thethyri

[thethyri]

Yup that's my child, I gave him all his mental illnesses 👍

[thethyri]

KLAUS MIKAELSON The Vampire Diaries

[thethyri]

Drew this shit while listening to the most heartwreaching musics possible. That's god hardest battle right here 🚶‍➡️..

[thethyri]

Ooohh thank yoooouu!! I'm so happy you liked it!

To be perfectly honest, I was thinking of maybe rewriting this first chapter, since it's already two years old and my writing style has changed since then 😅

Though, I'm so easily convinced that now you're saying it's good, I'm thinking that perhaps it is 🥲

Anyway, I'm currently through three quarters of the second chapter and I hope I will be able to finish it very soon so I might post it within the month!

Thank you again <33

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐖𝐮𝐥𝐟𝐰𝐲𝐧𝐧❟ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞❟ ❝ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐟 ❞

𖦹. 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ₊̇*⸼ The day Wulfwynn was cruelly torn from the life she had always known was a crisp day of autumn. When the green leaves of the trees turn brown and the wind grows colder. The day Wulfwynn miraculously stumbled upon Uhtred and his companions in the depths of the woods was a cold day of autumn. When the lakes are blanketed with frost and the fields are bare. And yet, despite the frost and the wounds, Wulfwynn met her destiny that day.

𖦹. 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 *𖧧₊‧ Days and days. Cold night and colder days yet. Days running, fleeing. Fearing for her life. Until God sent her Uhtred and his men.

𖦹. 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐒 ₊̇*⸼ Finan x Wulfwynn of Northumbria (Original Female Character) x Sihtric Kjartansson, Finan x Wulfwynn of Northumbria (Original Female Character) x Sihtric Kjartansson x Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Finan x Wulfwynn of Northumbria (Original Female Character), Sihtric Kjartansson x Wulfwynn of Northumbria (Original Female Character), Uhtred of Bebbanburg x Wulfwynn of Northumbria (Original Female Character), Osferth x Ealhflæd of Cent (Original Female Character), Leofric x Mereswyth of Wessex (Original Female Character).

𖦹. 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 *𖧧₊‧ Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence, Show Divergence, Not Canon Compliant, Not Show Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Show Rewrite, Show Dialogues, Canonical Character Death, Non-Canonical Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Multiple Graphic Descriptions of Wounds, Multiple Graphic Descriptions of Battles And Post-Battles, Blood On Several Occasions, Period-Typical Sexism, Slow Burn, Sexual Content, Mild-Sexual Content, Multiple Graphic Smuts (Ratings Specified In Concerned Chapters), Multiple Non-Graphic Smuts, Protective Finan, Possessive Finan, Finan Needs A Hug, Finan Backstory, Protective Sihtric, Jealous Sihtric, Adorable Sihtric, Sihtric Backstory, Protective Uhtred, Uhtred Is A Little Shit, Soft Osferth, Adorable Osferth, Osferth Backstory, Leofric Lives, Clapa Lives.

𖦹. 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 *𖧧₊‧ Mild-Graphic Description of Bruises And Injuries.

𖦹. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 ₊̇*⸼ 2,912k.

𖦹. 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 *𖧧₊‧ Just so you know, my timeline is just a bit different from the books and show. At first, I had planned to stick to the books' timeline, but it would have made Uhtred (and therefore Finan and Sihtric) too old for Wulfwynn. Well, I speak of Finan and Sihtric but, in the books, Finan's age is not precised (nor is Osferth's) and, as for Sihtric, when he meets Uhtred, he does not know his own age and Uhtred apparently guesses that he's somewhere around 14 years old. The show's timeline encapsulated two books per season, meaning that by season 3, Uhtred would have been between 34-44 years old (yes, because if we follow that logic, it means that each season stretches on a period of time of 10 years, which, you will agree, is clearly not the case). That is why I decided to twist the timeline a bit and rearrange the ages to my own preference. No, about Finan. It is my own headcanon that he is not younger than Uhtred, but just slightly older than him by 3 years. For Sihtric, I wanted him to younger than both Uhtred and Finan (as in the show and books) and therefore closer to Wulfwynn's age but still older than her. Now, about Osferth, in the books we know he is already born when Uhtred spies on Alfred at the age of 10 but it is not precised when he was born. So I just kind of guessed and twisted things again to make him the age I liked when he joined Uhtred. And, for Clapa, to me (in the show, at least, because I have only read the first book at the moment) he was clearly older than Uhtred by, at least, 9 years.

That being said, this story still contains huge age gaps. Uhtred is 16 years older than Wulfwynn, Finan is 19 years older, and Sihtric is 6 years older. Adding to that the gap that already exists between Uhtred, Finan and Sihtric, since Uhtred is 10 years older than him and Finan is 13 years older. In real life, these differences in ages would be quite problematic, but here, we are in a fictional story and as long as these examples are not transferred to real life, it is still acceptable.

Also, I mean to stretch my story from season 3 to season 5 and even perhaps to the Seven Kings Must Die, but I do not know yet. So I will keep a timeline updated in the notes at the beginning of each chapter so you do not lose yourself too much ahah!

𖦹. 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 ₊̇*⸼ 892-895 AD ⵓ 6th November 892 AD - 9th November 892 AD ⨾ Uhtred is 34-37 yo ⨾ Finan is 37-40 yo ⨾ Sihtric is 24-27 yo ⨾ Clapa is 43-44 yo ⨾ Osferth is 29-32 yo ⨾ Wulfwynn is 18-21 yo.

THE VODKAS MENU. + THE SERIE MENU. + CHAPTER TWO. + Archive Of Our Own.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN CIPPANHAMM AND MELKSHAMM, WESSEX, 892 AD.

            Fear. Dread . It crept its way into the heart, maliciously, viciously, its hideous claws jagged, and hooked, burrowing in its throbbing flesh. It gnawed venomously into the guts, tangled into hundreds of hundreds of tightly knitted knots. It crawled malevolently into the lungs, its coarse scales scraping, and into the throat, its rugged tongue scratching. It soaked bitterly into the bones, into the marrow, cold, terribly cold.

            Wulfwynn was devoured with fear. Wrecked with dread. She felt the ache in her limbs, the burn in her lungs. She felt the cold whipping at the crusted scratches that littered her knuckles, her palms, her knees and her muddy heels. She felt the soreness of the swelled bruises that dotted her thighs, her arms and her wrists, her neck and her ankles, and her cheeks. They scattered across her body, mingled with her freckled flesh, scarlet and maroon, melded with her delicate moles, purply and olive.

            Wulfwynn felt utterly terrified.

            Twiddled branches and tangled roots scrapped at her calves and knees as she delved into the depths of the woods. Breathy sobs escaped her chapped lips, while the cold that chilled her lungs licked at the salty tears that soaked her cheeks. The writhed birches swallowed the misty, gloomy skies, engulfed the pallid gleam that shimmered between their leaves. And they’d swallow Wulfwynn too. They'd swallow her whimpers, and they'd choke her with their branches, they’d throttle her with their roots—

            Wulfwynn sobbed panickedly, as she whisked hurriedly between the pines and the bushes, her heart onto her tongue.

            They’d scratch, and scrape, and rasp, and snarl and sneer and—

            A strangled yelp choked in her throat as she stumbled onto a root. She swayed abruptly and fell. Whimpers and whines of throbbing anguish and nauseous panic swirled through the cinnamon and crimson leaves that twirled around Wulfwynn as she hurtled down the muddy hill. And she gasped breathlessly as she slammed into a thick trunk.

            Wulfwynn clutched the bark, chafing her fingers, and wobbled, then rose quiveringly, but rose nonetheless, before her heel slipped in the mud and she tumbled again. She grunted as she fell, and fell, and fell, down the hill, down, down, until she landed into the dirt. Wulfwynn laid into the leaves and the dirt, perhaps an eternity, perhaps an instant, furled and shuddering, her heart throbbing into her temples and her knees and elbows aching.

            But, though she struggled, arose onto her palms. Bitter tears fell from her reddened cheeks, from her chin, onto her scratched, scarred fingers and between her knuckles. And then, a shout resonated through the pines, 

            “Lord !”

            Fear gripped at Wulfwynn’s heart with it crooked claws. She fumbled panickedly with her kirtles and skirts, shuffled and tumbled, and wobblily arose, but fell onto her knees with a frustrated whine. She huffed shakily.

            “Lord !” Wulfwynn prayed. She prayed fervently, as the worried yell swivelled in the chilly whiff. “Are ye— Are ye alright?” She’d have chuckled, but Wulfwynn merely sobbed. “Ye’re— Uhtred !”

            She peered hesitantly and her glance landed onto the cross that dangled before her teary eyes. A heavy huff tickled her cheek.

            “Ye’re alright, lass, ye’re alright,” He murmured quietly as he knelt. She felt his pity, his gentleness and his kindheartedness, and she sniffled. Her heart swelled. “Ye’ll be alright, I promise.”

            Wulfwynn nodded meekly. His soft promise poured onto her sore scratches and scrapes, syrupy and smooth and warm. Her heart seared with a sour tincture of gratitude and lament, with a driblet of reassurance and a splatter of solace. Her glance anchored into umber orbs, tinged with warmth and kindness, and worry.

            “Finan.” A whistle tickled Wulfwynn's guts. “ Finan !”

            “Lord,” Finan startled, as he leapt onto his muddy boots. Wulfwynn shivered as the chill tickled at her neck. "She's hurt, Lord."

            “Hurt?” The Lord —Uhtred, she assumed— inquired, with doubt and incertitude. And a tinge of scepticism. “Quite hurt.” Finan affirmed, and nodded.

            A chiffchaff chirped. “Lord?” Queried a soft murmur. “She indeed seems quite unwell.”

            The Lord’s glance landed unto the salty tears that streaked her cheeks, unto her bruises, and her scratches and scrapes, and she felt oddly, yet agreeably, absorbed into the frosty depths her eyes plunged into. His stare felt cold, but she embraced that cold. She felt queerly reassured, comforted, shrouded into that cold. The Lord hummed quietly. And nodded. Wulfwynn huffed a breath of relief.

            Finan knelt beside her, his knees in the mud, and she felt his warmth caress her as he wrapped an arm around her waist. Wulfwynn grabbed her tattered kirtles, and Finan muttered, “ Jesus .” as he glanced at her legs. She grasped his hand, hers frail and fragile in his callused palm. She grunted with anguish, as she struggled to arise, but her knees buckled.  

            Finan's hold tightened, "Gently, gently." he reassured her softly, "Osferth!" he beckoned with a whistle and a nod. Saddle buckles rattled, leaves rustled and an arm slithered across her back. “Apologies, Lady.” and Wulfwynn uttered a quavery huff. 

            “Gently.” Finan repeated as Wulfwynn arose slowly. “Alright. We’ll get ye onto Sihtric’s horse.” 

            Osferth nodded. He gently took ahold of her elbow, and they strode to the horses. They approached Sihtric’s horse, and Wulfwynn glanced at the silhouette sat astride its saddle, shrouded in furs, as Sihtric’s stare anchored into hers. She felt Finan’s warmth fade when he stepped back and unbuckled his cloak's buckle, before he wrapped the warm, woollen garment around Wulfwynn’s shuddery shoulders. 

            “It’ll keep ye warm.” Finan murmured as he tucked the hood on Wulfwynn's messy, tousled curls and tresses. “Ye’ll ride with Sihtric. Alright?” 

            She nodded. Finan approached the horse and leaned down. He cupped his callused hands, fingers knotted, and Wulfwynn grasped his arm as she hesitantly placed her heel in his palm. "Alright. I'll hoist ye there and Sihtric will get ye, huh?" Wulfwynn hummed and, quite facilely, Finan lifted her. She gracelessly threw her leg across the saddle and, as he told her, Sihtric grabbed her. “Ye’re good?”

            “Good.” Wulfwynn muttered with a nod. Finan’s eyes widened at the hoarseness of her mutter but he nodded nonetheless. 

            He and Osferth hopped back onto their horses. Wulfwynn fidgeted a bit, and grabbed Sihtric's thick, woolly ebony mantle with her fingertips. But he felt it and turned, and gently grasped her wrist before he wrapped it across his chest. 

            Wulfwynn jolted when he softly spoke, “You may hold on.” And, although timidly, Wulfwynn slipped her arms around Sihtric’s waist. Her fingers gripped the crisscrossed leather of his cotte, and her fingertips stroked the fur that flanked its edges. The scents of cinders and smoke, of dust and caked mud and hay tickled her nostrils. Yet she felt oddly soothed as she faintly breathed into the heavy wool. 

            “We ride!” then hailed Uhtred. 

            Wulfwynn’s legs dangled from the horse’s rump, and swayed slightly with his sturdy strides. The muffled thud of hooves as they rustled dead leaves, the snorts of the horses, the chirps of the birds and the warmth of Sihtric's furs cradled Wulfwynn. And slowly, as she fell into slumber, her head lolled and bobbed, and then, settled between Sihtric's shoulders. 

            And Wulfwynn slept, as much as she hadn't slept in weeks.

₊‧𒀭⋆₊

            The noisy hustle and bustle of Wintanceaster was quite pleasant. With the yells of its merchants, as they tempted the villagers with their trouts and lampreys, their hot loaves of oat breads, their goat cheeses, and their turnips and parsnips, and their pears. The bright, merry talks of the villagers. The jolly chuckles and giggles of the children. 

            Wintanceaster was noisy and Finan basked in its noisiness.

            He particularly appreciated this noisiness, as it differed considerably from the howls and yells that engulfed the field. As well as the smells. The scents of mud sodden, thickened with blood, of tangy sweat and barf were, at Wintanceaster, the scents of roasted pork and latterly brewed barley ale that wafted from the taverns. 

            Yet, this bustle hadn't awakened the lass, whose scratched and scraped arms were wrapped across Sihtric's chest, and whose reddened, bruised cheek was squooshed against his back, although she was shrouded with Finan’s hood. But Sihtric wasn’t bothered in the least. 

            “We'll take her to mine." declared Finan, as they strided towards the stables. 

            A snort. "Really? Huh." Clapa chuckled wickedly. He glared at the Dane. "Well, we're not gonna get her to yers, are we?" Finan retorted. 

            “He’d frighten her.” Uhtred sniggered, as he glanced at the giant. Clapa smirked.

            “Frighten her? I’m but meek, sweet and gentle as a lamb, Lord.” He protested, and Uhtred chuckled, “Huh-uh.”

            They approached the stables and alighted from their steeds. Finan felt the soreness in his legs as he neared Sihtric’s horse. He nodded towards Clapa, “Can ye take her?” and the Dane contourned the horse. He held his arms towards the lass, and Sihtric gently peeled her hands from the crisscrosses of his cotte, before Clapa slithered an arm across her back, as she slipped into his arms, and then slithered a hand beneath her legs. “I’ve got her.”

            "Alright." Finan nodded. The muddy strands of straw of the stables crumpled beneath the soles of Sihtric's boots, when he leaped from his horse.

            The lass’ forehead was nestled in Clapa’s neck, and the hood had flopped back a tad from her head. Finan’s glance fell onto the maroon and olive bruises that dotted her cheeks and chin, the scarlet slit that carved in the slope of her nose and the split etched into her plump, chapped lip.  

            He then turned to Osferth, “We’ll need yer balms and herbs.” 

            “Aye.” he nodded and hurried to fetch the leather satchel on his saddle. 

            They then took her to Finan's. He didn't quite considered it— well, considered it what? A haven? His? His haven? Nah, his haven was Coccham. This was but a humble, wooden hut, scarcely adorned, with a bed padded with straw and wool, draped with a few woollen and linen pillows and blankets, and a few furs. A table, scattered with bowls, melted candles and a hutch of trinkets, stood in the corner, with three stools. Light linen sheers flanked the walls, near the bed, while a wooden chest sat beside it, and a bench stood in the corner, near the entrance. 

            Clapa settled the lass onto the bed, with greater gentleness than Finan had hoped, and, with care, Finan unbuckled the buckle of his coat and slipped the wool from the lass' frail, delicate silhouette, before Clapa laid her tousled head onto the pillows. 

            “‘Tis still as modest as it was the last I was here.” enthused Uhtred, as he entered the hut with Osferth and Sihtric. 

            Finan stared at the lass an instant, and then turned to Osferth. He startled and hurried to the table and, amongst the wooden bowls, grabbed the dusty pestle and mortar. He then brought the herbs onto the table from his satchel, and glanced at the sleeper before he took the yarrow. 

            They stared quietly at the monk, as he grabbed the pestle and mashed the dried yarrow into the mortar. He then grabbed a bowl and poured a quaff of his gourd, and sprinkled the dried plant. Osferth then took the bowl and told Finan, “It’ll soothe her body.” 

            Finan took the bowl and nodded. Softly, he knelt onto the bed's edge, and slowly tickled the beverage between the lass' chapped lips. 

            “Then?” Sihtric queried as he neared the table. Osferth took the bowl back. "Then," he mumbled, as he tossed plants in the wooden bowl, and took the pestle, "I'll tend to those scrapes and scratches with chamomile," he grimaced, as though he was scraped and scratched, "and soothe her bruises with nettle." 

            Sihtric glanced at the lass and the frown between her brows. And a tinge of concern tickled his chest. Osferth grinded the chamomile and the nettle in the bowl, and then poured a quaff, “She’ll heal.” he assured, as he approached the bed and settled on the edge. 

            “But she’ll need a while. She’s quite enfeebled.” he murmured softly, and placed the bowl onto the woollen blankets. “But she’ll heal.”

₊‧𒀭⋆₊

            Wulfwynn felt cradled. 

            Shrouded in the softness of the wool of Cynefrith's sleeves across her hips, and swaddled in the warmth of Eadgyth's skirts and kirtles, her legs entangled with hers. She felt utterly well.

            She hadn’t felt well in quite a while. But between Cynefrith and Eadgyth, she felt soothed. 

            Yet, Wulfwynn stirred in her slumber. She nestled her nose in Eadgyth's tangled and tousled tresses, and hummed with contentment when the scents of chamomile tickled her nostrils. She felt Cynefrith’s gentle breath tickle the back of her neck. 

            Wulfwynn sighed with delight. She laced her fingers with Cynefrith’s, and Eadgyth wrapped her arm around them, and cuddled them. 

            And an ache clutched at her chest.  

            Wulfwynn’s brows furrowed. She huddled and clutched Cynefrith's lithe fingers, and snuggled into Eadgyth's neck. But she gasped as her chest tightened. 

            And she sobbed. Whiffs of cinders and embers, of nettle and of dust swamped her nostrils and tickled her guts. She sobbed, and sobbed, as the ache clawed at her heart. 

            Sleep left her, slowly, so slowly it felt an eternity. 

            Her sight remained blurred a moment before she discerned the shutters, and the pale gleams of the morn that crept between them. Then she glanced beside her. But Eadgyth was not there. And when she turned and peered above her shoulder, Cynefrith was not there either. And then, she remembered. 

            The yells, the tears. The lake. The sobs, the pleas. The plains. The blood. 

            Cynefrith was not there. 

            Eadgyth was not there.

            They were not here.

            Wulfwynn whimpered. There was neither Eadgyth nor Cynefrith. There were not their embraces, merely linen blankets and furs. There was not their warmth, just a woollen and straw mattress. They were not there. 

            She sobbed, her hands clutched at her chest. She sobbed, her scraped and scratched knees beneath her chin. She sobbed, muffled into the blankets. She did not hear the squeak of the wooden door and the creak of the boots onto the floorboards. 

            “Lass?” 

            Wulfwynn perked and winced. "Ye're awake, at last." Finan huffed, as the concern that etched his face melted into relief. Wulfwynn's tears trickled from her cheeks and wetted the blankets. Finan approached the bed. 

            “Ye’re alright, lass. Ye’re alright.” he reassured her. But Wulfwynn wasn’t alright. 

            Her lips quivered, “I,” she huffed quietly, feebly, “I fled, but I—” and faltered, “I fled,” 

            “Hey, hey,” Finan neared her, and she felt her heart thump, "I— I fled but I—" she sobbed, "But—" And Finan gently seated at the bed's edge, “Hey, ye’re alright, lass, ye’re alright.” he repeated. “Ye’re fine,” he murmured softly. 

            Alright. She was alright. Wulfwynn nodded. Was she alright? She wasn not quite. But she nodded nonetheless. Her sobs ebbed. She felt, as she had felt with Uhtred, oddly, yet agreeably, comforted and reassured when her eyes anchored into Finan’s. But she felt terribly feeble too. And sore. 

            “Ye shouldn't tire yerself too much. Ye're still weak and ye haven't eaten yet.” he uttered prudently, as though he feared he might frighten her. “Ye’ve slept quite a bit and Osferth has tended to yer,” he swallowed, “wounds.”

            Wulfwynn glanced down at her hands, wrapped in thin strips of linen, folded around her thumbs and knotted in the crook of her palms. The whiffs of chamomile and nettle wafted to her nose when she wiggled her fingers. She noticed she was no longer garbed in her shredded skirts and kirtles, drenched with sweat, sullied with guts and smeared with mud and dust, but a linen shift that smelt of sage. Hence why she had felt so comfortable in her slumber. And she frowned. If she’d been changed, then had they—

            “We haven’t.” Finan assured, halting her thoughts, as though he knew what she was wondering. “Osferth merely tended to the wounds on yer arms and legs. Yer virtue is untarnished. Lord Uhtred's sister and Abbess Hild tended to those he couldn't. And then changed ye.” 

            She nodded shyly. “W-Where,” she licked her lips, “Where are we?” 

            “Wintanceaster, Lady.”

            He stood from the bed and went to the table, in the corner, where there were three stools and, scattered onto the table, dusty baubles and wooden plates, bowls and cups. “Have I,” she straightened slightly and grimaced, “H-Have I slept long?”

            He picked a goblet and grabbed the jug, near a plate in which there were the scraps of a meal. Wulfwynn then wondered if they had remained there while she slept. “About three days. Since we arrived.” 

            “Oh.” she murmured. Finan returned to the bed and handed her the goblet. She whispered her thanks, and wondered if he had heard her, but as he nodded, she thought he must have. She took a sip and felt the soreness of her throat. 

            Then her stomach rumbled.

            Her cheeks dusted with embarrassment and she coughed. She had not eaten but a few berries in days, and had eaten aught but stale bread in weeks. The mere sight of the scraps of a meal had her stomach growl. 

            "Ye must be famished." Finan frowned, as if concerned. He then nodded, as though approving a thought he'd just had. "Alright. I'll get Hild fer ye and we'll take ye to the tavern. I'll be quick." 

            He then turned on his heels and strode out of the hut.

CHAPTER TWO. + Archive Of Our Own.

©TheThyri. All rights content belong to @thethyri​​. Do not repost, translate or plagiarize my works in any way or on any other platform without my permission. Gifs rightfully belong to @dailytlk.

[thethyri]

yours in every way that matters | k.m

⎯⎯“I’ve watched every man you didn’t love try and touch the sun that lives behind your eyes. I’ve smiled through it. Waited. Because I knew one day, you’d look at me the way I’ve always looked at you.”

warnings: best friends to lovers, jealous Klaus,

You feel him before you see him.

Not in the dramatic way people often speak of Klaus Mikaelson—the way the air changes, the way shadows seem to stretch longer under his steps. No. You feel him because you’ve known him forever. Because your body knows the weight of his presence the way a tide knows the pull of the moon.

And right now, it’s pulling.

You’re at the bar, smiling at some guy whose name you’ve already forgotten. He said something about your necklace, the one Klaus gave you centuries ago in a quieter life. You’re not flirting, not really. Just being friendly. Just letting yourself have a night.

But you feel the shift like a quiet breath against the back of your neck. You turn.

Klaus is leaning against the far wall, drink in hand, head tilted slightly like he’s observing a painting he doesn’t quite care for. His lips are curved into the ghost of a smile. Polite. Thin. Controlled.

But his eyes. His eyes are watching.

Not the man beside you.

You.

His gaze trails the length of your bare shoulders, pausing at the charm resting at your throat—his charm—and lingers. It’s not possessive in the crude sense. It’s worse. It’s knowing. It’s the look of someone who’s memorized every inch of you in silence and has never once needed to ask for what he already carries in his chest.

You swallow.

The man next to you says something else, leans a little closer, and your laugh—automatic and distracted—rings too loud in your ears. When you glance back, Klaus is gone from the wall.

You turn—he’s closer.

Leaning beside you now, his shoulder brushing yours, the heat of him bleeding through his shirt like sunlight through thin cotton. His glass clinks softly against the bar top as he sets it down.

“You seemed deep in conversation,” Klaus says, voice like a low hum, smooth as velvet. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

You glance up. He’s not looking at you.

He’s looking at the man.

The other guy chuckles, a little uneasily. “Yeah, we were just talking about her necklace. Said it looked old. I was curious.”

Klaus smiles. “It is old.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that presses just behind the eyes.

“She wear it well, don’t you think?” Klaus says softly, but his hand now rests behind your chair—casual, loose, yet unmistakably there.

“She does,” the guy agrees, then shifts slightly. “Anyway, I should—uh—get back to my friends.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Only then does Klaus look at you.

“I wasn’t flirting,” you say before you can stop yourself.

“I didn’t say you were,” he replies, lifting his drink again, that tight-lipped smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re doing the thing,” you mutter.

“What thing?”

“The watching thing. The saying-nothing-but-still-saying-everything thing.”

He hums, amused. “You know me well.”

“I should. You’ve followed me through three lifetimes and two wars.”

His smile fades, just barely.

“I don’t like when people forget what’s already claimed,” Klaus says, not harsh. Just true.

“I’m not a thing, Klaus.”

“No,” he says, gaze dropping to your lips. “You’re everything.”

Your breath catches.

He sets down his glass. Straightens. Takes a step closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking for declarations or apologies. I’ve waited longer for less. But don’t pretend you don’t feel it.”

Your mouth parts. But no sound comes.

He leans in—not touching, never touching—but so close you feel the warmth of him like a brand.

“You forget,” he whispers, “whose name your soul already answers to.”

Your heart is thudding now. Not out of fear, not even surprise—just that heavy, slow ache that comes when something long-denied brushes too close to truth.

His breath is warm against your cheek. You could turn your head. You could close the space between you. It would be easy—terrifyingly easy.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you exhale. Slow. Steady. Careful, like your ribs are made of glass and he’s the storm that could shatter them.

“I never forgot,” you whisper.

Klaus doesn’t move. He stands so still, it feels like the rest of the world might be trembling just to compensate.

But in his eyes—quiet and burning and impossibly blue—there’s a shift. Something almost like pain. As if the idea that you could ever forget him had lodged somewhere deeper than he meant to let on.

You lean back just enough to see him fully, chin tilted, mouth soft. “I never forgot whose name my soul answers to, Klaus. You just never asked if I’d say it out loud.”

“And if I did?” he says, voice low.

“I might say it back.”

He lets out a slow breath—then moves.

Not to kiss you. Not yet. Just lifts a hand and gently, reverently, brushes a knuckle down the line of your jaw.

“You drive me mad,” he says, quiet. “You always have.”

You laugh—soft, disbelieving. “And you—you just stand there, knowing it. Watching. Smiling like some kind of king who already owns the war.”

“I don’t smile,” he murmurs, “because I’ve won. I smile because I’ve never lost you.”

Your breath hitches.

And for a moment, the noise of the bar fades—the people, the music, the centuries between you. There’s only the two of you, standing in a pocket of time thick with unsaid things.

You step closer, close enough that your shoulder presses against his chest now, steady and solid beneath the linen of his shirt. You feel his breath catch.

“I wasn’t flirting,” you say again, barely a whisper.

“I know,” he replies.

“But if I had been?” you ask, tilting your head.

His gaze sharpens. “I would have let him speak.”

“Oh?”

He nods once. “And then I would’ve looked him in the eye and reminded him—with nothing but a smile—what it means to covet what belongs to a Mikaelson.”

You snort. “Possessive much?”

“Only with you.”

The silence stretches again, this time softer. Wrapped in the warmth of something long-held, long-guarded. And for once, neither of you are running from it.

He shifts his hand, and you don’t stop him when his fingers curl under your chin, lifting your face to his.

“You know,” he says, voice barely a breath, “I could kiss you right now.”

You nod. “You could.”

“But I won’t,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. “Because when I do, I want it to be when you can’t help it anymore.”

“And what if that time is now?” you ask, throat tight.

He stills.

Then, with the ghost of a smile—

“I’d like to see you try and stop yourself.”

You pull away first.

Only just.

A shift of weight, a tilt of your head. Enough to breathe again, though not enough to clear the heat that lingers in the air between your mouths.

He lets you.

He always lets you.

But his eyes stay on yours, unflinching, like he's memorizing the moment—committing it to memory in case you leave it behind.

You reach for a glass of water on the bar, even though you’re not thirsty. Even though your hands feel too warm to hold anything at all. Even though Klaus hasn’t moved a single inch from where he’s watching you like a man who knows exactly what you taste like in every lifetime but has not touched you once in this one.

“So,” you say, casual, testing the air. “You’re not going to get angry? Not going to rip someone’s heart out in the alley out back?”

He hums low in his throat. “Would that impress you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “No.”

“Then no,” he says, coolly. “No hearts tonight.”

“But you are jealous,” you push.

It’s bold, maybe reckless. But he deserves the truth, and you deserve his.

Klaus doesn’t blink.

nstead, he takes one slow step closer again, and the space he fills this time is not physical. It’s heavier. Thicker. Almost unbearable.

“I’m not jealous,” he says, voice calm—too calm. “I’m possessive. There’s a difference.”

You laugh, quick and nervous. “Sure. That’s not worrying at all.”

“You misunderstand me,” he murmurs. “I don’t mean I own you. I mean I was made to find you in every lifetime. And the moment I did, something in me stopped looking. Something in me…stilled. You do not belong to me—but I belong to you.”

The laughter dies on your lips.

He steps closer again. Close enough that your knees nearly touch. That you can smell the faint, ancient cologne beneath his jacket. Amber, leather, night.

“I’ve waited,” he says. “I’ve let you dance around it. I’ve let you laugh and tease and pretend it didn’t hang in the air between us every single time you said my name.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts in—soft, relentless:

“I’ve watched every man you didn’t love try and touch the sun that lives behind your eyes. I’ve smiled through it. Waited. Because I knew one day, you’d look at me the way I’ve always looked at you.”

Your heart is thundering.

You want to run.

You want to stay forever.

You want to say something clever—anything at all—but you can’t breathe past the ache in your chest.

And Klaus, beautiful and ruinous, sees it all. Sees your unraveling and doesn’t move to stop it.

“You’re not ready to kiss me yet,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “But you will be. And when that moment comes, sweetheart…”

His hand brushes your wrist.

“You’ll taste centuries of devotion.”

༊*·˚

You need air.

That’s the excuse you give him, and yourself, when you slip off the barstool and gesture toward the door. He says nothing—just follows. Of course he does. Klaus doesn’t need to ask where you’re going. He already knows he’s part of the destination.

Outside, the air is crisp. Not cold. Just enough to bite the heat off your cheeks, to wake you a little.

The street is nearly empty. A flickering streetlamp above casts its pale golden glow, and in the distance, a drunk couple is laughing—loud and unbothered. You envy them, briefly. Nothing’s chasing them. They don’t burn like you do.

Your steps are slow.

You don’t say anything. You just walk. He’s beside you, hands in his coat pockets, as if he isn’t vibrating with restraint. As if he didn’t just look you in the eyes and say something that split your soul like an old tree.

You speak first, voice quiet.

“Klaus…”

“Mhm?”

His tone is soft. Not pushy. Not smug. Just waiting.

You stop near a railing that overlooks the city. Down below, lights glitter like someone spilled a thousand tiny stars.

You lean against the metal and let the night fold around you.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” you admit.

He stands beside you, shoulder just brushing yours. “You don’t have to do anything.”

You look over at him. “You say that. But I can feel it. All of it. In the way you look at me. The way you don’t look away.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just gives a small, crooked smile. “Would you rather I lied?”

You turn to face him fully now.

“No. Never. I just… don’t know how to carry something like this.”

He leans one hand on the railing, keeping his distance only by a thread.

“You don’t have to carry it. It’s mine. I’ll carry it for both of us, if I have to.”

God. That tone. Like a vow whispered in the ruins of a church. That devastating softness he hides behind centuries of violence.

Your voice cracks.

“But it hurts.”

His jaw tenses—just barely. “I know.”

“And if I take one step closer, I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.”

At that, he tilts his head. His gaze sharpens, but his voice remains calm—almost unbearably tender.

“Then come closer.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing worth it ever is.”

He turns to face you fully now. And when he speaks again, it’s quieter than before—reverent.

“You think I haven’t suffered in silence for years already? Do you think I don’t lie awake at night remembering the brush of your hand or the way you laughed when you didn’t know I was listening?”

Your eyes fill. “Klaus—”

“I know you’re scared,” he says. “But don’t insult me by thinking I’m not. I’m terrified. Because the second I touch you, really touch you—there’s no going back. No pretending. No forgetting. And I will never let go. Do you understand that?”

The wind brushes past.

You don’t speak.

You just look at him—and this time, he sees it. The shift. The breaking point.

he decision.

He doesn't move.

He waits for you.

And that’s when you do it.

You step forward.

Just enough that you feel the gravity of him, that quiet pull Klaus always has, like a tide that never learned to retreat.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. Not because you’re trying to be dramatic—but because anything louder might shatter it.

“I used to tell myself it was nothing. Just friendship. Just… you being you.”

His eyes search yours, careful, reverent.

“But I started avoiding mirrors.”

Klaus’s brow furrows.

You swallow hard. “Because every time I looked at myself, I wondered if you saw me that way. If maybe… maybe I wasn’t just yours in the way friends are. Maybe I was something else. Something you didn’t want to name.”

A breath escapes him—slow, aching.

You keep going.

“I hated that I started dressing differently when I knew you’d be around. Hated how I listened for your laugh in every room. And most of all…” You look down. Then back up. “I hated that you didn’t say anything. That you watched me fall in love with you one inch at a time and never reached for me."

There it is. Cracked open.

All the softness, all the ache.

Klaus doesn’t speak.

He just steps forward too—slow, deliberate—until your chests are nearly touching. Until the silence turns into something humming between your ribs.

And then, with that same devastating calm, he lifts a hand to your jaw.

“Darling,” he breathes, “I didn’t reach for you because I thought I’d ruin it. But now—”

His thumb brushes your cheek.

“Now I’d rather ruin everything than spend one more day pretending I don’t already belong to you.”

And then he kisses you.

No rush. No fury.

Just a long, aching press of lips to lips, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth before the world ends.

And in that moment, it does.

Not with chaos. Not with thunder.

But with the gentlest collapse.

༊*·˚

The kiss doesn’t end.

Not really.

It lingers, drawn out in the hush between two heartbeats, in the silence between inhale and exhale.

His lips are warm and steady against yours, but there’s a tremble in the way he holds your face—like even now, even here, he can’t quite believe you let him have this. That you stepped forward. That you’re still standing.

Above, the streetlamp flickers once, then steadies, casting a soft gold halo around the both of you. The air smells faintly of rain, of something waiting. But here, inside this small circle of light, time has folded itself quiet.

Klaus doesn’t press harder. He doesn’t deepen the kiss like some greedy thing.

No, he just… stays.

Like he’s trying to write a poem with his mouth.

Like he’s terrified the moment will disappear if he moves too fast.

Your hands rise slowly, one brushing against his chest, the other ghosting up toward the back of his neck. And he exhales—just a shaky sound in the hollow of your throat, as if the feel of your touch undoes him more than anything else.

Because this wasn’t just a kiss.

This was surrender.

His forehead rests against yours when you finally part, and neither of you says anything.

Because what could you say?

The quiet is so full.

So alive.

Like the whole world has its breath caught in its throat, waiting to see what happens next.

His thumb draws one final stroke across your cheek, gentle as a memory.

You’re the one who whispers first.

“…You’re shaking.”

He lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’ve no idea.”

And then he kisses your forehead. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s sealing something ancient between you.

“I would’ve waited forever,” he murmurs. “But thank God I don’t have to.”

[thethyri]

I've been waiting | k.m

⎯⎯ Carries them like a secret, like a promise, like a goddamn artifact. Something to remind him that even if you think it was nothing, he knows it was everything. That even if your lips say you’re over it, your body never lies.

warnings: kinda smut, 18+

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was one night. That whatever he’d taken from you—your breath, your sanity, your name spoken like a prayer half-burned—was long gone by now. Forgotten.

Because men like him always forget. They have empires to burn, thrones to protect, centuries to carry like ghosts in their lungs. You were just a girl who touched him once. Just hands. Just hips. Just heat.

Just nothing.

That’s what you told yourself when he stopped calling. When days passed without a flicker of him. When the silence bloomed sharp and cruel inside your chest and you started to believe maybe… maybe you were just a story he folded away.

Maybe he’d already taken what he wanted and moved on.

But Klaus Mikaelson doesn’t move on. Not when it comes to what’s his.

Not when it comes to you.

And you don’t know it yet—but he kept something. Not a memory. Not a photo. Not your perfume on his skin or your voice echoing in his head at three in the morning.

No. He kept your panties.

Pressed between the pages of a book he doesn’t let anyone touch. Tucked behind wards in a drawer no one dares open. Wrapped in the scent of you and the memory of your shaking thighs, the gasp in your throat when you gave in and let him ruin you.

He carries them sometimes.

Carries them like a secret, like a promise, like a goddamn artifact. Something to remind him that even if you think it was nothing, he knows it was everything. That even if your lips say you’re over it, your body never lies.

You feel it again when he enters the room weeks later, like no time passed at all.

Like the air knows him. Like you do.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He never is.

He just walks up to you at some crowded gallery opening you came to escape your own mind. A glass of wine trembling in your hand. A stranger on your arm trying to talk about brushstrokes, unaware he’s already become prey.

And Klaus—

Klaus doesn't even glance at the boy beside you. His eyes are on you. Only you.

He leans in, close enough that only you can hear, and murmurs—

“Still sleeping in my shirt, love? Or did you move on to something else I touched?”

You freeze.

Your throat goes dry.

Because you are. You are sleeping in his shirt.

And he knows it.

His voice brushes against your jaw like the back of his knuckles used to. And he whispers, slow:

“I didn’t forget you. I chose not to come back… yet. There’s a difference.”

You can’t breathe. Not with the weight of him that close, not with the heat of him still coiled in your blood like a spell.

And then—then, he slides something soft and wicked into your hand, curled so carefully no one else can see.

You don’t need to look.

You already know what it is.

The panties you left behind. The ones he folded and kept like a prayer. Like a possession.

His voice curls like smoke in your ear.

“I carry them with me,” he says. “Like a reminder. Like a promise. Because you’re not something I got out of my system, sweetheart. You’re something I let in.”

And you realize something that unravels you like silk:

He never let you go.

༊*·˚

You tell yourself it won’t happen again.

That what he slipped into your hand that night—those delicate, dark scraps of silk you once left behind in the heat of a too-fast goodbye—was just a trick. A flourish. An attempt to rattle you.

But the truth is, it worked.

You keep them in the drawer now, those panties. Like they’re haunted. Like they hum.

And the worst part?

You touch them.

Sometimes you touch them with trembling fingers and remember how you felt that night—how he said your name like it was already carved into him. How he didn’t ask you to stay, but still made you feel like you belonged nowhere else but tangled in his sheets.

You remember the reverence.

The grip of his hands on your hips. The way he looked at you, like you were something holy. Something his.

And eventually, you stop pretending you don’t want it again.

So you go to him.

You don’t text. You don’t call. You show up, because you know that’s what he likes best.

Rain is falling when you do. So cliché it’s almost laughable, but the sky seems to know something about surrender.

His door opens before you knock.

Like he knew.

He always knows.

He doesn’t say a word at first. Just stands in the frame, shirt undone, chest bare like a threat. Like a temptation.

You say his name.

He doesn’t answer it. Doesn’t need to.

Because you’re already stepping inside. Already unbuttoning your coat. Already letting him see what you came for.

Him.

And when his hands finally touch you—slow at first, like rediscovering a painting he used to study with fever—your knees nearly buckle.

“I knew you’d come,” he whispers against your shoulder. “You were never going to forget me. Because I never left you.”

His lips find the side of your throat, tongue tasting the pulse you can’t control.

“And you’re not here for closure, love. You’re here because you miss the way it felt when someone worshipped you.”

And he’s right.

You want to be worshipped.

And god, he does. On his knees. In his bed. In every breath he takes while his fingers slide under your skirt like it’s still that first night.

You tell yourself it’s the last time.

But he already knows better.

༊*·˚

You don’t remember moving.

Only that now, somehow, the air between you is gone. That your back hits the wall with a sound too soft to echo. That his palm braces beside your head, knuckles grazing the crumbling plaster like he’s doing it gently—for your sake.

He’s not touching you.

But his body is so close you can feel the shape of it in your breath. The warmth radiating off his skin. The tension carved into every inch of him.

“Do you think I forgot?” Klaus asks, voice low, dangerous, intimate.

You can’t answer. Not with words. Not with the way his eyes hold you still like a storm about to break.

“Do you think I ever stopped remembering?” he murmurs, tilting his head. His mouth is close to your cheek now, but not touching. “The sound you made when you came that first time. The way your fingers dragged down my back like you couldn’t stand the thought of letting go.”

His words shouldn’t make your legs shake. But they do.

Your throat tightens. “You didn’t say anything. After.”

He hums, soft. A dangerous kind of soft. “I didn’t need to.”

“You let me leave,” you say, voice sharp with all the things you never let yourself feel. “You made it seem like it meant nothing.”

Finally, his eyes flash. “No, love. You convinced yourself it meant nothing.”

And then — then — he touches you.

A single knuckle under your chin, tilting your face toward his like you’re something he’s about to taste, not claim. And yet you already feel owned.

“You think I could fuck you like that and forget?” he whispers.

His hand slides to your neck, not gripping, just holding — like he’s checking your pulse. And he feels it. Rapid. Unsteady. Wanting.

“I kept those panties,” he says. “Not to remember the night. But to remember you. To keep the scent of you. The ghost of you. Because you haunt, darling. You live beneath the skin. You crawl under the ribcage and stay.”

He leans in. Breath on your jaw. Nose against your temple. His other hand finds your waist, dragging slowly up your side, not with lust — with reverence.

You could cry from the way it feels. Like he’s trying to memorize your shape again, just in case the stars steal you away.

“I wanted you to come back,” he says, voice breaking just slightly. “But I knew you wouldn’t. Not until you missed the way I touched you more than you feared what it meant.”

You whisper, “And what does it mean?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look.

“That you’re mine,” he says, finally. “And that I will ruin every man you try to love after me.”

Your fingers dig into his shirt. You pull. He presses his forehead to yours like a prayer.

Rain still beats against the windows.

And then — he leads you to the bed. Slow. Deliberate. Like you’re something to be carried, not taken.

And once you're there—his fingers on your thighs, your neck, your hips, your lips—he doesn’t ask again. He doesn’t need to.

You already said yes the moment you came back.

The moment you reached for the drawer and touched what he left behind.

You think it’ll be like last time.

Fast. Fevered. Forgotten by morning.

But Klaus touches you like there’s nothing else to do in the world.

No agenda. No rush. Just you, unraveling.

And him—watching it happen like it’s divine.

His fingers don’t fumble. They revere. They memorize. They press reverently into the dip of your back, the curve behind your knee, the fluttering skin at your hipbone where your breath stutters.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, mouth trailing along the slope of your shoulder, “what it’s done to me—having only the memory of you. I’ve had to live on echoes.”

You whimper when his lips find the hollow at your throat. It feels like a promise. Like he’s blessing the place he’s about to ruin.

He lifts his head, and for a moment—just a moment—there’s something raw behind his eyes. Not hunger. Not pride.

Longing.

“I dreamt of this,” he admits, almost to himself. “Of touching you again. Of undoing you again. Slowly this time.”

His fingers brush over your ribs, as if feeling for the cage that holds your heart. “I want to know what makes you break. And I want to be the only one who ever gets to do it.”

You try to speak—his name, a warning, a plea—but it falls apart when his palm spreads across your belly and anchors you to the mattress like you’re a storm he intends to weather.

“You’re so soft,” he says against your skin. “So goddamn warm. Do you have any idea what it did to me, walking around with a piece of you in my pocket, and not being able to touch the rest of you?”

He leans in, kisses the center of your chest like a prayer, like a bruise he’s sorry for. “I don’t just remember how you sounded. I remember how you shivered when I first said your name in the dark.”

His hands slide lower.

“You still do.”

You’re already trembling. You don’t know if it’s from the anticipation or the ache or the simple unbearable way he looks at you.

Like you are rare.

Like he’s found something holy in a world he long stopped believing in.

His thumb brushes your cheek. “You came back,” he whispers.

And for a moment, all the swagger, all the smirk—all of him—goes quiet.

“I didn’t think you would.”

You reach up, fingers ghosting over his jaw, into his hair. “Neither did I.”

He kisses you then.

But not hard.

Not like last time.

This kiss is slow. This kiss is ruinous.

This kiss is the kind that brands. The kind that breaks a promise made to someone else. The kind that lets him in.

And you do.

You let him in.

Not just under your clothes, but under your skin. Under your ribs. Under every lie you told yourself about what this wasn't.

Because the truth is—

He never needed to ask you to stay.

You were always going to.

༊*·˚

It’s quiet now.

The kind of quiet that only comes after something sacred has happened. Your breath still trembles. His doesn’t. He’s too steady. Too still. Like he’s been waiting a century to feel this again and now he’s terrified it will end.

The air smells like skin and rain and something sweeter. Something warmer. You don’t want to name it.

His fingers trail lazily down your spine, as if he doesn’t want to wake you—but he also doesn’t want to stop touching you. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He lies beside you, arm tucked beneath your ribs, gaze set on you like you’re an answer to a question he’s always been afraid to ask.

You try not to look. But then you do. And it breaks you a little.

Because it’s not lust in his eyes.

It’s ache.

It’s reverence.

“I should go,” you whisper, already hating the sound of your own voice.

He doesn’t blink. “Then why are you still here?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know.

Or maybe you do.

Because you miss the way his hands made you feel kept. Because you miss being wanted like that. Worshipped like that. Looked at like that.

Because no one else has ever looked at you like that.

He props himself up slowly, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he says softly.

Your breath catches.

“You think you were a night to remember.” His eyes flick down to your mouth. “But love… I haven’t let you go since.”

You open your mouth—to deflect, to deny—but his hand wraps gently around your jaw, thumb under your chin.

“Do you know how many times I reached into my coat pocket and found you there? A scrap of silk. A breath of sin.” His voice drops lower. “Do you know how many times I missed you when I had no right to?”

He leans closer.

“You think you were a mistake. But I think you were mine.”

Silence.

And then—

“I’m scared,” you whisper. And it tastes so bitter in your mouth, so raw, like truth ripped from bone.

He exhales. The sound is almost a laugh. Almost a sigh.

“So am I.”

His forehead touches yours. His hand splays across your stomach, like he’s grounding you, or himself, or maybe both.

“But I’d rather be scared with you than live another day pretending I don’t already belong to you.”

You feel it then.

Not just the aftermath of touch, but the ache of meaning. The bloom of something that shouldn’t be allowed to exist—this deep, this fast, this fierce.

And you’re still trembling, but this time not from the rain or the cold or the shame.

This time, you tremble because you know it’s real.

And so does he.

He doesn’t ask you to stay.

He doesn’t have to.

Because you do.

the freakyness has been matched again.... you're welcome😜

[thethyri]

🦧 blushing when I see the 17 meter tall stinky monkey who is gonna stomp me like an ant ☺️

[thethyri]

thief | k.m

⎯⎯“You live in my veins,” he murmurs, one hand ghosting down to where she’s already soaked. “Every time I walk into a room you’ve touched, I feel it. Every time I breathe in, I wonder if it’s your scent, or just the memory of it.”

warnings: smut, 18+, he is a pantie sniffer, he is a freak

The door shuts softly behind her—just a whisper of sound—and Klaus is left alone in the hush of her room. The air still holds her warmth, that elusive scent that clings to her clothes, her sheets, the skin of his own hands. He swears he can feel her presence in the dust motes floating in the sunlight.

He doesn’t mean to linger. Not truly. Not like this.

But there’s something magnetic about the chaos she leaves behind—shoes kicked off under the edge of the bed, a sweater slung across the chair, the delicate lace of her panties folded over the corner of a drawer she forgot to close.

A breath catches in his throat.

They’re pale, soft, touched by lavender detergent and something unmistakably her. Still warm, maybe. Still clinging to the ghost of her.

He steps closer.

Fingers hover, hesitating. Not because of shame—he has none. Not with her. But because the moment feels too fragile. Too precious. As if the wrong movement might shatter it.

He picks them up, reverently. Like relics.

The lace is nearly sheer between his fingers, featherlight, and he brings them to his face without thinking—only instinct, only hunger, only the kind of madness that comes with obsession too long denied.

He inhales.

God.

The growl that rumbles from his chest is low, nearly inaudible, but raw with need. A sound not meant for any ears but hers.

The scent of her drives straight through him, devastating and familiar. He sways slightly where he stands, eyes fluttering closed, breath catching on the back of a groan. His grip tightens. He presses the fabric closer, nuzzling it against his mouth, then lower, burying his face in it like a sinner at the altar.

He’s not proud. He doesn’t need to be.

She’s in everything now. In his mouth, in his lungs, in his bloodstream. Every soft breath of her through the cotton and lace sinks deeper into his bones.

His free hand falls to the waistband of his trousers.

Fingers slip beneath the fabric. A sharp hiss escapes through his teeth.

He strokes himself slow, lazy, lost in the sensation, the scent, the image of her wearing them—legs bare, smile sleepy, body warm from sleep. Or better—panting, flushed, straddling him, nails in his chest and whispering his name in that hushed, ruined voice she only ever uses when she's close.

His rhythm stutters.

He chokes her name into the fabric and grips tighter.

And he doesn’t hear the door creak open behind him.

༊*·˚

The hallway is quiet. Too quiet.

She pushes the door open with a soft creak, stepping back into her room with the intent of grabbing her forgotten phone or maybe that book she meant to take with her. But the sight that greets her stills her completely, freezing her mid-step.

Klaus.

Back turned to her. Shoulders tense, hips shifting with a slow, unmistakable rhythm. His head bowed. One hand buried between the folds of her panties and his face—God, his face—pressed against the lace like it’s something holy.

And his other hand…

She blinks.

Oh.

There’s a slow rush of blood to her cheeks. To her neck. Between her thighs. A quick pulse of heat that steals the air from her lungs before she can decide whether this is appalling or fascinating.

She should say something. She should stop this.

But she doesn’t.

Not yet.

She lingers in the doorway, heartbeat thudding in her ears, breath caught in her chest, watching him come apart on the scent of her. It’s so unlike him—so utterly him—this raw, indulgent need made reverent. Like even in his filthiest moment, he worships.

It’s only when his name leaves her mouth, dry and laced with something dangerous, that he startles.

“Klaus…” she murmurs, voice slicing through the stillness. “What exactly are you doing with those?”

He jerks like she’s slapped him—shoulders tightening, hand withdrawing, mouth parting around a curse that never makes it out.

For a beat, he says nothing. Just stands there, caught. Disheveled. Undone in a way she’s never seen.

“I—I didn’t hear you come in,” he mutters, dropping the panties like they’ve burned him, though the damage is already done. His cheeks are flushed, lips damp, hair slightly mussed from where his hand had been threading through it just moments ago.

He tries to school himself. Straightens. Clears his throat.

But his eyes won’t meet hers.

And that’s how she knows she’s won.

“Oh,” she says, drawing out the word like honey, stepping into the room with deliberate slowness. “So the mighty Klaus Mikaelson can be flustered. Interesting.”

He growls low in his throat, but there’s no venom in it. Just frustration. With himself. With her. With the impossible, damning ache still straining against the front of his pants.

“You weren’t meant to see that,” he grits out, voice raw.

“And yet I did,” she hums, arms crossing lazily over her chest, like she isn’t the least bit bothered. Like she isn’t completely, deliciously aware of how much power she holds in this moment.

She tilts her head. Smiles slow.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to get caught.”

“I’m not,” he snaps, then curses again—quieter this time. He runs a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged thing. “Bloody hell…”

She laughs then, soft and dangerous, and steps into his space. Close enough to see the shame and heat battling in his eyes. Close enough to smell herself still clinging to the air between them.

“Next time,” she whispers, fingers brushing over his chest, “just ask for a pair. I might let you watch me take them off.”

He chokes on air. Physically chokes.

༊*·˚

He doesn’t remember pulling her down onto the bed, only the sound she made when he flipped her onto her back—a sound that burned through his spine like gunpowder meeting flame.

And now he’s above her. On his knees, breathing hard, staring down like she’s something divine and terrifying.

His shirt is gone. Hers too. The discarded panties lie somewhere on the floor, forgotten, but Klaus still smells her everywhere—still feels the ghost of her soaked into the fabric, into his bloodstream.

“You don’t understand,” he says again, voice rasped and low, reverent as a prayer and raw as a wound. “You think this is just about lust.”

She tries to speak, but he cuts her off with his mouth on her ribs, dragging open-mouthed kisses up her torso, his hands cradling her hips like she might vanish if he isn’t careful.

“It isn’t,” he breathes against the swell of her breast. “It’s madness.”

His tongue flicks against her nipple, and she gasps, hips rising into him—but he doesn’t give her what she wants. Not yet. He drags it out, tracing slow circles with his tongue, fingers spreading her thighs apart until she’s trembling beneath him.

“You live in my veins,” he murmurs, one hand ghosting down to where she’s already soaked. “Every time I walk into a room you’ve touched, I feel it. Every time I breathe in, I wonder if it’s your scent, or just the memory of it.”

She moans when he dips down and licks her—one slow, luxurious stripe that makes her back arch off the sheets. He doesn’t stop. Not even close.

Klaus latches on like a starving man. Obsessive. Desperate. He devours her with tongue and lips and fingers, like he can’t bear the space between them. She tries to pull him up, tries to beg for more, but he won’t be rushed. Not yet.

“This is mine,” he growls, voice muffled against her. “Every inch of you—mine.”

She falls apart on his mouth once, then again when he adds his fingers—curling inside, working her open, wringing moans from her like sacred music.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth and chin are slick with her, and his eyes are blown wide and wild.

“You still think I was ashamed?” he asks, reaching for her, lining himself up.

She shakes her head, breathless. “No. Not anymore.”

“Good.”

He thrusts into her in one long, aching slide. Her mouth drops open but no sound comes out—only a gasp, and then his name, over and over again like a litany.

“Klaus—Klaus—”

He buries his face in her neck, her shoulder, her hair. Anything that smells like her. He ruts into her with slow, deliberate strokes, hips rolling, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. One hand pins her wrists above her head, the other never stops touching her, worshiping her skin, her hips, the curve of her waist, like he has to memorize her with every pass.

She’s everywhere. All at once.

And he is ruined by her.

When she comes again, clenching around him, he follows, mouth open in a soundless groan, her name broken and reverent on his tongue.

They don’t separate. Can’t.

Because Klaus doesn’t stop needing.

He stays buried inside her, forehead against hers, panting, murmuring things only she hears. Obsessions. Promises. Prayers.

༊*·˚

The room is silent but for their breathing—shaky, uneven, and shared like it's all they have left to give one another. Klaus hasn't moved. He’s still inside her, buried to the hilt, arms wrapped tight around her body like if he lets go, she’ll slip out of existence.

She shifts beneath him, gently, and he groans like it's pain and pleasure in one breath.

“I can’t…” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips grazing her cheek, “I can’t pull away from you. Not yet.”

She doesn’t ask him to. Instead, she runs her fingers through his curls, the same ones she’d pulled hours—minutes?—ago. He leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed like a beast sedated by affection.

“You really meant it,” she says softly. “About the scent. The… wanting.”

Klaus lifts his head. His eyes, still dark and glassy, find hers. “I crave you,” he says. Not lustfully now, not wickedly—but honestly. It’s a confession more than anything else. “In ways that make me feel like I’ve been cursed.”

She laughs softly, breath hitching. “Is that what I am to you? A curse?”

“No.” He shakes his head, kissing her temple. “A need. A fire. A sickness. A religion.”

His thumb brushes her lower lip, still swollen from his kisses. “It doesn’t go away when you leave a room. It doesn’t fade when I try to sleep. You’ve… invaded everything.”

She blinks up at him, and something in her chest flutters dangerously.

“I’m not ashamed of what you saw,” Klaus adds, quieter. “Only that I couldn’t help myself. But I would do it again. I will.”

Her brows lift, teasing. “You planning on stealing more underwear?”

His mouth twitches at the corner—just the ghost of a smirk. “I don’t need to steal what you’d give me freely.”

She leans up and kisses him, slow and indulgent, and the silence that follows is warm this time. Filled with the soft shift of limbs, the slide of skin on skin as they curl into one another. He kisses her shoulder. Her neck. Her collarbone. Not to seduce—but to worship. To remember.

His voice hums low near her ear. “You smell like home. You taste like sin.”

And her fingers, still tangled in his hair, give a gentle tug.

“Then stay, sinner.”

And he does.

everybody say thank you anon!!! 🤍

[thethyri]

Klaus and Caroline being true comedians, pt.2

[thethyri]

The Vampire Diaries: Klaus and Caroline

Season 3, Episode 15 | "Isn't she stunning?"

[thethyri]

GAME OF THRONES (2011–2019) 07.06 Beyond the Wall

[thethyri]

Legend of Ruyi + Ruyi

[thethyri]

SAS: Rogue Heroes 2.2

[thethyri]

[thethyri]

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐓𝐡𝐲𝐫𝐢'𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫 !

So! A while ago, I created a Discord server but I've been pretty bad at 'promoting' it. Also, I don't know why but the invitation keeps expiring after 7 days even though I keep changing the parameters for it to never expire. Let's hope this time it's an eternal link. Anyway! The server is The Guild Of Dragonlings. The inspiration obviously comes from HotD and ASOIAF but it doesn't mean the server is exclusively reserved for G.R.R. Martin's world, no no! ⊂(・▽・⊂) You're free to come and discuss and share about all the fandoms you want. Whether it is animes, mangas, TV shows, films, videos games, books or whatever, you're welcome! You can come to share, discuss, thirst, even promote your own projects! (•̀ᴗ•́)و

So, if you want to, you're very much welcome to come and join me! THE GUILD OF DRAGONLINGS DISCORD SERVER

[thethyri]

𝐓𝐆𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐁𝐖❜𝐬 𝐎𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

THE SERIE MENU. + THE MEADS MENU. + Archive Of Our Own. + French Ver. + The Dragonlings Server. ₊‧ 

Houses in orders of appearance per chapters and characters listed per orders of appearance by chapters.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. HOUSE CELTIGAR. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Meleri Celtigar. ⤐ Appears in chapter one.

𖦹. HOUSE MALLERY. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Adeline Mallery. ⤐ Appears in chapter one.

𖦹. HOUSE STAUNTON. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Mathylde Staunton. ⤐ Appears in chapter three.

𖦹. HOUSE SUNGLASS. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Morgelyn Sunglass. ⤐ Appears in chapter three.

𖦹. HOUSE BAR EMMON. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Denice Bar Emmon. ⤐ Appears in chapter three. ⤝ Ser Samn Bar Emmon.

𖦹. HOUSE HARTE. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Margot Harte. ⤐ Mentioned in chapter seven. ⤝ Lady Dovelia Harte.

𖦹. HOUSE BRUNE OF BROWNHOLLOW. ₊̇* ⤝ Ser Andren Brune of Brownhollow. ⤐ Mentioned in chapter seven.

𖦹. HOUSE ROSBY. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Dominic Rosby (unnamed canon). ⤝ Lady Emelyne Rosby née Cressey. ⤝ Lady Bernyce Rosby (unnamed canon). ⤝ Lord Cedric Rosby (unnamed canon). 

𖦹. HOUSE BUCKWELL. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Emmett Buckwell. ⤝ Lady Megane Buckwell née Hogg. ⤝ Lady Elisha Buckwell. ⤝ Lady Briannel Buckwell. ⤝ Lady Adrielle Buckwell. ⤝ Lord Darrin Buckwell. ⤝ Lord Alfred Buckwell.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. HOUSE SWYFT. ₊̇* ⤝ Ser Edryd Swyft. ⤐ Appears in chapter one.

𖦹. HOUSE MARBRAND. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Aline Marbrand. ⤐ Appears in chapter one.

𖦹. HOUSE LEFFORD. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Alissa Lefford. ⤐ Mentioned in chapter one. ⤝ Lady Cassidy Lefford. ⤐ Appears in chapter three. ⤝ Lord Marq Lefford. ⤝ Lady Agnes Lefford née Kyndall. ⤝ Ser Lyman Lefford. ⤝ Lord Leonald Lefford. ⤝ Ser Oscar Lefford. ⤝ Lady Jayne Lefford née Serett. ⤝ Lady Cecily Lefford. ⤝ Lord Humfrey 'The Younger' Lefford.

𖦹. HOUSE KENNING OF KAYCE. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Eliane Kenning of Kayce. ⤐ Appears in chapter three.

𖦹. HOUSE REYNE. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Celesse Reyne. ⤐ Appears in chapter three.

𖦹. HOUSE FOLLARD. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Alise Follard. ⤐ Appears in chapter three. ⤝ Ser Landor Follard.

𖦹. HOUSE YARWYCK. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Cedrick Yarwyck. ⤐ Appears in chapter five.

𖦹. HOUSE HETHERSPOON. ₊̇* ⤝ Ser Alfred Hetherspoon. ⤐ Appears in chapter five.

𖦹. HOUSE BRAX. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Maxir Brax. ⤝ Lady Ellen Brax née Kenning of Kayce. ⤝ Lord Roberd Brax. ⤝ Thomar Brax.

𖦹. HOUSE MARBRAND. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Samson Marbrand. ⤝ Lady Lilyanna Marbrand née Tarbeck. ⤝ Lady Leonora Marbrand. ⤝ Lady Marcella Marbrand. ⤝ Lady Dorothea Marbrand. ⤝ Lady Alycia Marbrand. ⤝ Ser Quenten Marbrand. ⤝ Lord Benjamin Marbrand.

𖦹. HOUSE LANNISTER OF CASTERLY ROCK. ₊̇*

𖦹. HOUSE LANNISTER OF LANNISPORT. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Tywald Lannister of Lannisport. ⤝ Lady Belinda Lannister of Lannisport née Doggett. ⤝ Ser Lancel Lannister of Lannisport. ⤝ Lady Darla Lannister of Lannisport. ⤝ Ser Tywell Lannister of Lannisport. 

𖦹. HOUSE LANNISTER OF DARRY. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Cerion Lannister of Darry. ⤝ Lady Estrella Lannister of Darry née Drox. ⤝ Lord Tybold Lannister of Darry. ⤝ Lord Tommen Lannister of Darry. ⤝ Lady Serina Lannister of Darry. ⤝ Lady Jessica Lannister of Darry. ⤝ Lady Melona Lannister of Darry.

𖦹. HOUSE LANTELL. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Tybolt Lantell. ⤝ Lady Shella Lantell née Lydden.

𖦹. HOUSE LANNY. ₊̇* ⤝ Ser Gerold Lanny. ⤝ Lady Lellia Lanny.

𖦹. HOUSE CRAKEHALL. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Eduard Crakehall. ⤝ Lady Vivianne Crakehall née Peake. ⤝ Lady Krystine Crakehall. ⤝ Lord Clarent Crakehall.

𖦹. HOUSE VIKARY. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Alyce Vikary.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. HOUSE TARTH. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Amille Tarth. ⤐ Appears in chapter one.

𖦹. HOUSE SWYGERT. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Delanie Swygert. ⤐ Appears in chapter one.

𖦹. HOUSE ESTERMONT. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Lucinda Estermont. ⤐ Appears in chapter three. ⤝ Lord Edmond Estermont. ⤐ Appears in chapter five.

𖦹. HOUSE SWANN. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Margot Swann. ⤐ Appears in chapter five.

𖦹. HOUSE MORRIGEN. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Denice Morrigen.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. HOUSE HIGHTOWER. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Elyse Hightower. ⤐ Appears in chapter one. ⤝ Lady Monira Hightower. ⤐ Appears in chapter seven.

𖦹. HOUSE FLORENT. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Sofie Florent. ⤐ Appears in chapter one.

𖦹. HOUSE TARLY. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Malissa Tarly. ⤐ Appears in chapter one.

𖦹. HOUSE WEBBER. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Selina Webber. ⤐ Mentioned in chapter three.

𖦹. HOUSE REDWYNE. ₊̇* ⤝ Ser Elliott Redwyne. ⤐ Mentioned in chapter five.

𖦹. HOUSE OAKHEART. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord John Oakheart (unnamed canon). ⤝ Lady Jeyne Oakheart née Cuy. ⤝ Lord Howard Oakheart. ⤝ Lord Darreth Oakheart. ⤝ Lord Clarence Oakheart. ⤝ Ser Arthor Oakheart. ⤝ Lady Isobel Oakheart. ⤝ Lady Eleonore Oakheart. ⤝ Lady Cecilia Oakheart. ⤝ Lady Agatha Oakheart. ⤝ Lady Alyssa Oakheart.

𖦹. HOUSE TYRELL. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Aurora Tyrell née Vyrwel. ⤝ Ser Gareth Tyrell.

𖦹. HOUSE FLORENT. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Clement Florent. ⤝ Lady Priscilla Florent née Redwyne. ⤝ Lady Barbara Florent. ⤝ Lady Samantha Florent.

𖦹. HOUSE COSTAYNE. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Marigold Costayne.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. HOUSE BRACKEN. ₊̇* ⤝ Ser Eddard Bracken. ⤐ Mentioned in chapter one.

𖦹. HOUSE STRONG. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Helenys Strong. ⤐ Appears in chapter three. ⤝ Lady Maralyn Strong. ⤐ Appears in chapter three.

𖦹. HOUSE PIPER. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Jeyne Piper. ⤐ Mentioned in chapter three.

𖦹. HOUSE DUTTON. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Roberd Dutton. ⤐ Appears in chapter five.

𖦹. HOUSE SMALLWOOD. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Joseth Smallwood. ⤝ Lady Denyse Smallwood née Roote. ⤝ Lady Jeyne Smallwood (possibly canon). ⤝ Lord Stefan Smallwood.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. HOUSE ARRYN OF GULLTOWN. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Janyce Arryn of Gulltown. ⤐ Appears in chapter one.

𖦹. HOUSE ARRYN OF THE EYRIE. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Sheryl Arryn of The Eyrie.

𖦹. HOUSE VANCE OF ATRANTA. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Camylle Vance of Atranta.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. HOUSE BOLTON. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Benjamin Bolton. ⤐ Appears in chapter five.

𖦹. HOUSE UMBER. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Wenna Umber.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. HOUSE VOLMARK. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Jorlyn Volmark.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･ ⤝ Prince Syrario of Pentos. ⤐ Appears in chapter five.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･ ⤝ Triach Joroquo Nahaar of Volantis. ⤐ Appears in chapter five. ⤝ Triach Horario Volliris of Volantis. ⤐ Appears in chapter five. ⤝ Triach Lysequor Sororyor of Volantis. ⤐ Appears in chapter five.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇. ⊰‧₊˚･ ⤝ The Harvest Prince Malarr of Lorath. ⤐ Appears in chapter five.

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐘𝐈𝐓𝐈. ⊰‧₊˚･ ⤝ Ser Wu Lin of YiTi. ⤐ Appears in chapter five.

©TheThyri. All rights content belong to @thethyri​​​​. All original characters except originally unnamed characters from G.R.R Martin's universe are mine. Do not repost, translate or plagiarize my works in any way or on any other platform without my permission. Gifs rightfully belongs to @thequeenwechoose.

[thethyri]

𝐋𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐖𝐍 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐮𝐱 𝐩𝐚𝐫 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬

MENU DE LA SERIE. + MENU DES HYDROMELS. + Archive Of Our Own. + English Ver. + The Dragonlings Server. ₊‧ 

Maisons classées par ordre d'apparition dans les chapitres et personnages classés par ordre d'apparition par chapitres.

𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐃𝐄 𝐋𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. MAISON CELTIGAR. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Meleri Celtigar. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre un.

𖦹. MAISON MALLERY. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Adeline Mallery. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre un.

𖦹. MAISON STAUNTON. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Mathylde Staunton. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre trois.

𖦹. MAISON SOLVERRE. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Morgelyn Solverre. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre trois.

𖦹. MAISON BAR EMMON. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Denice Bar Emmon. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre trois. ⤝ Ser Samn Bar Emmon.

𖦹. MAISON HARTE. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Margot Harte. ⤐ Mentionnée dans le chapitre sept. ⤝ Lady Dovelia Harte.

𖦹. MAISON BRUNE DE COMBEBRUNE. ₊̇* ⤝ Ser Andren Brune de Combebrune. ⤐ Mentionnée dans le chapitre sept.

𖦹. MAISON ROSBY. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Dominic Rosby (canon non-nommé). ⤝ Lady Emelyne Rosby née Cressey. ⤝ Lady Bernyce Rosby (canon non-nommé). ⤝ Lord Cedric Rosby (canon non-nommé). 

𖦹. MAISON BUCKWELL. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Emmett Buckwell. ⤝ Lady Megane Buckwell née Hogg. ⤝ Lady Elisha Buckwell. ⤝ Lady Briannel Buckwell. ⤝ Lady Adrielle Buckwell. ⤝ Lord Darrin Buckwell. ⤝ Lord Alfred Buckwell.

𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐃𝐄 𝐋'𝐎𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. MAISON SWYFT. ₊̇* ⤝ Ser Edryd Swyft. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre un.

𖦹. MAISON MARBRAND. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Aline Marbrand. ⤐ Appears in chapter one.

𖦹. MAISON LEFFORD. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Alissa Lefford. ⤐ Mentionnée dans le chapitre un. ⤝ Lady Cassidy Lefford. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre trois. ⤝ Lord Marq Lefford. ⤝ Lady Agnes Lefford née Kyndall. ⤝ Ser Lyman Lefford. ⤝ Lord Leonald Lefford. ⤝ Ser Oscar Lefford. ⤝ Lady Jayne Lefford née Serett. ⤝ Lady Cecily Lefford. ⤝ Lord Humfrey 'The Younger' Lefford.

𖦹. MAISON KENNING DE KAYCE. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Eliane Kenning de Kayce. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre trois.

𖦹. MAISON REYNE. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Celesse Reyne. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre trois.

𖦹. MAISON FOLLARD. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Alise Follard. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre trois. ⤝ Ser Landor Follard.

𖦹. MAISON YARWYCK. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Cedrick Yarwyck. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq.

𖦹. MAISON CUILLÊTRE. ₊̇* ⤝ Ser Alfred Cuillêtre. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq.

𖦹. MAISON BRAX. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Maxir Brax. ⤝ Lady Ellen Brax née Kenning de Kayce. ⤝ Lord Roberd Brax. ⤝ Thomar Brax.

𖦹. MAISON MARPHEUX. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Samson Marpheux. ⤝ Lady Lilyanna Marpheux née Tarbeck. ⤝ Lady Leonora Marpheux. ⤝ Lady Marcella Marpheux. ⤝ Lady Dorothea Marpheux. ⤝ Lady Alycia Marpheux. ⤝ Ser Quenten Marpheux. ⤝ Lord Benjamin Marpheux.

𖦹. MAISON LANNISTER DE CASTRAL ROC. ₊̇*

𖦹. MAISON LANNISTER DE LANNISPORT. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Tywald Lannister de Lannisport. ⤝ Lady Belinda Lannister de Lannisport née Doggett. ⤝ Ser Lancel Lannister de Lannisport. ⤝ Lady Darla Lannister de Lannisport. ⤝ Ser Tywell Lannister de Lannisport. 

𖦹. MAISON LANNISTER DE DARRY. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Cerion Lannister de Darry. ⤝ Lady Estrella Lannister de Darry née Drox. ⤝ Lord Tybold Lannister de Darry. ⤝ Lord Tommen Lannister de Darry. ⤝ Lady Serina Lannister de Darry. ⤝ Lady Jessica Lannister de Darry. ⤝ Lady Melona Lannister de Darry.

𖦹. MAISON LANTELL. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Tybolt Lantell. ⤝ Lady Shella Lantell née Lydden.

𖦹. MAISON LANNY. ₊̇* ⤝ Ser Gerold Lanny. ⤝ Lady Lellia Lanny.

𖦹. MAISON CRAKEHALL. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Eduard Crakehall. ⤝ Lady Vivianne Crakehall née Peake. ⤝ Lady Krystine Crakehall. ⤝ Lord Clarent Crakehall.

𖦹. MAISON VIKARY. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Alyce Vikary.

𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐃𝐄 𝐋'𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. MAISON TARTH. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Amille Tarth. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre un.

𖦹. MAISON SWYGERT. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Delanie Swygert. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre un.

𖦹. HOUSE ESTERMONT. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Lucinda Estermont. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre trois. ⤝ Lord Edmond Estermont. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq.

𖦹. HOUSE SWANN. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Margot Swann. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq.

𖦹. HOUSE MORRIGEN. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Denice Morrigen.

𝐃𝐔 𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐅. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. MAISON HIGHTOWER. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Elyse Hightower. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre un. ⤝ Lady Monira Hightower. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre sept.

𖦹. MAISON FLORENT. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Sofie Florent. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre un.

𖦹. MAISON TARLY. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Malissa Tarly. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre un.

𖦹. MAISON WEBBER. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Selina Webber. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre trois.

𖦹. MAISON REDWYNE. ₊̇* ⤝ Ser Elliott Redwyne. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq.

𖦹. MAISON DU ROUVRE. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord John du Rouvre (canon non-nommé). ⤝ Lady Jeyne du Rouvre née Cuy. ⤝ Lord Howard du Rouvre. ⤝ Lord Darreth du Rouvre. ⤝ Lord Clarence du Rouvre. ⤝ Ser Arthor du Rouvre. ⤝ Lady Isobel du Rouvre. ⤝ Lady Eleonore du Rouvre. ⤝ Lady Cecilia du Rouvre. ⤝ Lady Agatha du Rouvre. ⤝ Lady Alyssa du Rouvre.

𖦹. MAISON TYRELL. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Aurora Tyrell née Vyrwel. ⤝ Ser Gareth Tyrell.

𖦹. MAISON FLORENT. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Clement Florent. ⤝ Lady Priscilla Florent née Redwyne. ⤝ Lady Barbara Florent. ⤝ Lady Samantha Florent.

𖦹. MAISON COSTAYNE. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Marigold Costayne.

𝐃𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. MAISON BRACKEN. ₊̇* ⤝ Ser Eddard Bracken. ⤐ Mentionné dans le chapitre un.

𖦹. MAISON FORT. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Helenys Strong. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre trois. ⤝ Lady Maralyn Strong. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre trois.

𖦹. MAISON PIPER. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Jeyne Piper. ⤐ Mentionné dans le chapitre trois.

𖦹. MAISON DUTTON. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Roberd Dutton. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq.

𖦹. MAISON PETITBOIS. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Joseth Petitbois. ⤝ Lady Denyse Petitbois née Racin. ⤝ Lady Jeyne Petitbois (possiblement canon). ⤝ Lord Stefan Petitbois.

𝐃𝐔 𝐕𝐀𝐋. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. MAISON ARRYN DE GOËVILLE. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Janyce Arryn de Goëville. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre un.

𖦹. MAISON ARRYN DES EYRIÉ. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Sheryl Arryn des Eyrié.

𖦹. MAISON VANCE D'ATRANTA. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Camylle Vance d'Atranta.

𝐃𝐔 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐃. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. MAISON BOLTON. ₊̇* ⤝ Lord Benjamin Bolton. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq.

𖦹. MAISON UMBER. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Wenna Umber.

𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐈̂𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐃𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐑. ⊰‧₊˚･

𖦹. MAISON VOLMARK. ₊̇* ⤝ Lady Jorlyn Volmark.

𝐃𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･ ⤝ Prince Syrario of Pentos. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq.

𝐃𝐄 𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐒. ⊰‧₊˚･ ⤝ Triach Joroquo Nahaar de Volantis. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq. ⤝ Triach Horario Volliris de Volantis. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq. ⤝ Triach Lysequor Sororyor de Volantis. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq.

𝐃𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇. ⊰‧₊˚･ ⤝ Prince des Récoltes Malarr de Lorath. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq.

𝐃𝐄 𝐘𝐈𝐓𝐈. ⊰‧₊˚･ ⤝ Ser Wu Lin de YiTi. ⤐ Apparaît dans le chapitre cinq.

©TheThyri. All rights content belong to @thethyri​​​​. All original characters except originally unnamed characters from G.R.R Martin's universe are mine. Do not repost, translate or plagiarize my works in any way or on any other platform without my permission. Gifs rightfully belongs to @daenerys-stormborn.