer and Ulf.”

“Why?” Aegon replies wearily. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Apparently, Mother once offered them the seats of House Costayne and House Merryweather as compensation for their efforts on behalf of the Greens, and they accepted. But now that’s suddenly not good enough. They’re asking me for the Riverlands and the Vale.”

Aegon turns to Aemond. “Is there anything left of the Riverlands these days? Should we find a new name for them? The Smolderlands, perhaps? The Everything-Is-Dead-Here-Now-Lands?”

“This is serious,” Aemond says flatly.

“I’m entirely serious.”

“Should I just tell them they can have whatever they want?” Daeron asks. “And then when the war is over and we’ve won…you know…pretend not to remember that conversation?”

“They can’t be given territory of any importance,” Aemond says. “They aren’t nobility.”

Daeron amends: “More relevantly, they are devoid of accountability and self-discipline. They drink all day and whore all night, and…oh, I mean no offense, Your Grace.”

“Fine,” Aegon says, preoccupied. There are fat beads of sweat on his bloodless face, glistening misery in his eyes. He gazes sorrowfully down at his left hand where he once wore his golden dragon ring before he lost it the same day he destroyed his legs. You pour him a cup of red wine and he drains it in seconds. You fill another.

“My point is that Hammer and Ulf are increasingly unreliable. I am only halfway convinced they could even show up for a battle before it was over. And yet we need them. Especially if Sunfyre cannot fight.”

“Agree to their requests,” Aemond says. “And if they survive the war, we will deal with them then. Rhaenyra’s faction is the greater enemy. We cannot risk the Dragonseeds racing back into her arms.”

“Lord Larys?” Aegon prompts dimly

“I could not agree more, Your Grace.”

“And on the subject of Rhaenyra,” Daeron continues. “Tessarion and I can take King’s Landing. Syrax is the only dragon in the city now, and Rhaenyra has never ridden her into combat.”

“No,” Aegon says. “We cannot risk setting the capital ablaze and turning the people against us. And Mother is there. Everett is there.”

“Everett?” Daeron looks around, baffled. “Who the fuck is Everett?”

“Angel’s brother. Not the firstborn son. The other one.” And as Aegon explains this, his chest is heaving and his eyes are glazed over. He tries to reposition himself in bed and has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from crying out, hard enough to draw blood.

“Is there anything else?” you ask Daeron and Aemond, a warning in your face. He needs rest. He needs to sleep, to heal.

“No,” Aemond says. He paces towards the door and snatches Daeron’s cape as he passes by him, hauling him out into the hallway. You follow after them.

As soon as he is out of earshot of Aegon’s room, Daeron tells Aemond: “He doesn’t look good.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Aemond, I think you should prepare to—”

“He’ll be fine!” Aemond snaps.

“You don’t think I’m losing something too?” Daeron demands furiously. “You don’t think I want him to be well again? Of course I want that. But if wishing people to live made it possible, the world would be a very different place.”

“You are needed in the Reach,” Aemond says, and that’s all.

Daeron glares up at him, incredulous, defiant. “This will be over soon. I hope you’re ready for what comes next.”

Then he storms out of the castle, soars down the long stone staircase, meets Tessarion on the windswept beach and takes flight into the southwest where the earth is green but the nights are an inescapable, dreamless black.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aegon is weeping again; you hear him from the hallway. It is after nightfall, and the castle is illuminated only by firelight. Candles flicker; the hearth crackles and pops. In the shadows, Aegon lies with his dragonfire scars and his fractured legs and his useless hereditary magic, tears streaming down his face. You have a vision of what he will look like when he’s dead; you imagine the Stranger reaching up from underneath the bed to seize him with claws like a raven’s talons and drag him out of existence.

“I need it,” Aegon sobs when he sees you, grasping for the glass bottle of milk of the poppy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to need it, but I do.”

“I’m here, Aegon. It’s alright. Let me help.” You pour him a cup of the bitter remedy, a strange gleaming white like pearl, opal, moonstone. Then you tilt the cup against his lips. Aegon gulps down the milk of the poppy and then falls back into his sea of pillows.

He murmurs, eyes closed as you graze the backs of your fingers feather-lightly over his unmarred cheek: “I wanted to start over with you.”

“You’ll still get the chance.”

“No,” he whimpers miserably. “I ruin everyone. Everyone I’m given, everyone I touch. Helaena, Jaehaerys, Maelor. We don’t even know where Jaehaera is, in Storm’s End, lost on the road, taken captive, dead. Otto, Autumn, Aemond, Mother, Sunfyre. And now I’m ruining you too.”

“You’re not,” you plead with him in a whisper. And not for the first time, you think: What do you require from me, Aegon? Wrath, compassion, healing, children? What can I do to give you hope again? Tell me and it’s yours. I’d do anything. I’d become anyone. “Aegon?” you begin, trying to ask him; but he is already unconscious. He’ll likely be out until sunrise.

You drink cup after cup of red wine and sit in the flame-lit shadows with him, in the quiet, in the liminal space between decisions, envisioned sins and prospective virtues. Then you leave the bedchamber like a ghost, a creak here and a tap there and no other trace. You wander down long, twisting corridors framed by dragons of iron and stone. And at the other end of the castle beyond a door you’ve never opened before is the lair of a very different breed of dragon: tall and lean and ambitious, his eyepatch removed and stowed away for the evening, his long silver hair hanging freely to his waist.

He is wearing cotton sleeping trousers but nothing else. He is seated at his writing desk and scrawling something onto parchment in black ink, a list or a diagram or a design for a new crown upon his ascension to the throne, you don’t know and you have no intention of asking. You have far too many things on your mind already. You feel nauseous and unsteady, you feel like you can’t possibly go through with this. You can’t imagine it. You can’t fathom what he would feel like, taste like.

Aemond steals a nonchalant glimpse of you, having no sense of your inner turmoil. “Can I assist you with something?”

“Yes,” you say simply, sipping your wine under the stone arch of the doorway.

He looks up at you again, his quill suddenly still in his hand. His two eyes are on you, one wide and river-blue, the other a soulless glittering sapphire in a tangle of ruined flesh. And now he understands. There are other Targaryens, he had said. “Take off your clothes. Sit down on the bed.”

You step inside his bedchamber and close the door behind you, setting your empty cup on the edge of his writing desk. You walk to his bed—dark green blankets, gold thread—and shed each piece of clothing you have on, a black gown and everything under it, not looking to see if Aemond is watching you, too anxious, trembling wildly. But you know his gaze is on you when you—standing naked and shivering in the firelight—begin to pull back the blankets and hear the sharp reprove in his voice.

“I did not tell you to hide yourself from me,” Aemond says. “Sit at the edge. Yes, there. Good.”

You perch on the bed and wait for him, your ankles linked, legs swinging restlessly, arms crossed over your chest. Aemond is staring at you from the opposite end of the room. You can’t look at him; you look elsewhere, at the tapestries of dragons hanging from the drafty stone walls, at the thick candles that drip white wax. And this won’t be like lying with a stranger, but it won’t be like lying with someone you want either, because you are profoundly uneasy and monstrously ashamed and perhaps even afraid.

Aemond is approaching now, firelight skating over his smooth, unsinged skin. He is undoing the tie at the waist of his trousers. He yanks them off, revealing himself to you. He is already hard, and he is massive, vast in length and width. The panic hits you like a breaking wave.

“Oh,” you gasp in alarm, unable to stop yourself. Then you explain so he won’t be offended: “I’m not going to be able to take you if I’m not ready.” You rest a hand on your bare thigh, slip it between your legs, begin to stroke yourself the way Aegon does, trying to relax, trying to think of him…

“No,” Aemond says, moving your hand aside. “Let me.”

Obediently, you rest your palms just behind you on the mattress, open your thighs for him, inhale sharpy as Aemond’s long, artful fingers touch you somewhere only one other man ever has. And you’re a traitor, the worst kind of traitor, because it’s working: you can feel yourself opening for him, hungering for him, coating his hand in slick warm wetness.

Aemond isn’t looking at your face. His eye is fixed on the place where his fingers are circling, where he is now pushing two inside of you, and while it happens abruptly and roughly enough to startle you it is not quite painful, or maybe it is, just the tiniest bit, but the pleasure eclipses the pain, the pleasure is a current you are powerless to swim against.

“You can tell me to stop,” Aemond says as he strokes you from the inside with his fingers buried to the knuckles, his breathing labored. “I don’t want you to. But if you tell me to stop, I’ll listen. Okay?”

You nod, and instead of an answer you give him a moan, stifled but unmistakable, dark treasonous forbidden ecstasy. And this snaps something in Aemond, it unleashes a part of him he’d been keeping tied up like an untrustworthy animal, one that could maul or maim or kill. He drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your thighs, drags you to him until his lips and tongue are on you with dizzyingly blissful pressure. You fall back onto the bed, one hand twisting into the blankets, the other in his waterfall of unruly silver hair, pushing him even harder against you as he licks ravenously. Aemond doesn’t seem to mind; with each roll of your hips and bitten-back plea his enthusiasm blooms, hums and triumphant chuckles spilling from his mouth as he swallows down the proof of your desire. It’s starting, that swift climb towards a high like nothing else on earth, something Aegon once taught you was possible. You are a betrayer, but with the very best of intentions; you are making a sacrifice, but it feels so much like a gift.

“Aemond, I’m ready,” you pant, your fingers hopelessly knotted in his hair. “You can do it now, you can…” And then you lose your words because instead of rising to his feet, Aemond stays right where he is, his tongue insatiable, his face drenched in your wetness.

He’s going to make me…I’m so close…

“Aemond, what are you waiting for…?”

His lips close around the spot where you are most sensitive and he sucks forcefully, and that feeling like a shuddering, irresistible unravelling strikes you harder and faster than it ever has before, so intense it is almost painful, sharp and commanding, not something he is doing with you but to you, and you know even in the golden haze of the climax that this is not about love but about power, pride, control, worthiness.

He doesn’t stop. He is licking you again, opening your folds with one hand, thrusting two fingers inside of you with the other. You are still feeling the pulsing, involuntary aftershocks of one high when the next begins building, building, building, and when you close your eyes all you can see are waves on the ocean in a storm, swelling to impossible heights and ungoverned by anything except the dubious mercy of nature.

“Aemond please,” you beg in a frayed whisper, bathed in sweat and guilt and frenzied lust. “I’m ready. Just do it, please…”

And then he wrenches you into another vortex and it takes everything in you not to scream, not to jolt awake the skeleton crew that tends to Dragonstone and its surreptitious guests. You are beyond complete thoughts, beyond sentences. You are boneless, your muscles have turned to mist and air, you are entirely under Aemond’s control and that’s where he has wanted you all along.

“Aemond, please, please, please…”

Unable to resist any longer, he stands—wiping the glistening, dripping sheen from his face with the back of one hand—and forces his cock inside you to the hilt. He does not slow down when he meets resistance, and you don’t tell him to. You moan in shock at the disorienting fullness, you cannot help it; it is a feeling on the knife’s edge between ripping agony and euphoric pleasure. It is something you would gratefully die of. He moves within you, deep and quick, his hands clasping your hips. Emotionally, you feel nothing but a razored, perilous, impersonal intensity; in your body, it is paradise.

Again? Again…?!

“Are you going to come for me one more time, Angel?” Aemond taunts you as he thrusts; and that’s Aegon’s name for you that he’s using, and it’s wrong, and Aemond knows that, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to break the spell he’s got you under, you can’t tell him to stop, you don��t have the will to, and if this is about power then you know who’s won out of the three of you, you know who has steel in his bones and lightning cracking in his veins.

It’s different this time, pleasure rising like the tide in your whole body, a peak that is not concentrated so clearly between your legs but everywhere: fingertips, spine, belly, heart.

“Come for me, Angel. I know you can do it.” And then for the first time Aemond leans in close to you, his pristine scarless chest pressed to yours, his lips traveling from your throat to the curve of your jaw, his tongue darting into your mouth before you can turn away, and he tastes like pure, mineral lust, and maybe that’s not just because of what he’s done to you, maybe that’s all he is all the way down, hunger that is never satisfied, a need to consume like fire burns flesh.

You whimper, a desperate vulnerable sound, a pleading for him to finish what he’s started and give you this one last high, just one more, just one, please, please, you’ll do anything.

“I’m better than him, aren’t I?” Aemond demands as he fucks you, and there’s no other word for it. This isn’t making love, this isn’t a meeting of souls, it is using someone else’s body to patch up all your hollows, all the pinprick voids you’ve been walking around with for years, losing yourself one blooddrop at a time until you pass by a mirror one day and think who the hell is that? “I know how to take care of you. I know what you want. I can do things Aegon never could. I’ll make you come again. I’ll give you a prince.”

And he coaxes it out of you like the memory of a dream, more like an ether than something you could name: a shimmering elation all over, a cry you can only muffle by biting down on Aemond’s neck as he pounds into you, and then he at last he surrenders what you came here for, but only after all the rest of it. He fills you with himself, so much of it that you can feel it pouring out onto the blankets, immense flooding wet warmth that gives you no satisfaction whatsoever.

I’m a traitor, you think, and for all the times you’ve changed your skin this is the very worst of them. I shouldn’t have done this. I wish I hadn’t done this.

Aemond lifts himself off of you and rolls onto his back, panting alongside you as you both stare up at the ceiling, drenched in each other’s salt and knowing things that were once so unthinkable. Aemond is gazing over at you. His clear blue eye is tracing your lips, your breasts, your hips, your folds that are soaked with his sweat and seed. You don’t want him watching you. You feel sick knowing he’s watching you. You get up from the bed and begin putting on your gown.

Aemond says: “We should probably try again tomorrow.”

You shake your head. “I can’t,” you reply quietly.

He sits up on the bed, his lone eye narrowed and suspicious. His hair is damp and now flows over his shoulders in disheveled silvery waves. “What?”

“I can’t do this again. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s it,” Aemond flings. “Just this once and never again. Never again in our whole goddamn lives.”

“It feels like betraying him. It is betraying him.”

“And what if he can’t father any more children?!”

“Then I’ll be barren.”

Aemond glares, petulant, affronted. “I thought you wanted to help this family.”

“You didn’t do this for your family. You did it for you.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m a fucking monster.” He tears off the bed, tugs on his trousers, ties the knot with swift furious hands.

“Aemond, I didn’t say that, I don’t think—”

“You’ve done enough,” he seethes, pawing through a chest of clothing. He finds a shirt and pulls it on, gathers up his things, rages to the bedchamber door. He whips it open and disappears into the nightscape corridor.

“Aemond!” you call after him in a fierce whisper, as loudly as you dare to. “Aemond, where are you going?!”

“To take Harrenhal,” he pitches over his shoulder. And then he’s gone, and maybe it’s your fault, and maybe it isn’t, but either way you are wholly convinced that it is.

You bathe in one of the massive tubs heated by the lava that runs deep beneath the rocky earth of the island, scouring away every trace of Aemond, lathering yourself with soap scented with pine, rinsing, lathering again. Still, you can feel the way he moved inside you with such battering, rapturous force. Still, you miss him, you miss being able to talk to him and look to him and trust that he will protect Aegon in every way he can, for no matter how much envy Aemond is built of you believe his love for his king is stronger.

You return to Aegon’s bed, always so careful now not to jostle his legs, his shattered bones that are only just beginning to mend. You are petrified that he will know somehow—that he will see it on your face, smell it sweating from your pores—but Aegon has nothing for you but seeking hands and contented, drowsy sighs.

“Where’d you go?” he mumbles, still half-asleep, drawing you in closer. “I missed you. I keep dreaming that everyone’s gone. I watch you walk through the doorway and I’m left here in bed all alone.”

“Aegon?”

“Yes, wife.”

“Do you need children with me to be happy?”

He waits a long time before he answers. When at last he does, he chooses each word carefully. “I have never felt a calling to be a father. I’ve never been any good at it. Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, Maelor…they were mine, but they also weren’t, and I can’t explain it. I felt nothing for them except a vague sort of sympathy that they had the misfortune of being born to me. Now, did a lot of that have to do with my relationship with Helaena? Probably. And do I think things would be different if I had children with you? Yes, I believe they would be, to some extent at least. But I don’t need children to be happy. I just need you.”

You say with tears in your eyes and your voice splintering: “I’m so sorry, Aegon.”

He is mystified. “For what?”

“For not being a better person for you. For not being able to cure or protect you. For not being able to end the war.”

“Angel, nobody can,” Aegon says, fingers snarled in your hair, lips to your forehead. Then he smiles; you can feel the warm, playful curl of it against your skin. “Well, except Aemond, of course.”

~~~~~~~~~~

She is there to greet him when he arrives. She creeps out of the shadows like a spider, long limbs and volcanic-glass eyes, whispers like wind in brittle fall leaves and flesh that will never refuse him. She wears black, not for one night like you did but always; she has long dark hair that she never cuts or braids or ties back. Sometimes there are raven feathers in it, sometimes herbs or powders from spells, sometimes twigs and petals, sometimes blood. It all washes out in the cold cryptic currents of the Gods Eye. Once Daemon Targaryen was here, but he did not have a wound in the shape that she could fill, could walk into like a doorway and stitch herself into the velvet-gore lining of his lungs, his liver, his heart. But now Daemon is gone. And Harrenhal has a new king to reign over the city of bones and ashes.

She meets him under the starlight that trickles in through the ruins of Harrenhal, less a castle than an architectural graveyard, less a place of beginnings than of calamitous ends. Her fingernails trace his scar and she tells him it is the mark of a hero. She touches her lips to his sapphire eye and tells him it reminds her of a god. And thus the doorway opens, and Alys drifts through it, silent and resistless like smoke, like a plague.

Perpetual Resurrection, Aemond thinks. He knows they are the words of House Celtigar. He has studied the mottos of every noble house in Westeros; but none speak to him more than these.

She touches him and he sees everything he could be. He tastes her lips and drinks down the smooth intoxicating fire that burns the boy he once was away.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader

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mochidoie · 1 year

Text

all i see is you - lee haechan

listen to: you by dj regard and poison by nct dream genre: fluff, hopelessly pining badboy!haechan wc: 720 warning: none, written in lowercase only

a/n: i felt very inspired by poison's track video, i can't stop thinking about the lyrics too ive been waiting for dreamies to do a rnb song for so long!! read part two!

"you're so bad for me." you push playfully at haechan's chest and god, just how he melts at how cute your smile looks under the night sky.

haechan leans against the street lamp post and smirks devilishly at your comment, hooded eyes eating up how prettily your attire fits you tonight. "if you mean bad meaning good, then i agree."

there goes your sweet laugh again, "very funny." your sarcastic response is typical, he could read you like an open book. spine against a table, pages flipping by the edge of his thumb.

"i'm serious, y/n. when are you gonna give me a chance to take you out?" haechan butters you up just like how you like it. his finger twirls the end of your skirt flirtatiously, causing your heart to race in your chest.

you can't stop the shy smile that appears on your red painted lips. "in your dreams, hyuck. i'm in no place in my life right now to be dating anyone." scoffing, you cross your arms.

you're goal driven, hardworking, you weren't going to let some sleazy guy distract you from chasing your career. despite all his efforts, you genuinely had to consider how haechan would actually throw you off track. your lifestyles are too different to meet a compromise.

he drops to your feet, noticing your shoe had been untied for the past two blocks. without a word or shift in conversation, this man obediently wraps the string around his fingers and brings the knot to a complete bow. this kind gesture never fails to swoon you.

"so don't date me. let me take you out from time to time, treat you nice and right. when you want to sleep in someone's arms at night, give me a call. i'm here at your disposal." haechan stands and hovers over you, polite hands hovering over your lower waist as he closes the distance between the two of you.

the way you blink at him with wanting eyes has him spiraling, he wants you so bad. just one glance and he's swept away, wind picking up his feet and has him tumbling.

"that is unfair to you."

"it's sweet to know that you care about me." haechan meant it, but the playfulness in his tone seems unserious. he isn't sure how only you can make him this way. it becomes hard for him to really express how much he dreams about you.

"of course i care about you." your eyes drop to his lips momentarily and his chest feels tight. it's almost criminal how good you two would be together and how happy he could make you.

slowly, you're drawn into him even more until his breath is against your cheekbone and you can hear the beating of both of your hearts in the silence of the night.

"you want me to be honest?" his voice is feathery and raspy, like he's trapped in your trance due to the proximity of your warmth. "i've lost count of how many times i've wanted to kiss you."

you call his name, pulling away slightly. a tinge of sadness and guilt in your tone, but haechan isn't having it. he shakes his head, "i know. i shouldn't be so selfish.. but you don't know how many times i fall to my knees just thinking about you."

your eyes meet at the end of his sentence and the desire intensifies between the two of you. lightning bolts zapping in the gaze, you can feel the blood rushing to your face.

something about how desperately infatuation haechan looks sparks a burning flame in your abdomen. how all he sees is you, his reflection full of your figure. how his plump lips are itching to touch your own.

his usual confident, playfully flirtatious personality is nowhere to be seen. you've never seen this expression on him before and it shocks you how much he has been holding himself back.

"pick me up at 8 tomorrow. no exceptions." you say firmly and with that smile he can't get enough of. backing up from him, you walk toward your door.

his ears are perked up, noting your words very clearly and not wanting to let this chance slip away from him. he smirks coolly and shoves his hands into his jean pockets, "you know i won't let you down."

read part two!

#nct scenarios #nct dream #haechan scenarios #haechan scenario #nct fluff #nct 127 #lee haechan #nct blurbs #nct scenario #nct dream scenarios #haechan imagines

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vampirecatprince · 3 months

Text

the fucking lightning bolt moment I had when he was in the balloon and I remembered that lyric from Spitalfields

This song has been about Copia the entire fucking time

#the band ghost #ghost #rite here rite now spoilers #rite here rite now #oh the symbolism with this story and some of hese lyrics is making my brain go brr

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facts-i-just-made-up · 5 months

Note

Why is Radahn's horse named Leonard.

He's named after Leonard Cohen. Much like Dragonslayer Ornstein and Ludwig the Holy Blade, From Software have a tendency to name their characters after musicians and Leonard is a reference to Cohen's song, "Ballad of the Absent Mare" which has the lyrics:

So he binds himself To the galloping mare And she binds herself To the rider there And there is no space But there's left and right And there is no time But there's day and night

This is of course a reference to Radahn's binding of the stars and how he refused to give up his horse as he grew enormous, learning gravity magic to stay together.

Also notable is the musical name origin of Dragonlord Placidusax, which references the prog-goregrind band "Draconic Plasidusax" and their song "Beheaded Twice In The Cyclone Of Time" with its lyrics:

Red lightning defiles me I defile your soul Spill my innards on the arena floor Lock on during the teleportation part And run like hell during the big bolt charge attack Or when he disappears and comes flying back Cuz he will wreck your shit

#elden ring #leonard cohen #general radahn #dragonlord placidusax #music #unreality

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wolven91 · 6 months

Text

Dev Gun

Elliott opened his eyes and immediately winced; slamming them both shut again.

It was too late though, pain lanced through his skull, like two lightning bolts that entered through his eyeballs before ricocheting around his head. He did the only thing he could in this kind of situation and groaned in pain. The sound added to the bombardment and bounced around his skull, taking time to stop and kick the various creases and lumps of his brain as it did.

The human winced again and instinctively curled in on himself, defending himself from the onslaught, only to find that the attack was from within. As time passed, the human found that if he didn't move, didn't speak, didn't open his eyes, and took very shallow breaths, he didn't hurt. He could happily live the rest of his life like this. He'd had his adventures; he'd survived Earth and made it all the way out to a blackhole where he had personally helped advanced the march of science.

He could rest now. He may only be in his twenties, but he'd lived a good life...

The squeak and hiss of the door to the room that the miserable body was laying in caused the curled-up lump to flinch.

"Oh no..." Spoke a soft lyrical voice. "Is he dead or just dying?" It asked, more curious, rather than concern.

Elliott couldn't acknowledge or even understand the voice and merely lay there. The man hoped that if it was a scavenger or predator, they'd either think he was rotting and leave him alone or perhaps, if he was lucky; the beast would finish him off.

Maruu refrained from shaking his head or rolling his eyes. As a male taurian, it was his duty to be upstanding and always maintain his dignity and honour, even if the only person to perceive him appeared to be incapable of opening his eyes. The taurian's hooves barely made a noise on the cool metal of the laboratory floor as he strode over to the human.

These kinds of event weren't what the taurian was expecting when he had answered the summons for a personal assistant at the end of a galaxy spiral. The scientist who owned the hidden science and research station was a different human, one by the name of Doctor Nough. The human Maruu was current crouched over was the long-time suffering assistant; 'Elliott'. The taurian merely glanced at the strange, jerry-rigged weapon that was mere inches from the human's hands.

Maruu had trained himself on many different subjects, as per expectations of a taurian of his breeding and standing, so he knew first aid and how to triage a patient. A clawed thumb pressed into the soft, flesh cheek below the human's eyes causing the eyelid to reveal eyeball. The veins there were coloured purple. Otherwise, Maruu would have described it as 'bloodshot'.

The taurian sighed in disapproval.

"Drugs now Master Elliott?" Maruu asked with a disapproving tone. Allowing himself a click of the tongue, the taurian flowed upright once more and strutted across the room towards a medical cabinet.

"P-please... have mercy...." Mumbled the human.

The taurian allowed a smile to grace his cheeks as he pulled a container, checked its contents and dosage rates. He plucked the canister that contained all the 'Refresher' doses from the cabinet and began to saunter over to the prone human.

"Mercy? My dear Master Elliott... You will find that a male such as myself as been at the mercy of others many times." Maruu explained slowly, relishing the sudden change of power. Maruu wasn't cruel, but when one is born into a society of brutish women and are sidelined and ignored by society as a whole as it believed the best you were was 'eye candy', one enjoyed the moments that the horns changed heads.

Still, as the male folded himself down next to the human, careful not to crease or pinch the silken dress that hung off him, he took a moment to run a caring hand through the young alien male's hair. It was soft hair, unlike the fur that dominated the galaxy.

Maruu raised the human's sleeve and wiped a spot with a disinfectant before touching the pen-like 'Refresher' to the human's arm. There was a quite 'hiss' and the minute judder from the device as it dispensed a dose. Maruu retreated from the human with haste and stood far enough away that he, or more importantly; the taurian's clothes would not be affected by what came next. Maruu plucked the sidearm that was left next to the human from the ground. It was in what could only be described as a 'splash zone' and it appeared like effort had been put into it.

A 'Refresher' was of taurian design. It would flush a patient's system of anything and everything harmful or potentially dangerous. Poisons, drugs, alcohol? All were rapidly removed and filtered from the patient's bloodstream and into their stomach. After which, the fastest and easiest way to get rid of the unwanted matter?

The curled human made a quick noise as his whole body convulsed once, then twice before he tensed across his whole body as his stomach was released onto the laboratory floor. Maruu merely closed his eyes and suffered both the noise and the smell.

Opening his eyes once more, the tuarian turned the weapon in his hands over. He had never fired a weapon himself but knew not to touch the trigger or point the barrel at anything important like a bulkhead or person. Aside from the grip, trigger, and barrel however, the gun was very much strange. It appeared mechanical at first, like an ancient slug thrower, but the exposed circuit board and wires that connected a screen to the gun where the hammer should have been confused the taurian.

The screen was blinking, waiting for a command prompt. The text above the flashing line was; 'Program Loaded, Execute? Y/N'

"What's this Elliott? Why were you taking esquinine tranquilisers?" Asked Maruu, holding the weapon in one hand, ensuring he didn't touch the trigger.

"Because-Because science waits for no man!" Called a slurred voice from deeper within the lab. From behind a desk, Doctor Nough appeared. Unlike Elliott, the human seemed to be fighting the desire to collapse despite his eyes also showing the extremely bloodshot/purple viens.

Maruu sighed through his muzzle and retrieved another Refresher from the canister and swayed over to the good doctor.

"We... *had to* expand... our... minds... no... Why can I not think?" Demanded the human, holding a hand to his head as the taurian approached.

"Because the drugs are wearing off. For one of the smartest creatures, I've ever met, you are quite... challenged at times." Explain Maruu as Doctor Nough presented his own arm. The poor human looked as if he was on the very edge of crumpling to the floor. Maruu merely reached down and plucked a bin from beneath the desk and handed it to the doctor whilst the taurian slipped away.

Maruu had cared for many female taurians in the past. It was a thankless task, but that was the unspoken duty of taurian males. If not for them, the women would merely be without a guiding hand.

The recovery rate once Refreshers were given was quite a marvel. Within a scant few minutes, both Elliott and Nough were finished wiping their mouths and mobile once more. Once they seemed stable and could answer questions without slurring their words, Maruu presented the strange gun once more.

"What is this and do I need to be worried?" Asked the taurian firmly, crossing his arms and staring disapprovingly at the pair of humans. To their credit they both seemed appropriately chastised. However, both of them seemed to know what the device was, both with equal fear and respect for it.

"So, I do need to be worried." Finished Maruu, briefly touching a set of fingers to his forehead where his own headache was beginning.

"How did... Does it work?" Asked Elliott.

"The drugs... it worked... We did it... But... if it does work... Not only could we easily kill ourselves, one misfire and we could tear a whole world from its orbit..." Doctor Nough immediately responded, quickly assessing the dangers that this apparent doomsday weapon had.

"Doctor Nough... I will not be part of-"

"My dear Maruu, my science is often a question of if I can. Once I have the answer to that question, then comes the moral ones. I have no intention of this existing for longer than today."

Elliott and Maruu both stared at the human doctor who merely sighed and blinked, looking down forlornly at the weapon.

"It must be disposed of into the blackhole. It cannot exist in this galaxy and I sleep with a clean conscious..." Declared the good doctor.

[r/WolvensStories]

[Ko-Fi]

#conservationverse #cuddleverse #human #hfy #haso #humans are space orcs #furry #human x furry #taurian #bull

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rentumblsstuff · 6 months

Text

Back to the NPMD x Monster High AU, a couple more things:

I would like to rescind my Werecat Brenda in favor of Nighthawk Harpy Brenda. Yes, I know I made Kyle a werewolf to parallel Brenda being a werecat but I also have a better offer for Kyle too: Yeti, which is why he still holds a grudge against Max for wrecking his dad’s ski-doo.

I have so many thoughts on Vampire Grace. She was born a normie and is a recently turned vampire (maybe even a vampire hunter that failed on an outing and was turned by her prey). She’s having trouble coping with her religion now that she’s a monster and constantly wears turtlenecks like the one she wears in Perky’s Buds to cover up her bite marks. She tried still wearing her cross necklace as a show of rejecting this new form, trying to embrace the pain of having the cross so close because she thought that loving Jesus even when she’s a form of half-demon would make herself better than other Christians, but it hurt way too badly for her to handle so now she just says she wears it underneath her sweater. Jason was born a vampire and wants to help her through her dysphoria but Grace won’t accept anyone treating her like she’s a vampire (even though she is). She does like the part about eating flesh and drinking blood- it’s what Jesus says to do with himself, so in a way, she’s making everyone she eats a little more Christ-like. That’s her thought process, at least. She also still pretends to be human around her parents and normie best friend Gabe. Gabe may or may not know that she’s a vampire though and wants to seduce her so she can turn him too.

In High School is Killing Me, the lyric is now changed to “Fuck you, biteology.”

Max’s Jekyll form is human (Max), but his Hyde form looks like his ghost (The Jagerman).

Stachie is soooo canon because Richie loves swimming but as a werecat Stacy refuses to get in the water and they feel like their romance is especially forbidden because of it. If Richie didn’t love the water so much, he’d wish he was a werecat too because he also wants to be a pretty little kitty meow meow

Ethan, Lex, and Hannah also went there obviously and Ethan was a ghost á la Jonny Spirit and Lex and Hannah are both spider people. You know tf why lol

Ruth is a lot like Frankie Stein in that she flirts with a lot of people but they Do. Not. Flirt. Back. Rather than solid stripes, her sweater looks more like lightning bolts and the mushroom design is a little creepier than just an Amanita.

A lot of the smoke club are also nighthawk harpies (because they like eating the weed) (including Deb) and so a lot of people assume Brenda is also in the smoke club. She isn’t. Monster high typical speciesism mixed with Hatchetfield High typical bullying regardless of social hierarchy.

The Woodwards are flytraps and that’s why Alice doesn’t smoke- plants don’t do that to other plants. This is often a point of contention between Deb and Alice even though they try to pretend it isn’t an issue

Steph’s secretly embarrassed about her decay so she always makes sure her wraps are FRESH, but the rest of her outfit is always her jagged hand-cut crop tops and ripped jeans. Her decay spread to her scalp and forehead and everyone knows better than to say something about the wraps on her forehead or how she always wears a beanie but Pete accidentally tells her he thinks it makes her look even cooler. Swooning ensues because nobody dares address her flaws, much less say she’s cooler for having them.

Steph secretly wishes Pete had a corporeal form because her love language is physical touch and she’s sad she’ll never be able to hold him. (Kind of like how Cleo is sad she’ll never get to look Deuce in the eyes).

Sophia/Spitfire as a background character fire elemental is a MUST.

The janitor is a crazy man who lives in the catacombs under the school and is possessed by what the student body can only assume is a goat demon and Peter Geist feels weirdly like he knows him.

Rosary as Claire Rosary as Claire Rosary as Claire-

Pete has also died recently as one of The Jagerman’s attacks when he was out of control, and he’s new to the school along with Grace. He’s stuck in this dorky outfit he wore so he wouldn’t get bullied and can never change clothes, but at least he’s impossible to punch unless if another spirit tried to attack him. As opposed to Grace in life, he was very interested in the supernatural (one of his special interests) so he knows quite a bit about monster types but is always hungry to learn more about the new world he found himself un-living in

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stories-and-chaos · 7 months

Text

Shrike: 2582 Days of Purgatory

[Hazbin Hotel reader insert as Alastor’s “darling life and death partner” Ace x ace relationship, both parties are moderately sex favorable.]

[Word count: 2588 Cw: mild cursing, soul deals]

——————

Alastor traded blows and insults with Vox. The screen faced demon launched both electricity and fists at his opponent. Alastor responded with his shadows and dodging the physical blows. His jovial taunts goaded Vox into wilder attacks, fueled by decades of simmering anger.

But some of Vox’s jolts were getting through. Not only did they hurt, they left a numbing sensation whenever they hit. Alastor noticed that the bolts hitting him had another energy added to them. Something subtle, a greenish swirl that blended into the blue of Vox’s lightning. It didn’t belong to anyone he knew, but it added power and aimed the attacks straight at the Radio Demon.

In addition, some of his shadows were enhanced and directed by a reddish power. He saw curving lines and hints of music notes. Something about it tickled his memory but he had too much going on to pursue the thought. He needed to beat Vox down hard enough that the wannabe wouldn’t dare challenge him again (if he didn’t kill him) in addition to defending against this third party.

He launched a mass of tentacles at the other Overlord. They crackled with the extra energy he poured in, sending them faster than before. Just before they hit, Vox retaliated with a column of lightning. Both shows of power were enhanced by whoever was interfering.

It was almost a given that both strikes would hit, with enough force to knock both Alastor and Vox out of their full demonic forms. The television demon changed into a spark to retreat through a drone camera nearby. Alastor called up his shadows, letting them envelope him to make his own way out.

He intended to reform in either his broadcast station or the home he shared with Y/N. Except for the first time in his afterlife, someone was following his shadow. And they were close. He could only put on so much speed after that fight and every twist and turn he made was matched by his pursuer.

Angry and exhausted, he exited the shadows in an area outside of the Pentagram. He used his microphone cane to support himself, determined to appear unflappable.

The other emerged from their own shadows. A tall, statuesque woman, light gold hair flowing in an eternal breeze, dark horns arching in graceful curves over her head. Slightly behind her, revealed as her hair waved, was another woman. She was practically the double of the first, albeit without the horns and a softer, sweeter aura.

Of course, that’s why the magic interfering with his looked so familiar. “Queen Lilith.” Alastor’s voice crackled as he made the effort to remain steady. “To what do I owe the pleasure, your majesty?”

“Alastor.” Her lyrical voice dripped with amusement. “Have you met my dear sister yet? Eve, this is one of our Overlords, Alastor the Radio Demon. Alastor, this is my counterpart, Eve.”

“Ah yes, the Mother of All. A pleasure to meet you my dear, quite the pleasure.” He gave a sharp toothed smile, ignoring the lingering numbness and increasing pain. “Although I doubt you chased me down simply to introduce us, your majesty.”

She gave a refined laugh, Eve joining in. “You did say he was perceptive Lily,” she remarked, coming to stand next to the queen of Hell. Her voice had an identical cadence to Lilith’s, but an octave higher. “We have a proposal for you, Alastor.”

Then she explained what the pair wanted. The ever growing evil that hooked itself into all of humanity, the worsening exterminations and what the first two women intended to do about it. How Alastor was going to play a part. The proposal was really if he was going to be kept in the know about his role.

Cornered between the two of them and the pressure of what was coming, he agreed. Ears laid back, with a snarl in his voice he said, “It’s a deal.” Surprisingly, it wasn’t Lilith that held out her hand to close the deal for his soul.

No, it was Eve, not a demon, not quite an angel, that extended her hand. “Are you certain Eve?” Lilith asked with clear concern.

“Absolutely. You and Luci have taught me a lot; I can handle him. Not to mention you’re going to be occupied for the foreseeable future.” With a sweet smile, she held her other hand out to the demonic queen. “Some of your help would be appreciated however.” Lilith took it and they both focused on the injured Overlord.

The fight and his attempt to race away took more out of him than he realized. Vision blurring, Alastor took Eve’s hand. Instantly, vibrant green vines scrolled around them. Eve’s power? It must have been her messing with Vox’s attacks. Her smile gained an edge as she saw him put the pieces together. It was too late though, the deal was in process. Lilith’s magick, red musical bars, flowed through Eve. The notes fused into the swirling vines, giving them a ruddy hue.

Then, as he had done to so many others, the power formed into chains. Collar and shackles locked around his neck and wrists. The chains latched on, with Eve holding his new leash. She clapped her hands and the bindings became intangible. At the same time, all Alastor’s injuries were healed and his exhaustion wiped away.

“Fuck,” he muttered. Y/N is never going to forgive me for today. First he let Vox provoke a fight, battled until he was forced to retreat, then sold his soul to another. Incoming destruction of existence or not, his wife was not going to be happy with him.

“Best we get started,” Eve said as she turned, spreading her hands to open a portal. “Come along, no time to waste.” Best to put on a good act. Alastor twirled his cane and walked confidently through it.

It didn’t lead to Pentagram City. Or anywhere in the Pride Ring, much less the rest of Hell. This wasn’t Heaven or the living world either.

“Welcome to Purgatory!” the pair said in harmony. “It’s terribly boring here!” Eve added. She was correct; there was a vast spread of nothingness. No buildings or beings as far as he could see. In the distance he could see faint hazes of colors, but that could have just been his imagination.

“The benefit of course being it’s an excellent place to hide,” Lilith added. She took the lead, strolling in a seemingly random direction.

“Really?” Alastor drawled. He expected his voice to echo back, but there was nothing here to bounce sound off of. “I would have thought a realm of nothing at all would make it easier to find someone.”

Eve walked alongside him, easily keeping up. “Ah, but there is an entire realm to look through. A realm that not even the angels know about. Or if they do, they haven’t cared about it for longer than we’ve existed.”

Alastor didn’t know how long they walked for. He did start humming, if only to calm his nerves. But at some point there was a change in the landscape; a modest building about the size of his home on Earth. The faded siding and roof shingles blended into its surroundings. Even if you knew where it was, you’d have trouble noticing it.

“Oh good, I’m getting better at portalling,” Eve said as she skipped ahead to open the door.

“That was much closer than usual dear. Well done.” Alastor followed them inside. He was greeted with an abundance of greenery. Thriving plants were everywhere, their leaves and flowers almost eyeburning after the dullness outside. Was Eve recreating the Garden here?

“You should get going, Lily. You know how he gets,” Eve said wryly as she headed toward the kitchen.

With a sigh Lilith agreed. “May I borrow something a bit less regal? I doubt this will be appropriate.”

“Of course! I’ve raided your closet enough times after all. Would you like some tea, Alastor? Or coffee?”

“Tea would be appreciated, cher.” He followed her as Lilith headed upstairs to change. When Lilith returned, he and Eve were just adding sugar and cream to their first cups. Hell’s queen had exchanged the long dark gown for a lightweight sundress. It was still a deep purple color but much less sumptuous than what she’d had on. Her horns were hidden and she had on a wide brimmed sun hat and dark sunglasses. “Well?”

“You look lovely, your majesty,” Alastor said truthfully as Eve nodded. “You have to keep that one, it just suits you so well,” the other woman added.

Lilith smiled slightly before her expression turned pensive. “I suppose it’s time.” She pulled a phone out of her tote bag and handed it to Eve. “Don’t respond to any messages but forward Charlie and Lucifer’s to the new number please.” With a shaky hand, she removed her wedding ring and placed it in a cushioned box. Eve took that as well, promising to keep it safe.

Holding both the phone and ring box, Eve created another portal in her kitchen. This one had the golden light of Heaven pouring out. Lilith gave Eve a peck on the cheek and said, “Best of luck dears!” with a forced cheerfulness.

Eve settled into her chair and sipped her tea once the portal closed. “She’ll be in touch regularly but we won’t see each other for some time. And we’ve got work to do in the meantime.”

Alastor’s smile turned sardonic. “I’m at your command my dear.”

“Indeed you are.” With that she retrieved a packet of papers. Opening it, she started detailing what needed to be done in a professional manner at odds with her sweet demeanor. After hours of discussion, multiple pots of tea and dinner, she let him retire to a guest room.

‘Guest room’ was probably inaccurate now. There was no telling how long he’d be here. Alastor went through his usual nighttime routine as best he could. The repetitive actions only soothed him so much. He already missed the light banter with you. Niffty’s skittering as she finished little tasks and the soft drone from the bayou. He was a creature of habit in the end and this was so at odds to his norm.

Agitated, he sat awake on the bed. In one hand were the cufflinks you’d given him decades ago. Even clenched in his palm, they were cool to the touch. A soothing breeze that brought to mind the gusts from your wings and your voice lifted in song.

“I’m sorry my dear,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back when I can.” He pressed the hand holding the eighth note shaped cufflinks to his lips and said, “Bonne nuit, cher.”

After a couple weeks, he couldn’t take it anymore. First, this jungle needed at least a bit of taming. Second, Eve just needed some help with domestic tasks. Third, he needed some sense of normalcy. So he summoned Niffty to Purgatory.

It was difficult to call a soul across realms. He felt as tired as he had after that fight with Vox. Niffty, for her part, squealed in joy. She hugged his leg before climbing up to his shoulder. “Alastor! You look messy sir! What happened to you? And where are we? Y/N’s been so worried you know.”

“Ah Niffty, you even make Purgatory brighter.” He gave Niffty a brief overview as he brought her to Eve.

The woman did like the idea of some help around the place, but at his suggestion to send Niffty back to you was met with instant fury.

“Absolutely NOT!” Vines exploded into existence all around her, forming into his chains. A quick tug had the Radio Demon on his knees. His eyes shifted to glowing dials as his antlers grew. But he couldn’t summon his shadow to fight back. He glared up at his captor with equal fury.

Eve gave his chain another tug to haul him up, face to face. All the sweetness in her demeanor was gone. Now she had the aura of an enraged parent, dealing with a stupidly dangerous mistake from her child. “You are forbidden from sending your little maid back or trying to contact your wife in any way. If any hint gets out of where we are, everything we’re working for goes to shit. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?” She bit off each word of the last question with another pull on his leash.

Alastor snarled, “Crystal clear.” They stared each other down for a moment before she released him. He dropped back to the ground, gasping for breath.

“Excellent. Now get to work.” She returned to her coffee and the paperwork for their plan.

With effort, Alastor got to his feet and headed to the room that had been changed to his study. Niffty kept pace with him for once. “Sir?” she asked, the concern on her voice evident as he collapsed in the desk chair.

Alastor took a few deep breaths before replying. “Once this is all over, those bitches are going to pay.”

The following 2,500+ days were filled with the tasks Eve (and by extension Lilith) ordered. Alastor knew why they had him working, but it didn’t make him any less furious at the situation. Niffty took to snuggling up with him on occasion, the little maid being one of the few he was comfortable touching him unprompted.

He wore the music note cufflinks everyday. Not that he had any other sets at the moment, but he needed the tiny fragment of you with him. He spoke to them almost nightly as if you could hear. Eve dutifully forwarded messages to Lilith, who occasionally called for updates and to exchange news.

Then, Lilith’s daughter Charlie left a series of messages that made them shift focus. She wanted to stop the exterminations…by rehabilitating Sinners. She was converting one of the old Morningstar hotels into her facility. She had recruited an infamous porn star to be the first attempt.

She was also adrift, scared, and desperate for her parents approval. Lilith couldn’t respond nor could Eve. They couldn’t contact Lucifer about it. Alastor refused to even touch any modern technology that could put him in contact with someone in Hell. Regardless, he didn’t know Charlie or Lucifer personally.

Yet.

“We’re going to have to send him,” Lilith said on speakerphone. “I know my girl, she’s going to try this with or without help.”

“And what about everything he’s doing here Lily? Are we just supposed to give up on the past seven years?” Eve asked back, clearly frustrated at this unexpected turn.

“Eve, with Charlie meddling in souls and the exterminations, it’s going to throw all our plans into disarray. Whether she succeeds or not, I think this is going to get the fight started.”

Eve sighed. “You’re probably right. Alastor, I’m sending you to Hell. You need to assist Charlie with her hotel and protect her as best you can.”

He couldn’t help lighting up at the prospect. “Gladly my dear. When do I leave?”

“Now.” She opened a portal and the red gloom of Pentagram City bathed her houseplants in its hellish glow. “And Alastor?” He paused at the portal’s entrance. She looked uncomfortable as she continued, “You’re allowed to be with your wife in Hell. But only tell her what we’ve agreed on.”

“As you wish.” With a mocking bow and a twirl of his cane, he stepped through. “Niffty, keep up dear! We’re going home.”

——————

Taglist: @whitewolfsoldat @edgyboi10000 @ch3sire-blu3 @clearly-awkward @badatpunz @bengewatch @chewbrry

A/N: I know there’s a lot of vagueness about what Alastor has been doing but we’re entering the realm of pure speculation on my part.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin fanfic #alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #asexual #asexual alastor #ace representation #asexual reader #acespec #hazbin lilith #hazbin eve #hazbin niffty

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