#SPIES FROM THE SPY QUEEN

[fallout-fucker]

Crows Of The Commonwealth

I was on CrowTok and it made me come up with an idea.

So, obviously a lot of the crows in the Commonwealth are made by the Institute, though I personally like to believe that there are still a lot of crows that are regular ones, too.

Crows are an incredibly smart species of bird, which makes sense as to why they're the ones the Institute use. To my memory, I don't think there are any other birds in the game. Again, I'd like to headcanon that they're not the only ones left but if only a few species of birds managed to survive the bombs and the aftermath, I wouldn't put it past crows to be one of those species due to that intelligence.

Crows are known for recognising people, which also works in favour of the Institute as to why they'd choose them specifically. If you are able to tell the difference between individual crows, you'll be less likely to question if a specific one if following you if you are aware they likely recognise you.

However, they're also known to bring gifts and trinkets if treated right, or actually attack people who don't. And they remember faces. I don't get the impression that the Institute treats them too kindly if they don't even consider Gen 3 Synths as people, who are literally created with technology and human biology/DNA.

If we imagine that the Institute Crows work like Synths do, then that means that they are also able to become independent like Synths can. We know they have the level of intelligence, more so than another species of bird, to perhaps reach that level of independence. That's exactly why the Institute picked them. Wouldn't it be ironic if that became part of the Institute's downfall.

So imagine a Sole Survivor, fresh out of the Vault, scared and cold on their first few nights. Hungry, tired, likely sick, grieving. Alone. They have Dogmeat. They have themselves. A few strangers they saved. Nothing else.

They're trying their best one night to settle. They've only been unfrozen for a few days by now, but have yet to leave Sanctuary. They chose to stay for a couple days to prepare for their long journey ahead, and rebuild their home so they had somewhere to go back to. Preston has taught them basics self defence and survival, Sturges has helped them temporarily fix the holes in their walls. They're not close to these strangers yet, but there's a small comfort in knowing there's still people, and people nearby to run to if anything not friendly comes knocking on their door.

They're picking at a 200 year old box of stale cereal, not able to stomach the taste just yet. In the end, they end up leaving it in a bowl for Dogmeat to have, preferring to sleep, hunger be damned. They sleep on the floor that used to hold the dinning table, not ready to sleep in the now-too-empty bedrooms.

By morning, their sleep is interrupted. Not by the cold October air that their thin, makeshift blanket- That doubles as their coat during the day- barley keeps away. Not by the sunlight that seeps in by the broken shards of class where the window used to be. Not by drops of rain that fall through the cracks in the ceiling. Not even by Dogmeat licking then awake, like he did yesterday morning. This time it's the sound of pecking and squawking that has Sole prying their eyes open.

A small group of grows picking at the bowl of cereal. They must've gotten in through what once was the window, or literally any of the holes of missing metal panels scattered throughout the building. Sole barely has it in them to care. They know they shouldn't waste food that could've gone to them or their new furry friend, but they truly cannot bring it in them to mind. They wonder if the birds have a hard time finding food, too, and decide it might not be a waste at all.

They sit up. A few of the crows fly up onto the windowsill at their movements, one stays enjoying their breakfast, unfazed. Sole waits, sitting still until the birds realise they have no intention of harming them. They glide back down onto the floor, going back to eating.

After a few moments, the crow that stayed perks his head up, neck twitching into an angle that lets him look at Sole. He hops over, stopping just before he reaches their lap. Sole raises their hand, thumb and index finger moving slowly until they land on its neck. His feathers bristle under Sole's pets, his feet dancing happily beneath him. The other crows finish their breakfast. Salem, Sole decides to call him, joins his friends who hop back onto the windowsill. They fly off. He turns his head to the side, a beady eye looking at Sole again. He squawks at them before flying off to join the others.

Sole spends the rest of their day taking metal panels from some of the completely collapsed houses to fix the holes in their walls. They're able to find paint at the old Red Rocket down the road when looking for more equipped tools. Repainting isn't exactly their priority right now, just making sure the house will be fit to stand against the weather, and for when it gets colder in the next few months. The paint will be useful when they get to the stage of being able to consider making it look presentable, however. Unfortunately, the only paintbrush they find is snapped in half. They toss it in frustration. Less so because of the brush itself, and more so because Sole has a lot of anger built up from the events of the last few days that they have no other outlet for.

They end up going home when the sun starts to set, having avoided the empty tomb of memories for as long as possible. It wasn't safe to be out so close to dark.

When they set down their tolls by the door, something on the kitchen counter catches their eye.

Upon inspection, they realise it's an intact paintbrush.

Their confusion lasts barely five seconds, as they hear a familiar squawk. Hoping on the windowsill is Salem. His eyes study Sole. He's waiting. Sole smiles, pulling open the duffle bag they'd taken on their supply run. They pull out two wild mutfruits, which they'd harvested from bushes near the station. Sole cuts them into smaller pieces, before tossing them gently into the grass of their back garden from the car porch. Salem glides to the pieces, now satisfied in knowing that Sole approved of and appreciated his gift. Sole looks up to the trees that border their garden where other crows have started to also descend from to join in on the food offering. Apparently, there's a lot more in this group than what Sole had assumed from the smaller one earlier. About twenty feathered creatures dance about on branches decorated by orange and brown leaves or nibble at the mutfruit in the grass.

Salem flies over once he's had his fill, taking a seat on Sole's shoulder. His friends also begin hopping over gradually, and Sole ends up sitting down to welcome them and pet their small heads. Dogmeat also seems to love the attention, or perhaps just the warmth that radiates from Sole's body as he curls up next to them. Every so often, one of them drops a trinket into Sole's lap as they snuggle into them. A random screw, some gears, even some bottlecaps. Bits and bobs that a few days ago, Sole would've considered mostly junk, even if they'd still been appreciative, but everything now is useful. They even drop a few things by Dogmeat's snout, who sniffs them, tail wagging. Sole doesn't think Salem appreciates the happy licks Dogmeat gives him, though.

Regardless, Sole breathes out slowly, deeply, as they take in the sunset and birdsong before them. It's the first time they've honestly felt any peace since leaving that godforsaken Vault.

Sole makes a mental note to redesign the kitchen window when they get around to fixing it so that it'll be able to open widely. They also begin thinking about designs for birdhouses, feeders, and small fountains.

It's safe to say Sole feels slightly better than they did when they went to bed last night.

They feel less alone.

For some reason, as Salem nestles into their lap, against their stomach, a small pressure builds in their gut. They can't quite shake the instinct, the thought that comes with it. The feeling that Salem feels less alone now, too.

#Aka a story where Sole unintentionally befriends the Institute crows and teaches them actual love #To the point where they start to also rebel against their creators. Sole starts finding crows that have clawed out their own eyes #Or that have scratched chunks (Chips and cameras) out of their necks and turns Sanctuary into. Well. A Crow Sanctuary #Sole accidentally trains a crow army to be loyal to them #They start getting to the point where crows start being able to send messages like pigeons for the Minutemen and Railroad #Deacon hated the idea at first and when he found out Sole was basically housing Institute spies almost had a heart attack #Then he got on board when he realised the crows were also starting to runaway from the Institute #Salem likes to prank Deacon #They even steal Institute tech so their human friends can study it :) #Who needs to train Deathclaws when you have an army of birds that are already trained in spy work #And who you can use to find Synth agents because they recognise their faces and WILL attack them on sight #Who needs the Mysterious Stranger when every bird in the 'Wealth will swoop in to peck and claw at a raider's face when you're outnumbered #Sole being the King/Queen/Master of crows goes hard ngl #Their animal friend perk is maxed out. They DO also raise a baby Deathclaw just because they can #I might make a fic that includes this idea tbh because I love it #And I have been wanting to make a realistic fic about what it would be like for Sole. Especially in the early days. #Sole Survivor #Salem The Crow #Dogmeat #Deacon #Fallout #Fallout 4

[idkimnotreal]

books i wish existed: a medieval spy woman who's autistic (or sort of heavily autistic coded because that wasn't a diagnosis then) and her neurodivergence and familiarity with masking due to being an autistic woman make her naturally talented at being a spy, only she often struggles with stuff like sensory overload on her missions, or how to act once relationships turn real.

it would be a pleasant read, no tragedy, just romance, mystery and adventure.

#fiction #books #autism #got this idea from the gwent mission on witcher 3 #that cantarella spy woman you pair up with #and i just thought autisitc women probably make great spies #and something about medievalness makes it more special idk #wait a minute. I'll prompt this into chat gpt #also it's basically the queen's gambit except beth is not a spy but yeah all the rest is the same #1950s is basically medieval

[lady-charinette]

The lucid moments of Queen Charlotte & King George:

they sometimes hide from the heavens under the bed and George asks how their kingdom is doing. Charlotte quietly confesses how sometimes, the world seems to close in on her too & she feels like she might just hide from the heavens forever. George cradles her hand whispers lovingly:"You've always been the stronger one of us." Charlotte:"Only because you gave me half of your strength."

George sometimes escapes his confinement and bursts into meetings, but he's lucid. Charlotte is momentarily stunned, but relaxes when George speaks normally with the higher members of the ton. She smiles and watches her husband, the king, attend to his duties. In these little moments, she feels like the paintings didn't have to add George in later, she feels like he was there all along for the still sitting.

George still goes to the fields, he's old now, but he can pick at the weeds and plant some vegetables at least. Brimsely swore he would always attend to Her Majesty the Queen, but whenever her husband is outside, he temporarily serves the King, on orders of Her Majesty. Brimsely knows the Queen trusts him above all to protect her king in Reynold's place

George sometimes draws her, draws her face, his artistic skill curiously weakens when he's of sound mind, but Charlotte doesn't seem too offended when she spies her likeness on their wall. She smiles brighter than the sun

They reminiscent of their youth together, George remarks on the make of Charlotte's dresses, they look just like they had when they were younger. Charlotte is too prideful to admit she still orders these dresses to be made because it's the only thing of George she can have with her everyday to keep her grounde

Amelia's passing wounded everyone deeply, George had still been lucid enough to have learned of it, which ultimately crumbled the pieces of his sanity over time. His lucid moments grew fewer and farther in between and Charlotte felt like she had not only lost a daughter, but her husband as well

George has his observatory in his residence at Kew, and sometimes when he gazes at the stars and searches for a glimpse of Venus, his clarity returns with full force. In those moments, he quickly writes down whatever thoughts flood his clear mind, to not forget them, forget that deep down in his madness, there is still a man. Charlotte occasionally visits his observatory and she always checks his journals for new notes. Little things he intended to remember. The names of all their children and their birthdays. Thoughts of Charlotte and how much he misses her. Most of them speak of Venus, how much he loves and adores her. The Queen learned early on that Venus has quite a few names. The Great Star. Goddess of Love. Charlotte. Lottie. And sometimes, his Queen.

"Tell me, Lottie, how are the gardens?". She smiles, "In full bloom, my dear.". There was an uncharacteristically but not unfamiliar grin on the king's face. "And tell me... how is your garden?" Charlotte laughed, spying the mischievous twinkle in her husband's eye. "It definitely could use some tending. Some watering. Some fierce plowing." Brimsely knew better than anyone to immediately send the guards and attendants away once the Queen hitched up her skirts and moved over to sit on the King's lap.

"I'm sorry, my dear Lottie." George spoke softly into their quiet bedroom. Charlotte tried to discern his expression through the darkness. "Whatever for, George?". George sighed deeply, "For not giving you as much comfort and support as you do for me, once my mind wanders again.". Charlotte can only hold her husband close to her and kiss his forehead, whispering softly into his thinning hair. "You do give me comfort, my dear. So much."

George often has nightmares during the night, whenever he calls for his attendants, more often than not, it's his wife that hurries to his bedside. She always manages to quench his demons. He's heard the whispers in the halls, about how cruel and cold his queen was. But not to him. To him, she was soft and warm. Oh, so warm.

At the birth of their last child, George worries for Charlotte's health and urges her to not have anymore babies. She tries to argue with him, but George snaps:"We have enough heirs! I know what it is that you try to do, I know my...my madness may pass down to any one of our children, but if I were to lose you while you give birth to another child madness shall consume us all! What shall I do mad with fourteen children to care for instead of enjoying the moments I have left with you by my side?"

George sometimes reads manuscripts of the love stories between older kings and their queens, he sometimes forgets them and discovers them anew, but he always remembers what each of these stories lacked to him. None of these love stories could come close to describe the endless well of love he harbors for his wife, in madness and in sanity.

Charlotte finds reading poems to be a waste of her time, but she keeps the small, crumpled pieces of papers very close to her heart. The handwriting is not always neat, not always eligible, but she knew them all by heart anyway. Even though he may not be physically near her, Charlotte knew she was never alone in ruling their kingdom with George's heartfelt poems tucked safely into the sleeves of her dress.

They sometimes run into each-other in the kitchen at night, it's always a fright at first, Charlotte doesn't know if George is in his right mind, but he always quells her fears with a boyish smile. "Fancy meeting you here, my queen. Care for some of the best pudding in all of Britain?" Charlotte smiles, her eyes misty. "Oh, you old fool. You'll upset your stomach if you continue eating pudding every night.". George caressed her cheek. "That never stopped you before, has it?" Charlotte sighed. "Oh, just give me that spoon."

Sometimes, in his calm state of mind, George wonders if his body subconsciously enters into madness on purpose. Not to drive him mad, no, a much simpler reason. Sometimes, George wonders if he falls back into madness because he knows if he does, Charlotte would always come to visit and spend time with him. Somewhere in the deepest corners of his mind, George doesn't mind being called the Mad King if it meant spending time with his dear wife.

Charlotte is Queen during the day, but when she visits George at night, she turns young again, the ache in her bones recedes and she's just a simple maiden with her farmer. Just Charlotte. Just George. Just them.

#bridgerton #bridgerton headcanons #queen charlotte spoilers #queen charlotte a bridgerton story #queen charlotte x king george #queen charlotte #king george iii #king george #charlotte x george #chatty charinette #my fic #my fics

[cakesunflower]

reasons why Elriel is endgame because it’s so goddamn obvious

Elain starting a conversation with Azriel (because he seemed the most approachable to her) during their dinner at the Archeron Estate.

Elain wearing a cobalt blue dress (matching the color of Azriel’s siphons) when the mortal Queens came to visit.

Azriel sitting with Elain in the garden, arguably the one who spent the most time with her during a time she wasn’t speaking to anyone after turning Fae.

Azriel being the only one who figured there was something more to what Elain was saying in regards to her visions and then being the one to figure out she is a Seer.

Feyre asking Rhys why Azriel and Elain couldn’t be mates, wondering if Azriel is who she needs.

Azriel being the one to realize Elain was missing when Hybern kidnapped her, and him being dead set on rescuing her.

Elain saying “you came for me” when he and Feyre found her.

Elain being the only person Azriel allowed to use Truth-Teller in all of the centuries he has had it.

DEATH AND THE LOVELY FAWN!!!! DARK AND LIGHT!!! DEATH AND LIFE!!!

Azriel not wanting to keep tabs on Lucien because it would be an invasion of Elain’s privacy.

Azriel sitting with Elain late into the night, listening to her plans for the garden.

Elain buying presents for Azriel on Solstice, but never buying them for Lucien.

Azriel staying up at night, staring at the first gift Elain gave him.

Elain finds Azriel approachable, someone she can talk to (and obviously has feelings for), but shrinks into herself and becomes quiet whenever Lucien is around.

Azriel subtly defending Elain when Amren snapped at her during dinner in ACOFAS (“I’d feel bad for the mice).

Feyre noting multiple times that Elain moves quietly, is a good secret keeper (foreshadowing Elain becoming a spy)

Elain’s best friends are Nuala and Cerridwen aka the spies for the Night Court aka Azriel’s spies

Rhysand trained Feyre, Cassian trained Nesta. . . Azriel is going to train Elain.

Azriel following the sound of Elain’s laugh. Something charged passing through the air (Nesta notices) when their eyes meet.

THEIR ALMOST KISS???? HELLO???

Azriel being in a shitty mood after Solstice when Rhys forbade him from being near Elain

Azriel asking “what happened to Elain?” when Cassian mentions the argument between her and Nesta.

Azriel’s shadows being ready to strike at Nesta when she said to Elain “maybe you’ll become interesting after all.”

Nesta knowing why Azriel stayed far from Elain and Lucien during Solstice because he could smell their mating bond and it made him sick enough to stay far away.

Elain immediately wanting to wear the necklace Azriel got her, meanwhile she obviously rejects/dislikes the gifts Lucien has bought for her.

It’s 3 brothers (the bat boys) and 3 sisters (the Archerons). 3 mountain peaks. 3 items in the Trove. 3 is a big number for SJM. You don’t think that has any significance?? Think again!

The cauldron has been said to be corrupted. Mor has mentioned it, Azriel questioned if the cauldron was wrong, and (SPOILER) its corruption is noted in House of Flame and Shadow, too. There’s a chance it fucked up (or maliciously formed) the mating bond for Elain.

Whether or not Elain’s real mate is Azriel, her bond with Lucien brings up the idea of rejecting the mating bond. There’s a reason SJM had Feyre asking Rhys if mating bonds can be rejected. Elain’s choices have been stripped from her, time and time again. No control over her life since her family lost their fortune, turning Fae against her will, losing Grayson.

SJM has said her books are about the female protagonists finding their agency. Elain’s book is going to be about that, obviously, and rejecting the bond with Lucien and CHOOSING Azriel is no doubt going to be a part of that. Along with whatever SJM has in store for Elain.

Feysand are Night Triumphant and Stars Eternal. Nessian are Lord of Bloodshed and Lady Death. Elriel are Death and the Lovely Fawn. There’s a reason SJM has these titles. You gotta be blind not to see it.

anyways! if you can’t see how all of this is gonna lead to an Elriel endgame then i feel sorry for you

also back in 2021 when we were all in lockdown and i had nothing better to do (and because i am a writer and a little insane) i wrote a whole essay after ACOSF was published explaining why i think Elriel is endgame (i’m pretty sure i use all of the points here in the essay) and if you wanna read my musings that are all derived from fact you can read it here!!!!!

#thank you and goodnight #jk it’s 11am #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #a court of frost and starlight #a court of silver flames #elain archeron #pro elriel #pro elain #azriel #elriel #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf #feyre archeron #rhysand #feysand #nesta archeron #cassian #nessian #elriel endgame #lucien vanserra #elain x azriel #azriel x elain

[houseofhyde]

ii. a game of westerosi chess.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. the six chess pieces in the king’s game and how your uncle calls checkmate. read the first part here !

warnings. niece!reader, targcest, possessiveness, themes of sexual/romantic ownership, alicent slander (im sorry, i love her, but this is daemon’s pov and we all know that man wakes up every morning and makes the conscious decision to be a hater), daemon being a filthy pervert (affectionate), smut ( masturbation, breeding kink, voyeurism, dacriphilia, virgin kink- if that's even a thing-, implied bi!daemon )

word count. 11.3k

taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir​

hyde’s input. yes, i could have just made them get married after the events in part one. no, that wouldn’t be as fun as watching daemon suffer. i went and fucked myself over a little though because i never realised how much i’d struggle to write from his point of view without the fear of making him too out of character or his behaviour feel, idk, fake? empty? idk what the right word is but yeah. i caught the flu and have had sick-brain the whole time while writing this so who knows if the writing is even comprehensible lmao :)

disclaimer: i’ve never played chess (i'm too dumb for that) so pretend any incorrect comparisons are simply because there’s different rules for chess in westeros <3

when daemon targaryen was five years old, no more than a mischievous little babe who haunted the halls of the red keep, there was no one greater in his eyes than his older brother.

his older brother who bonded with the largest dragon; who snuck wine into his cup when the adults were occupied with their political indiscretions; who stood up for him even in times where he was the culprit. 

his older brother who had the longest winning streak in the whole of the red keep when it came to chess.

from maesters to the king, and ladies in waiting down to his own mother, there was not a single person within the castle who could face viserys targaryen in the game of strategic moves and walk away undefeated.

it was an understood fact: viserys targaryen was a master at chess.

one day, after catching his younger brother, moon-eyed and fresh-faced from wondering the dragonpit in search of a dragon to claim, and now spying upon his winnings against a pretty maiden, viserys had called the boy over. with daemon captivated by the sight of the chess board, the older of the two felt the cogs in his brain turning, an idea spawning.

you see, when one becomes the best at something, there is no more challenge. no fun to be found when you’re no longer sat at the edge of your seat wondering if this person will finally be the one to best you. and, so, viserys thought if no one else was good enough to beat him, he’d need to create a worthy opponent.

enter onto the scene, daemon targaryen.

with him being but a child still, viserys began his teaching with what captivated the little boy most: the figures which sat atop the checkered board.

“this, brother, is the pawn. it’s the least worthy piece, but do not let that fool you into thinking it is weak, for anyone may wield power if they work hard enough. a pawn may become a queen, just as a fool may become a lord.”

the rogue prince, now a man of three and thirty, awakes with one thing on his mind: his niece.

he’s always been a restless sleeper, not even in dreams would he escape the havoc of his own head and the inner-workings of it. and, though he’d scarcely recall the images his sleeping mind would conjure, the evidence comes in the state he’d find himself in: sprawled diagonally across the bed, the pillows which had once provided rest for his head now scattered along the floor and the bedsheets- which scratched uncomfortably on his skin, a slick of sweat oozing from his pores and leaving him looking glazed, like a freshly cooked hog at a feast- now a wrinkled tangle around his waist, trapping his legs in the cotton confines.

he spies the familiar lick of sunlight casting through the closed curtains, affirming that dawn has indeed passed and a new day is upon him.

running a hand over his face, a disgruntled sound escapes him, sluggishly moving himself to sit up right, that familiar yet new ache in his back flaring up and begging for release in the form of stretching limbs and extended muscles. age has begun to sneak up on him, grabbing him in it’s clutches and reminding the egotistical man that he is just that: a man, not a god, much to his own displeasure.

the hand departs from his face only to pause midair. a smell, heady and musk infused, reaches his nostrils. it’s dirty and grimey in every way yet enticing him to seek it out again, to sniff out wherever the odour is coming from and bury himself in it till he suffocates.

tentatively, he retraces his movements till his fingers dance over his face once again and realisation kicks him like the hoof of a horse, hard and with a lingering pounding.

only, the pounding comes from his crotch rather than his skull.

the smell is you, in all your dribbling, soaking, honeysuckle glory, stained on his skin like the slaves of volantis are stained with ink.

another inhale floods his senses with the memories from last night, replaying the feel of your bodies pressed together in dance, and your hand squeezing his almost painfully tight as he leads the way to your chambers, and the eager spreading of your legs as he at last satisfies his hunger for you- a hunger which had started sometime after you’d first began to present the figure of a woman, all supple breasts and pouting lips and silhouettes made of dresses that hid from view the naughty parts of you your uncle’s cock ached to see.

the voice in his head, which more often than not drives him to behave erratically, this time is but a whisper, a seduction of craving and curiosity that has him slipping his hand further down, brushing over the fine line of his lips and awaiting entrance as he parts his mouth open, brushing his stained digits over his tongue.

a jolt of heat burns down his spine while the sweet tang of your taste invades his senses. like biting through a lemon, the taste should repel him in every way, flood his soul with shame and leave him disgusted in himself.

instead, he licks his tongue in a silent plea for more.

the thought of never bathing again crosses daemon’s mind, unwilling to wash away the evidence of the peak he’d driven you to with nothing but his fingers. gods help the world when he finally gets his cock in you, for he’s likely to become a deranged, dirty shell of a man too busy getting fill after fill of your pulsing cunny to ever plunder himself into the oil-infused waters of a bath.

you’d be so sweet for him, a little harlet for him to mold and bend and break into every which-way he desires you. and it’s that thought, plus the taste of your dried essence, which has the rogue prince’s cock stirring beneath the tangled sheets.

desire awakens much like a dragon would: slowly and, then, all at once, eyes wide, chest huffing and puffing, and body arising from the ground.

the prince kicks the tangled sheets off, no thought given to whatever corner in the chambers he tosses them towards, eyes and hand and mind too focused on the once flacid organ between his leg growing more solid and red in the tip as the moments pass.

“fuck...” he means to only think it, yet speaks it aloud into the solace of the room as the warmth of his hand makes itself familiar with his cock.

he gives himself a tug, dry hand meeting the movement with resistance yet the layer of skin which conceals his soon-to-be seed soaked slit retracts enough to allow the blushing head of his cock to poke through. while he’d typically prefer to wet it with a whore’s cunt, or slicken it with whatever mindless ointment he could find laying around, daemon finds himself gathering his own saliva and spitting a fat drop of it into the palm of his hand.

the glide of his digits over the organ becomes easier, allowing him to work himself into full-blown hardness, cock taking over the use of his brain and sending him into a state of restless lust, demanding to be fed and satiated with the emptying of his stones, preferably into the warm, pulsating, tight cunt of his little dove.

while the prince does debate his ability to throw on a robe- or, even, roam the halls in his nude glory- and seek out your likely sleeping form, to watch as you startle awake with the breaking of your maidenhead and cry out for your uncle to fill you with his spend till you’re swelling with his bastard, he decides he prefers the thought of making you wait a little longer, see how much he can test the limits of your impatient desires.

after all, a maiden always feels best when her cunt’s as soaked as her crying eyes and her mouth’s spewing plead after plead, begging for his cock.

while one hand works over himself, the other sneaks it’s way back into his mouth, lust bursting into bright colours as he licks over the taste of you, soaking it into his bloodstream and making you part of his genetics- just as he is part of yours.

daemon allows his eyes to slip shut, sinking into sweet fantasies and mental pictures of bouncing tits and blood stained sheets, only to reopen them within an instant at the sound of his chamber door slamming against the solid wall.

“oh my!” a young girl dressed in rags turns her back on him as quickly as she notices his naked form, as if allowing him to compose himself and make himself presentable. “i’m so sorry, my prince! i would have knocked but he said i should simply let myself in!”

daemon makes no attempt to find cover.

“do whatever it is you need to do.” he speaks with a tone far too relaxed for a man who’s still got a grip on his cock. if anything, the raggedness in his breaths comes from his frustrations of losing the flavour of you on his tongue. “don’t stop on my account.”

she hesitates upon facing him again, eyes clearly wandering off from her own commands and glancing down at his exposed crotch more times than he imagines she’s comfortable with. from the look of her, she’s young in age- likely only recently blossomed into a woman- and, at the thought of his being the first cock she’s ever seen, he feels himself grow closer to his peak, a sick and twisted satisfaction buzzing through his veins at the possibility of giving the sweet girl her first sense of visual arousal.

when the shock passes, yet still lingers in her features like a harsh cough irritates the throat, she makes her way fully into the room. in her arms, a tray with a mass of food, enough to feed a lord and his men for several nights. without a word, she lays the assortment out on the large table within his chambers, hands shaking under her own nerves.

meanwhile, daemon slows the flick of his own wrist, teasing his cock with the impending satisfaction. a smile, too faint to be seen yet present enough that he feels the slight stretch of his lips, births itself as he considers who this offering of a feast may be from.

“what’s this about, girl?” he throws the question out into the air, clear amusement in his tone.

“the king, my prince.” just as he expected. “he’s ordered this be sent to you.”

and so it begins, he thinks.

his brother is buttering him up, showing a sign of good-will to have daemon in his good graces when he orders the rogue prince betroths himself to the king’s pretty daughter, her supposed virtue now a pile of crumbled ruins in the eyes of the court. as if he needs convincing to take such a sweet young thing to wife, the perfect little bird made of blonde hair, valyrian blood, sugar-coated cum and the sweetest song of whimpers and pleas.

“then make sure you let my brother know how eager i am to receive his feast.” he can feel himself reaching the edge of his peak, tethering off the edge and seconds away from painting his hand white with wasted seed.

perhaps the serving girl will lick it clean for him.

“of course, my prince.” once finished with the arranging of the feast, the maiden straightens out some wrinkles in her skirt- though it does nothing to clean up her looks- and begins to make her way back toward the entry to his chambers. “the king will be surprised to see you so agreeable, though it will help soothe his unease, my lord.”

“his... unease?” daemon’s movements stop, the air runs dry and the girl visibly stiffens, hand curling around the door handle and clenching it as if it is the only thing giving her support.

clearly, she’s said something she shouldn’t have.

“i must go, my lord.”

“unease over what, girl?”

“you... you don’t know, do you?” she’s beginning to irritate him, speaking in riddles and shaking like a leaf in the winds of winter.

“answer me clearly or i’ll have your tongue.” the girl can not see the way he moves off the bed, nor the way he spies his eyes towards his trusted sword propped against a wall, but she certainly hears the loud thud of his feet meeting the floor, feels the darker shift of energy in the room as the rogue prince makes a threatening advance towards her.

“ser gerold royce, my prince...” he’s near certain she lets out a pathetic whimper, like a wounded doe. “he’s proclaimed himself as lord of runestone.”

the world comes to a stand still as her words flood over him.

while the prince is frozen in his spot, face an empty canvas devoid of emotion, the young girl makes a swift exit, wise enough to not wish to stick around long enough to bare witness to the hot-headed prince’s reaction. the slamming of the door on her way out seems to startle him back into motion, naked limbs striding across the room and grabbing at the door. he twists the handle and gives a harsh tug, strong enough to have the wood smash as it collides against the wall.

the door does not open.

he attempts again, and again, and again, and is met with the same resistance each time. only then does it dawn on him- the feast, the unease- this was never about his brother keeping him in his good graces.

this was about the king keeping him locked away in his chambers.

“next, you’ve got your knight. while still not a very point-worthy piece, this holds power in the way it moves, jumping over pawns like a real knight slices through his enemies with the point of his sword.”

four days pass by slowly within the confines of his chambers.

at first, he rages. pacing the floor till the plush carpeting runs thin, hacking away at hand-crafted furniture his ancestors had sat upon and broken fast at, mouth dropped open in a bellow of impassioned words of all the things he plans to do once he gets his hands on his older brother, most of which start and end with his grip on the king’s neck.

then, he tries rest.

it’s a hopeless attempt, though, as the thoughts are running far too rampant for him to ignore the fact he’s confined within his room, not a clue of what his brother has done in regards to runestone’s rebellion. then come the thoughts of you, his little dove, likely hurt, and confused, and needing your dear uncle’s guidance on how to continue onward, how to outsmart the wretched ladies within your father’s court, how to ensure you do not wind up married off to some boring oaf of a lord, with not a drop of valyrian blood in his veins.

after sleep evades him, and rage consumes him once more, he switches to pleasuring himself, hand squeezed tight around his cock and working over the sex organ till he’s completely spent, his sack drained and nothing but pathetic droplets of seed painting his skin by the eight, ninth, tenth peak he drives himself too, fuelling the fire of his lust with past rendevouz- the pentoshi whore he’d fucked in front of her own husband, the nights he’d spent in the streets of silk in rooms where cups and cunts were shared amongst the crowd, the young knight who’d sought him out after a tourney and cried out as daemon stretched the tight pink hole of his arse- and with future desires- the slapping of his stones against your pearl as he takes you from behind, your pretty eyes struggling back tears the first time he fucks his cock into your silky wet hole, the sick, and nasty, and down-right degenerate want to bend you over the small council table and shoot his seed into your womb for all those wrinkled cunts to bare witness to.

ultimately, it’s the memory of how you taste that sends him spiralling for a tenth time.

the rogue prince is a sexual deviant, that was the very first whisper that had flooded the keep about him. and oh how he’s worn it with pride over the years, a twisted joy found in watching their outrage each time he speaks of crass and acts on sin.

even so, there is only so much he can take until he reaches his limit. and, thus, with his cock feeling like it may fall off if he does not give it some recovery time, the prince returns to raging.

that is how the king finds him, sword in hand and the expensive fabrics that once made up the curtains leading onto a balcony now nothing but tattered rags on the floor.

“i must say, daemon, this takes me back.” viserys’ tone carries amusement, which licks at daemon’s ire and coaxes it back to life, hand gripping the hilt of his sword as the prince reminds himself- despite how infuriating the king may be- that he cares deeply for his older brother. “me entering your chambers and finding you amidst a temper tantrum.”

the prince is quick on his feet, turning on his ankle till he finds himself gazing upon the face of his brother. he’s dressed in his finest robes, a mixture of reds and blacks, yet daemon does not miss the green jewel on one of his fingers. the crown upon viserys’ head reflects the sun, shining offensively in the prince’s face as if to more harshly remind him of the inheritance he’ll never claim, the throne he’ll never sit.

“what is the meaning of this?” daemon bellows and instinctively raises dark sister, the tip of the blade pointed directly at his brother.

the sound of kingsguards drawing their own weapons floods the room yet the raise of viserys’ hand halts them all in their defence, calling his brother’s bluff.

“i had some business to attend to.” the king speaks so casually, as though he’s discussing the recent weather or what he’d eaten for his supper the evening before.

“so you imprison me in my chambers as if i am some ill-behaved child!” daemon means to question him yet his words come out as more of a statement, an acceptance of the matter at hand.

“yes, well, what kind of idiot would i be to let my brother wander free in my castle while i’m grasping at straws to prevent a war?” the room grows more tense with every exchanged word between the two brothers, a feat which doesn’t go unnoticed by the guards who stand by the king nor the maidens who had rushed in after the reopening of daemon’s chambers, scrambling around to tidy the place up. “a war which you started in the first place.”

it irks something in daemon, the way viserys remains level headed whilst he’s pacing the room, and gripping his sword, and releasing his frustrations in bursts of loud voices and disgruntled grunts. condescending in every way, it sends daemon into a headspace where he’s no longer a man-grown and, instead, a tear-stained child being reprimanded by his king and grandsire.

he liked to torture young daemon who, despite his best efforts, was always prone to outbursts of emotion- outbursts the old man liked to meet with calmed expressions and tired words of disappointment, dismissing his grandson to bed.

it seems to be a commonality shared among kings, antagonising daemon.

“a war i started?!” and yet he falls for the trap every time, meeting viserys’ passive with his aggressive, striding those few steps closer till he’s a hair away from touching the king with his blade. still, his brother holds off his guards. “and how do you suppose i done such a thing while being imprisoned!?”

“cool it with the theatrics, brother,” viserys punctuates his exhaustion with an eye roll and gives a single nod of his head, giving the kingsguards the go-ahead to swarm around daemon.

a pair of them, both young in their knighthood and matching in face, grab at the rogue prince’s arms and hold him in a stand-still while another guard plucks the weapon from his hand. daemon shoves against their hold and is met with more resistance.

dark sister is passed among the guards, each hand that touches it being added to a tally of people on daemon’s list of men to disembowel. finally, viserys holds the weapon, examining it like it is the very first time he’s seen it.

“daemon, it brings me no joy to do this,” the king starts up again, eyes meeting the glaring amethysts of his brother. “but with the tensions arising and war creeping over the horizon, i can not afford to risk anything going amiss.”

“get to the point, brother. you’re speaking in rhyme as if you were some bard.”

“very well. from now until i decide you are not a threat to this kingdom, your confinement will be stretched from your chambers to the red keep. you are to carry no weapon and you will step no foot out of this castle.”

“you’re a fool if you think i’ll agree to this.”

“it is an order from your king!” viserys lets the mask slip, intentionally or not, and his irritation shines through like the stars paint themself across the dark sky. “and if that’s not enough to keep you in line, you will also be monitored at all hours of the day, every move you make within these walls will be shadowed by that of a knight of my choosing.”

daemon targaryen considers murdering his brother.

“and i see no man more fit for the job than ser criston cole.”

for the first time in his life, daemon targaryen may just go through with it.

“the bishop may be similar to the knight in it’s point count, yet it moves differently. while a knight can not move three times in the same direction, a bishop must stay within the colour it started in. think of a bishop like a maester: chained to an oath it can never break”

he’d rather be forced to endure a lifetime of self-flagellation than another moment of this conversation.

“it is in your best interest, your grace, to cut this state of anarchy out from it’s roots before any other houses chose to follow in the footsteps of runestone.” the new hand of the king is certainly an improvement from the hightower cunt, daemon can’t deny it. yet a part of him feels the knife of betrayal twist deeper into his back upon realising his brother had not only ignored his own warnings of the green lord till rhaenyra brought them up too, but he’d once again given the role to a random lord in his court rather than his own brother. “we have cause to believe that the dandarrions may be next to follow, given the less than kind words your daughter had for them during her tour for a marriage.”

“then there is the matter with the lannisters and, of course, the never ending tensions with the dornish folk. they’re more weary than ever, since someone,” maester mellos has never been a subtle man, despite all his supposed wits and knowledge, and so it flies over no one’s head when he takes a glance at the rogue prince and his standing guard, the insufferable man who’s made himself daemon’s shadow. “went to war with the triarchy.”

“my apologies for riding you all of that tyrant crabfeeder!” daemon speaks for the first time since he’d been forced to sit at the small council. “i’ll be sure to stand by and allow the next one to rip you all to pieces.”

daemon drowns out the rest of the meeting, uninterested in hearing his brother grovel at ways to keep his subjects at bay, as though they are the ones that rule over him.

gifts of gold for the dandarrion, a knighting for the lannisters’ youngest lords, peace-offerings in the forms of poetic words, and sweetened fruits, and lavish silks for the dornish. each gift more empty than the last.

it’s the mention of your name that brings him back into the room.

“were she here, we could have used her as a bargaining plea for one of these stronger houses,” ser lyman beesbury is the one who speaks and, with each word, the rest of the councilmen grow wider in the eyes and stiffer in their seats.

daemon explains their otherwise odd reactions away with them simply feeling uncomfortable discussing you in his presence, everything changed and nothing the same since sometime between the night he had you pressed against your door and his confinement within the keep.

upon release back into the castle, he’d searched for you first of all, paying no mind to criston cole as the knight struggled to keep up with his rushed footfall, mind too focused on the renewed anger he wished to placate with his cock in your mouth and the further destruction of your purity, all in the name of spiting your father.

when he’d reached your chambers, however, he’d found nothing but a mess of emptied trunks and an unkept bed.

“the princess is not here.” ser criston had spoken between gasps of air, chest heaving beneath the unnecessary layers of chainmail and armor his position forces him to wear.

daemon had demanded an answer for your whereabouts, only to quickly realise the knight was none-the-wiser. it was the new hand, ultimately, that clued him in, over sips of wine and looks of caution from other council-men amid a private feast.

“driftmark, prince daemon.” he’d dabbed at the corners of his mouth with poise and composure, everything about the man seemingly perfected for politics, serving only to irritate the prince further. “the princess has accompanied her older sister and her new husband on their trip to laenor velaryon’s home.”

that was the last daemon had heard of you.

a near moon later and you were still out of reach, likely turning your nose at the smell of salt that coated the walls of the velaryon household and wondering why a certain red-speckled dragon had yet to swoop in on the island, carrying the cause and answer to all your problems upon it’s back.

“dare i say i agree, your grace,” another of the men chimes in, his words barely a whisper at first, glancing nervously toward the king. “perhaps we may write for her return and see to it that a betrothal be made.”

daemon chooses to observe viserys in this moment, eyes trailing over his features and taking note of every wrinkle in his brow, every greyed hair within his unshaven face, every upturn and scorn of his lip. there’s a wave of unease that’s fallen over his brother, and it only grows with every moment that the lords speak of you in the rogue prince’s presence, the air thick with the discussion the two brother’s had yet to have regarding the rumours of your deflowering.

“and, tell me, my lords, what you suggest we tell the princess’ current betrothed?” maester mellos, ever incapable of holding his tongue, barks across the table, deathly unaware of the looks that befall the council nor the tensing of daemon’s shoulders. “the king is trying to avoid war, not further instigate one by implying her current betrothal is not good enough, that house-”

“that’s enough!” the king rises from his chair all at once, slamming his hand down on the table and commanding the attention of everyone in the room, more so when he recoils in pain. all at once, the rumours of his declining health and the effect it’s had on his body feel all too true. “there will be no further discussions of my daughter nor the prospect of a new betrothal. what’s done is done and i will not go back on my word to appease your fear-mongering speculations. we will continue our diplomatic relationship with these houses and ensure they do good to remember who sits the iron throne.”

the men obey like sheep, each bowing their head and mumbling false reconciliations.

one by one, they all take their leave.

first, lyman beesbury, who with pale face and solemn eyes lays apologies at visery’s feet. next, the master of laws and maester mellos, neither of them wasting time with niceties and opting for a mere bow towards their king. when all the chairs lay empty, save for daemon’s and the king, silence runs thick through the room. neither brother moving, each testing their unnamed opponent and awaiting the first blow through the tension to be made.

daemon grows impatient.

“unless corlys velaryon fucked a new son into our lady cousin and had the babe birthed in a matter of days, i do wonder who you’ve betrothed my niece to on driftmark.”

“do you know what your problem is, daemon?” though viserys’ words come out with inquisitory tones, he leaves no space for the prince to answer. “you’re so busy with your own schemes and plans that you fail to see when you’re the one being played.”

daemon feels small.

for a moment, he’s no longer a man grown into a soldier, with a mighty sword and a fearsome dragon. instead, he’s frail and weak, and staring across at his older brother as he beats him once more in the game of knights and checkered spaces, a taunting look on his face as he knocks over the little boy’s king piece and declares himself victor.

when the moment passes, he straightens his posture and rises from his seat, and reminds himself of the words his mother would comfort her crying babe with each time he failed to win, whispers of how there’s always something to be gained in any loss he finds.

he settles with leading his brother further into the trap of rumours him and his niece have conjured up together.

“i hear your new wife is fond of the seven, brother.” the prince reaches to grip the hilt of his sword, only to find an empty space and the reminder that he carries no weapon as of late. “ask her to pray for your daughter, i don’t believe she tasted the bitterness of moon tea after our evening together.”

the king does not call daemon’s bluff.

“this right here? the rook, worth more than the bishop or knight, yet less than the king or queen, it is an allusive piece. play the game wisely and your rook may trap the king, leaving it with nowhere to run.”

with the passing of another moon, daemon plunders deeper into insanity.

he’s always been a man of possession, the kind who owns and conquers and takes. objects, lands, people. they’re all the same in daemon’s chequebook of ownership. and, while living a rather messy and unkept life, he enjoys the pleasantness of having his possessions in his line of sight, like the sword he’s worn at his hip since the old king bestowed it upon him, or the seating he takes at every royal feast, chair angled perfectly to keep his eyes on the brother, nieces, family he possesses.

with dark sister out of reach and his most recent favoured family member out of sight- the pretty niece he’s silently layed his claim on-, destruction is imminent.

no longer does he debate with his own inner-turmoil over if he will go against the king’s orders but, rather, he questions when.

when will he redeem his previous loss against ser criston cole, beat the knight to the ground and steal his weapon as he lays unconscious?

when will he slip through the cracks in the castle walls, making use of the secretive halls built by maegor the cruel himself and slice through any guard who may attempt to get in his way?

when will he take the skies atop his fire-breathing mount, fleeing the city of whispering cunts and chees-playing fools?

the answer to each questions comes back to one thing, one person, one possession he needs to locate first.

you.

the events to follow the council meeting had lead him to several conclusions.

the first, and most obvious one, was that you clearly were not on driftmark, as lord strong had so boldly claimed. the second took him a few sleeps to fully decide upon but, remembering the words spoken of your betrothal among the council men and the apparent greater houses they could have given your hand to, daemon crossed off the possibility of you being in winterfell, the young stark lord likely too prideful to entertain the king’s earlier propositions of marriage after the way you’d left him amid a feast to go and- falsely rumoured- fuck your uncle.

with the dandarrions, the lannisters and the dornish folk already ruled off the list, it left daemon with few options.

his strongest lead is the baratheons, a long-standing connection between the two houses and a recently widowed lord who’s previous wife had gifted nothing but girls from her womb, it took no genius to assume a targaryen bride would serve him well.

daemon will soon find out he's wrong.

there’s an unease that takes over someone’s chambers the moment they notice something has been tampered with, whether it be as silly as a glass moved a few inches across a table or something as significant as a chest of drawers laying open when they’d clearly been left shut.

it tickles the back of the prince’s neck this very evening, skin rising to mimic that of a goose as he trails his eyes over his surroundings.

he’d returned to his chambers later than usual this evening, the day spent cornering council-men and threatening them- daemon had quickly discovered they feared him less with no blade to slice through them and his own personal minder at his back, that ridiculous kingsguard armour reflecting every ray of sun and every burn of candlelight.

daemon had taken to tormenting the poor ser crispin only a matter of days into their forced companionship. he figured that, if he may no longer seek joy in the streets of silk or the bloodshed of his enemies, let him at least take pleasure in the squirming discomfort of a man he loathes entirely.

“my niece,” he’d spoke as the two sat through their usual quiet supper together. “did you enjoy fucking her?”

“i did not fuck princess y/n.”

“well, of course not,” daemon pushed his spoon back and forth, passing time while he thought up his next taunt. “my younger niece has always had the more refined taste out of the two of them. rhaenyra, on the other hand, well she’d fuck a hound if it licked her the right way.”

“all this from a man who preys on his own blood for his sexual deviance. you and i both know what you done to your niece, how you seduced such a-”

“my nieces have always seemed so alike. both pale haired, both sharing the same smile, both wearing the same dresses.” the knight and the prince had long abandoned their food now, discussion heavy with daemon’s accusation of ser criston abandoning his own vows and committing what he can only imagine would be declared treason, deflowering a princess. perhaps soon the two will share something in common. “now i wonder if they feel the same. you must know, so tell me, did rhaenyra’s cunt grip your pathetic cock in a vice that threatened to ruin any other woman for you? or is that a trait only my youngest niece possesses?”

even now, hours into the late night and several more cups of wine drowning in his system, daemon can not bite back a dry laugh as he recalls the astound look upon the knight’s face, a mixture of disgust and discomfort.

he’s seated- more accurately speaking, he’s draped- upon a chaise, muscles tense and mind racing, in need of distraction. most of his nights end like this now, several emptied pitchers of wine along the floor, red staining his mouth and his own figure collapsed over whatever surface he finds first. occasionally, he’d attempt to have his way with a serving girl, ignoring the looks of ser criston as he stands guard outside his chambers and watches the prince enter with his partner for the evening, yet most were dismissed before daemon could satisfy himself, a mixture of his own drunken incontinence and their far too placid natures.

at least the whores of the silk street make him believe they want him.

letting out a groan, he sinks further into the seat, legs bent at the knee and feet planted firmly on the ground as he lets himself lay back fully. he’s contemplating taking rest here for the evening, and weighing the likely-hood of awakening with a new pain in his neck. 

it would certainly be a more comfortable sleep than the would he’d taken last night, back slumped against a wall and body sat atop the cool marbled floor.

he makes his choice, limbs too tired to make the few paces to his bed, and resigns himself for the night, twisting once more to find the most comfortable position upon the chaise and closing his eyes.

only to reopen them instantly.

something rustles. that feeling of unease creeps in once again, slow like fog over the horizon, hazy and threatening, and cold in every sense of the word. someone has been in his chambers, is in his chambers, and they’ve left something askew.

his eyes dart over the room, trying to assess every nook and corner and crevice within it in hopes of spotting a pair of spying eyes or unsettled objects. struggling due to all the blind spots his position has created, daemon heaves himself back into the upright position, figure slouched and back curved uncomfortably.

the rustling happens again.

he shoots up from his seat, wondering if his inebriated state has begun to create delusions, or if the psychosis caused by staring at the same red walls of the keep nonstop has finally begun to take over. he must be going mad, he thinks, eyes scanning over the whole of his room as he turns in place, cursing the more he notices nothing out of the ordinary.

until he sees it.

there, placed exactly where his tired limbs had been mere moments ago, lays a note.

it’s folded over and sporting a strange yellow blotch in one of it’s corners while, in the centre, written in the blackest ink so delicately and flowery it near stirs his cock in his breeches, kepus.

he snatches at the paper, near tearing it in two with the speed he unfolds it, eyes racing over every scribble and every swirl of pretty inked words.

the rain is the only thing that brings me comfort these days.

the letter begins and, while the writer has still not identified themselves, the prince is more than certain he knows who is speaking.

i’ve never been a fan of change (i’m sure you recall my horrid tantrums as a child whenever my mother assigned me a new handmaiden), yet never have i faced one so large. where in the capital i spent my days with books and needles and rides upon dragon’s back, here i am told to sit quiet as a mouse, as though i am merely another ornament within the lord’s home. where i once spent nights rolling my eyes and wishing to be excused from public feasts, here i cry and ache for a morsel of socialising outside the lord’s inner circle. where once i slept sound over the small folk screaming and cheering into the late night, here i sit awake by the window and listen to each raindrop.

i am not built for the cold, both in weather and in people. they frighten me here, which is a thing i never thought i’d need admit to. there are no whispers here, only silence. but their eyes, they speak paragraphs of hatred and disdain and ill-intentions with a simple glance. i need not worry if they will eat me alive here, but rather whom will be the one to do so. in the capital i’ve always felt untouchable, first because i was my father’s daughter, a princess of the realm, and, when that began to lose effect, you stepped in and taught me safety can be found in another, with your advice and your combat training and your inability to let me fall asleep without you on my mind.

i’ve developed a sick obsession for you, uncle, and it is entirely your fault.

he’s sunk back onto the chaise, hand gripping the letter tighter as a mixture of worry and anger stirs up in his loins. worry over the tales you tell, anger for the possibility of this being a sick game, a note written by some pathetically bored serving wench aiming to ruffle some feathers.

he decides he must keep reading to uncover the truth.

and so, now, it is with heavy heart that i must admit i’m disappointed. don’t perceive me as foolish, for i am wiser than some maiden who believes the things i feel for you to be love. but i always believed there was understanding between us, two different souls yet so completely immersed and knowing of each other’s drives and needs. even when i was a child, you were always the first to notice once i was too tired to continue with the festivities or when i craved the thrill of sneaking down to the dragonpit to spy upon the great beasts. i thought you’d understand, too, that this is not the life i wishfor: a husband with the personality of a wet piece of parchment and a life of silence and gloom.

i am a dragon, just like my sister, and my father, and our ancestors. and a dragon can not grow in a cage, so why have you let them put me in one? you agreed to help me, to ruin me for any other lord so that my father would have no option to but to wed us, leaving us both to our own devices. you, gaining that valyrian wife you always wanted while not changing your whorish ways, and i, earning the freedom i would not find shackled to some low achieving, overbearing, egotistical man. yet i now have a betrothed who’s hair is brown and who’s house has no dragon.

i will risk writing this only once, for the spiders may not spin their thread here but they still bite, and ask this of you: speak sense into my father. tell him i’m with child, tell him i’m a threat to the realm, tell him i’m plotting my own death. tell him any lie you need to put a stop to this betrothal and bring me home, to where i belong.

or, outsmart him and simply come rescue me yourself, like some knight on his white stallion (caraxes would likely singe my hair off if i ever dared call him such a thing in his presence).

i’ll be awaiting your next move, uncle. be sure you play wisely and don’t lose both your princess and your king.

coldest regards,

your little dove.

p.s. i have cum to learn that, while my fingers are indeed skilled, they are nowhere near as good as yours were, kepus.

the intensity behind the stare he holds the note under may just set it alight.

no longer does he doubt who could have written such a thing, the mentions of your joint ploy to deceive the courtiers and the wording used to describe the connection shared between you both marking the undeniable truth of the letter’s author. 

perversion brings him to reread the final sentence, mind fully registering them and flooding him with pink hued paintings of his pretty niece, as nude as the day you were born, now flushed skin and hardened nipples and honey dripping down your thighs as your dainty hands fail to fuck themselves as deeply as his had.

daemon can’t help but wonder what his little dove must think of in moments of self-pleasure, questions of whether you were depraved enough to think of men doing unspeakable things to you or if you merely blush over the memory of your uncle.

reading over the last part two more times, his eyes scatter back up the page- first, in an effort to avoid having to deal with his own impending arousal, and then because he feels compelled to read over the letter once more, eyes scanning over every detail.

it takes an unknown number of reads for him to notice a code among the words, a subtleness of ink layered to appear harsher, darker, more noticeable than the other words upon the parchment.

i’m, where, you, once, were.

i’m where you once were.

an inexplicable sense of pride comes over him, the fact his little dove has found a way to tell him something whilst, simultaneously, telling him nothing. were your worries true of spiders and the risk of one of them reading this letter in the time it took to reach him, he doubts any of them would be wise enough to notice the message, much less decipher it’s meaning.

and, while he applauds your display of wits, he despises his own inability to comprehend it. if you are where he once was, where had he been?

just about everywhere in the seven kingdoms, is the unfortunate truth.

by the time sleep at lasts takes over him, daemon has gained two things: the letter you’ve sent and the unbreakable will to move in on the king at last.

“the objective of chess is to protect your king while attacking your opponent’s. you must back the king into a corner, leave him with no way out, place him in check. only then will you be able to call checkmate and win.”

daemon nudges the knight with his foot.

as they’d sat for supper that evening, the prince had felt doubtful of the contents in the vial. he’d pinched it from the grand maester himself and, though he payed no real coins, the prince would argue he payed a grater price: feigning interest in conversing with old crone. a near three hours he’d sat, listening to the man drone on and on, till at last he’d excused himself to relieve his bladder and left daemon with a window of opportunity, his ointments and medicine all in a neat little display.

having little time, he’d grabbed at what he was sure to be milk of the poppy- a significantly smaller dose remaining within the vial compared to the rest- and tucked it in his trousers, at last excusing himself from the bore of a lifetime.

it wasn’t difficult to slip the liquid into a cup of wine, nor was it particularly hard to convince ser criston to drink from it, inviting the knight to join in on his empty toast towards the hightower queen and yet another pregnancy.

hours later and ser crispin lays slumped over outside his door.

daemon gives one more nudge for safety and, when the man merely slouches even closer to the ground, he grabs at the knight’s weapon and nestles it in his own scabbard, making use of it for the first time in two moons.

the hour is late and most of the keep have given in to the temptations of rest, yet the prince still travels the halls with caution, one eye looking over his shoulder. he half expects every guard he passes to seize him on sight, spewing some nonsense of his wrongful weapon or non-permitted solitude. with luck he reaches his destination, no one to spy upon the way he enters into the emptied library nor to witness as he shoves a bookcase aside and steps into the tunnel.

his memory serves him well, even after all these years, navigating himself through the interconnected secrets of the keep. he passes rooms of lords laid in bed with women they do not call wife, and ladies disrobing for the evening, and the still empty chambers of his little dove, till, at last, he reaches where he wants to be, not bothering with patience before barging his way out of the tunnel and into the regal chambers of the king.

“it took you longer than i expected.” daemon had counted on his brother being the one wearing shock upon his face, yet it is the prince who plays the fool, stepping into the room to find his older brother sat at a table, goblet in hand and a familiar checkered board in front of him.

it irks him to hear the king even imply he’d been expecting his arrival.

“don’t you have a wife to be bedding, brother?” he steps deeper into the chambers with caution, eyes on the empty bed and the lack of sight of his brother’s breeding mare.

“pregnancy, daemon. it works wonders on a woman’s body,” he takes a sip of his drink before reaching to pour a second cup meant for the prince. “it’s just a shame one of those wonders comes in the form of my wife snoring louder than a lion roars.”

it’s strange to hear his brother discuss details of his new bride.

daemon had never sought answers for their marriage, yet he’d forever questioned what had driven his brother to marry such a girl, childhood friend of his eldest daughter and so clearly lacking the backbone needed to stand up for herself against the injustices forced against her by her own father. were the prince a more gentle person at heart, perhaps he’d find it in him to pity her.

instead, he sees her as just another thorn in his brother’s side, waiting for the chance to poison his mind and seat one of her wretched babes upon the throne.

“come, come,” dragging him out of his thoughts is viserys once more, now half-hovering over the table and moving his limbs back and forth, hands carefully placing each piece upon it’s designated checker. “sit down! let us play!”

only as he’s seated across from viserys does he notice he’s been bestowed with playing the blacks on the board. never before was he allowed, the older of the two always insisting black was his lucky colour and refusing to play the whites.

in truth, daemon has always suspected his brother had been to fearful to play white, not knowing how to make a good first move and relying on his opponent to instead kickstart the game and give him places to move his pieces.

“isn’t it a beautiful board?” the elder must confuse his staring as a sign of fascination, gawking at the splendour of it. “it’s the very same one mother gifted me after i bested her for the first time.”

there it is, that familiar lick of envy, a sick and cruel twist in his guts as he stares down at an object viserys gets to remember their parents by, while all daemon ever got was disapproving looks and half-hearted embraces. perhaps the rumours are true and the prince has a complex which forces him to pity himself, to cast a shadow upon his own image and declare that it was a wrong forced upon him by others.

or, more likely, the consequences of watching his parents prop viserys up on a mantelpiece whilst leaving him in a corner to collect dust had lead him down the path to the destructive man he’s become.

even when he’d claimed caraxes, he could only imagine what his father’s reaction would have been, were he still alive to witness it. 

impressive, but your brother claimed the greatest dragon to have ever lived, the one who the great conqueror rode upon and forged a throne under the black dread’s flames.

“‘tis exactly the same as any other chess board, brother.” he lets petty feelings spin lies on his tongue, rolling his eyes and disregarding the clear etherealness, the intricate carvings on each piece and the extravagant linings of the board, and each of it’s shimmering onyx and quartz squares.

daemon downs half his cup in one sip, eyes trained on his brother’s first move.

king’s pawn forward two spaces, a strong start and an immediate attack to the centre.

it’s fitting, daemon thinks, for this to be the first move his brother makes while leading a game. while a powerful start, it’s rather obvious, one he’d seen viserys defeat in a manner of mere seconds. perhaps age has taken away his astute mind and skill for the game.

daemon retaliates, moving one of his bishop’s pawns forward two spaces.

with the crease that forms in viserys’ brow, daemon delights. his brother was not expecting him to move in such a way, likely expecting him to do something erratic like bringing his queen’s pawn forward.

the pair continue to move in silence, sips of wine and scratching of pieces echoing around the chambers. it’s deceivingly peaceful, nothing like the confrontation the rogue prince had geared himself up to walk into. while he’d awaited bursts of anger and scathing accusations and marks of betrayal, the two sit like children once more, moving empty objects in an imitation of politics.

the only difference is daemon appears to have the upper hand, a growing collecting of white pieces stored to the right of his long-ago emptied and refilled cup.

as always, it’s daemon who takes the first bite.

“i’m afraid i must pay you your dues, brother.” his words slip through his own smirking lips, satisfaction rolling in by the hundreds as he spies the white king, slowly losing places to hide on the board. “it’s truly applaudable how you managed to not only secure one daughter a marriage amid questions of her virtue, but two! young helaena will follow in her half-sisters’ footsteps, surely.”

viserys’ hand pauses mid-air, his remaining bishop held in his grasp. his grip tightens with each passing second. the older has always been more level-headed, that no one can dispute, but the rogue prince will forever swear up and down, high and low, that it is his brother who carries the more foul temper.

viserys’ anger is just harder to weed out from behind false niceties and calmed breathing.

“if you mean to say that helaena will be so lucky as to marry a noble man, filled with honour,” he lays his bishop down at last, not managing to capture any of daemon’s blacks. “then yes, i should hope so. both the betrothal of my eldest daughter and my middle-born were to good men, faithful lords. my helaena will be lucky to do the same.”

“you never did quite tell me about y/n’s betrothal, brother.” the king chuckles at daemon’s words, empty amusement in the obvious statement the prince makes. still, he makes no attempt to stop him, letting him string the conversation along to the dreaded topic between them: the rumours of what daemon had done to you. “last i spoke with her, she was rather... occupied with something other than the prospect of marriage. when you announced her future union to her, did she drop on her knees and kiss your feet in gratitude? or did she spit at you and-”

“did she drop on her knees for you?” the raise in viserys’ voice is minimal yet enough to have daemon smirking over the rim of his cup, amused to see his brother being led into his trap for once.

he makes his next move on the board fist, plucking his knight and moving it over one of his own pawns. if he plays is cards right, messes with his brother’s head just the right amount, perhaps he won’t notice how he’s moving in on his king.

his only hope is to keep talking about his little dove.

“so that’s what you wish to discuss, brother? how it felt to fuck your young daughter?” for the first time he speaks the lie out loud, no hiding behind innuendos nor insinuations. they need to believe you’ve stolen my virtue, kepus, were the words you’d whispered to him, face still fresh from dried tears and teeth stained purple with the wine he’d let you sip from his glass late into the night as the rest of the world had slept, they need to think that you fucked me.  he’d sworn an oath to you, to put on a show and ruin you beneath the judgement of others. he’ll be damned if viserys becomes an exception to this oath. “because i can go into detail, you needn’t beg. i can tell you of how it felt to have her squeeze around my cock, and how she arched that little back like a cat, spine curving deeper each time i pounded into her. i can tell you of how she begged for her uncle, her kepus, to shoot his spend into her aching womb and-”

a screech rings out as viserys’ chair flies backwards, the king rising to a stand and glaring down at his brother, who only sinks deeper into the velvet lined seat and allows himself another sip of his glass, face painted in pure amusement as viserys’ reflects that of an angered dragon.

“enough! i will not have you speak such atrocities about your own niece!”

“oh spear me the lecture of the seven, brother!” the hypocrisy to shun him for lusting after his own kin, it has to be the hightower cunt’s doing. feeding lies into her new husband’s head, any means to have his true-blooded targaryen daughters removed from the line to the throne. daemon at last feels himself begin to irk, a scowl engraving itself into his forehead. “your own beloved, your late wife, shared blood with you and you never once objected to bedding her. it is our family’s birthright to keep the blood of the dragon burning hot, not dampen it with that of lesser folk. i mean our parents, for gods’ sake, they were siblings! are you going to tell me it’s wrong?”

“this is not about you being her uncle, daemon. this is about you being you! and her being my sweet girl, one of the last pieces of aemma-”

daemon can’t help himself, flying out of his own seat with the slam of his hand on the table. the pieces rattle under the impact, the white queen toppling over and sending her pawn flying off the board.

“your sweet girl who you let be slandered by the same lords who break bread at your table and drink from your cups!” the prince stands taller than the king, shoulders straight and head held high as he flips positions, becoming the one staring down upon his older brother, who’s slouched and frailer than he once was, hands searching for the steadying hold of the oak table. “tell me, brother, where were you when she drank herself sick as they spoke on her fertility? what did you do when they mocked her for being scared after an attack on her life, in her own chambers!? did you even ask her what happened between us before you shipped her off like cattle to the slaughter, let her tell you it was she who asked it of me? she detested the thought of marrying some unknown lord so much she’d rather destroy her maidenhood and her honour, but you wouldn’t see that, too blinded by your own downfall into becoming a boot-licker for all these cunts who hold land in your realm.”

viserys can only stare, frozen where he stands and eyes widened in bewilderment at his brother’s own outburst, chest heaving in anger and hands shaking with adrenaline as he points towards the king.

“are you in love with her?”

no more than a whisper, so quiet the rogue prince is almost sure he imagines it.

till the king repeats himself.

"gods, don't be ridiculous!" it’s neither a yes nor a no, and daemon is so painfully aware of this, aware that he gives no real answer to your father nor himself.

the concept of love and all it entails has never appealed to the prince, at least in the way it’s presented in song and written of in history. all his life he’d heard of knights who’s lady love was a gem they sought to hold, to sing songs of faithfulness and dance around with hands entwined by marriage. of men who made themselves better, kinder, more gentle, all in the hopes of pleasing their lover and winning her hand. daemon had never experienced such a feeling.

while love is something most feel in their heart, daemon feels it in his loins.

it’s a hunger that consumes his very being, aching, and growling, and demanding to be fed with bursts of passion and shouts of anger. it’s a possession he needs to take, to mark someone as his, in every sense of the words. his to own, his to touch, his to drown in expensive gifts. his love is not kind, but brutal, and loud, and forceful, never leaving room for the rest of the world to doubt it. it makes him want to march into battle, to burn down cities, to spill the blood of any who dare harm the object of his obsession. his love is a fire that burns him from within, spilling out from his skin and scorching everything in it’s path.

the prince is not sure if he wants you to burn in its flames.

“but i could give her a greater life than any other man in this realm.” what he is certain of is that he will not stand by as your father let’s you be ruined by someone other than him. “a good man means nothing if he can not keep her safe, or even happy. at the very least, wedding her to me would mean her husband is someone familiar. she wouldn’t have to leave her home, or change her ways, or even bare a child if she does not wish to.”

viserys sighs, tired body dropping back into his chair and his mangled hand reaches up to brush over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeeze shut. the prince almost believes he sees a flicker of resignation, winning his brother over at last or exhausting him so deeply he sees no choice but to accept his words as truth, if only to silence him.

instead, the king reaches for the board once more, an airy laugh escaping him as he examines the placement of each piece. leaning over, he sits his queen back up and drums his fingers on the table.

he laughs once more.

"after all these years, daemon, you still struggle to capture my queen."

“but your queen, daemon. the queen is where you hide all your power, look for where your opponent keeps their queen and there you shall find true victory.”

the words of years ago spin round and round in the prince’s head.

his eyes, glued to the board, watch as the king moves his queen out two spaces and captures daemon’s knight, snatching it off the board and tossing it over his shoulder. viserys looks up, awaiting for daemon to continue the match, to put an end to it at last.

but he’s too stuck on the phrasing his brother had used, stubborn in his belief that it’s meaning has little to do with the game upon the table and, rather, the one that’s being played with words and whispers and undisclosed betrothals.

the prince thinks of the queen, the hightower girl who parades around the courts in green silks and upon swollen ankles, face downtrodden each time she foolishly thinks no one is looking. if ever he believed viserys held true affection for her, he’d wonder if she was who the king refers to, if otto hightower had truly been sent back to oldtown empty handed or with a new bride on his arm.

but any fool with a set of eyes can see the king loves his second wife like he loves the iron throne: through duty and obligation.

it is, instead, the late queen aemma who viserys must speak of.

and, while her maiden home, house arryn, where she’d spent her girlhood in the days before she’d been betrothed to her cousin, possesses no lord nor man awaiting a wife, a neighbouring house had just recently named a new wifeless lord.

a house which remembers, especially those who wrong it.

“no…”

i'm where you once where.

“you have to understand, daemon, that the actions you take leave me with consequences to bare. after what happened to lady rhea… after what you done,” his brother, so clearly exhausted with the secrecy and the scheming, folds like a house of cards against a gentle breeze, collapsing further into his seat and shaking his head. he does not notice as daemon moves his own queen along the board. “the vale were at an unease. threatened, was the word they used. so when lord royce staked his claim over his house’s seat, demanding i compensate runestone for the marriage agreement you destroyed and the lady you took from them, i had to give them a show of good faith. i had to reassure them of the longstanding trust between our houses.”

“so you gave her to them, sold her like some slave!”

“i made a political deal!” he attempts to defend himself in both words and on the board. in both, he fails. “one where lord rhoyce gains a bride, i avoid war and my daughter gets to finally take on the duties bestowed upon her at birth.”

“you’re a fucking fool, viserys. you would have been better delivering her to the triarchy. least they would make her death a more swift one. that rhoyce twat’ll have her head on a pike, and her tits and cunt will be hand delivered to you. they’ll slaughter her, as payment for their-” daemon swallows every ill coloured word and expression of his despise that comes to mind at the memory of his bronze bitch, giving no out for his brother to twist this conversation into a matter of his own wrongdoings. “late lady.”

with no more hesitation, the rogue prince moves his queen one last time and delights in watching the white king fall into check.

he knocks the piece over, quietly declaring checkmate.

“brother, please,” the king’s words are as fragile as his health, failing and mute against daemon’s scowling features, which refuse to play nice any longer. “do you think this is what i wanted, for my daughter to be used as a bargaining tool for peace? but there’s no going back, what’s done is done.”

“then undo what is done!”

“how can i when they threaten violence and-”

“you’re the king! who gives a shit what they threaten, they have a dozen men to your thousands. you have dragons! if the threat of fire worked on the men of the vale once, it’ll do so again. so regain your pride and write to that cunt royce. tell him to have your daughter cleaned up and sent back to where she belongs, to find fulfilment in his new lordhood and to drop this notion that he even deserves to gaze upon a targaryen princess, much less stick his shrivelled cock within her. i urge you to send this letter post-haste,” that familiar blade of his sits neatly by the entrance of the chamber, attracting the prince over till he clutches it in his grasp at last, quickly returning dark sister to her rightful spot by his side and discarding the blade he’d stolen from ser criston. he glances back at the king, now risen once more, and twists the doorknob. “and pray, dear brother. pray that it reaches gerold royce before i do.”

with the slam of the door, daemon plunders into the halls of the keep, footsteps heavy and echoing with each one he takes. jaw clenched and hands fisted, he paints the image of a man enraged, sick and fed-up with the games being played.

by the time he reaches his chambers, shoving his way past the sleeping knight at it’s doors, there’s bound to be a flurry of gossiping fools who speak of the prince and his defiling of the king’s commands, but he cares little as he straps himself into leathers and steel, hell-bent on reaching the dragonpit before day breaks and the sun paints the sky alight.

daemon is done sitting idly by, waiting for the king to see reason.

because while at the age of five, naive and easily influenced, daemon targaryen had looked up to his chess-genius of a brother, it was at age five and ten that he realised why his brother kept winning, why pawns and knights and rooks would conveniently move to the places he needed them to be.

he cheated.

#daemon targaryen smut #house of the dragon smut #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fluff #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen oneshot #daemon targaryen imagine

[formulas-bitch]

THE DARK LORD charles leclerc x reader

The Dark Lord's rule is known as the Reign of Terror. He is a vicious ruler set on conquering the whole of country, including your home.

As a warrior of the Queen, you refuse to let that happen. You, along with the other warriors, vow to do everything in your power to stop him. You swear you will kill him.

You were sent out on a mission to scout the perimeters of the Dark Lord's territory, along with a partner. Little did you know, you were just being used as bait to distract from the real mission. You were seen as replaceable and insignificant to the Queen. But right now, you felt proud and determined to do your best.

You crouch behind a thorny bush, just on the outskirts of enemy territory. You motion for your partner, a girl with a tight blonde ponytail, to follow you.

There's an odd feeling in the air. A sort of tightness that makes you feel on edge. Your partner feels it too. She tries to dissuade you from going any further.

"Maybe we should head back," she whispers nervously, "There is nothing here to report."

"No," you hiss, "There's something important here, I'm sure of it. This information could save the lives of our people! You go back if you want to."

She anxiously looks around, "...I'll stay." She notices another boulder, further into the territory, "We can scout better in there."

You nod, "Good idea."

As you both start creeping towards the boulder, the air becomes harsher and you feel like something-or maybe someone- is hovering above you.

Suddenly the air burns hot.

"Watch out!" You push your partner out of the way and you both crash to the stone ground. Right where you were standing before is a burnt hole in the ground.

"What the..."

A deep laugh echoes near you. Suddenly, a tall form materializes next to you.

"Brave," he chuckles, "Or should I say stupid?"

With a shock, you realize that the Dark Lord himself is standing above you.

You jump to your feet, angry. This is the man who is trying to ruin your kingdom and kill your people. This could be your chance to get him. Quick as a flash, you pull out your knife and lunge at him.

He easily dodges and grabs your wrist, the knife clattering to the ground.

Almost nose to nose, you realize his eyes are a deep violet that contrasts with his ebony hair. Those eyes that crave murder.

You spit at his feet.

Your partner, still on the ground terrified, gasps.

"Spies of the Queen, eh?" he says.

"I'm not a spy," you glare, "I'm a soldier."

The Dark Lord already knew that, though. He had been watching you and your partner the entire time you trekked across the land. He found your spirit amusing. You seemed smart, brave, and loyal. He was sure that if he could get you on his side, his success would be rapid. A warrior like you who knew the enemy's secrets? Perfect. He liked the gleam in your eye and the way your hair shined.

He tightens his hold on your arm and looks at your partner.

"I'm taking them to my palace. Return to your queen and tell her victory is mine." He looks at you grins, "With you by my side, victory is guaranteed.

Before you can react, he snaps his fingers and you black out. The last thing you saw was your partner's terrified face.

You wake up in a silky bed, with black sheets, blankets, and pillows. In fact, you notice the entire room is black. Black walls, floor, furniture. The bright open window lets in blinding morning light which helps you see the room.

You are in the Dark Lord's Palace.

You are still in the same clothes, but all your weapons have been removed. Even your well hidden ones.

That's a little concerning...

You reach for the candle holder on the bedside drawer and slip out bed. The floor is cold and you walk towards the closed door, candle holder raised high.

You kick open the door and what you see shocks you.

The Dark Lords sit at a small table, a glass of wine in his hand. The light hits him directly, making him look frighteningly beautiful.

Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, wicked gleam in his eye.

"Ah, you're awake." He sets down his glass and smiles, "Shall we talk?"

"I have nothing to say to you" you glare at the dark lord

he chuckles as he walks towards me slowly

" oh, but I have so much to say to you darling" he says as he stops two feet away from me.

" don't call me that" I hiss  at him

" tsk tsk tsk, if only you knew that you were set up Y/n" he say looking me in the eyes, blue meeting violet.

" what do you mean set up? and how do you know my name?" I questioned the dark lord cuz I never told him my name.

"oh, just that your so called queen set you up as bait love, she never really cared about you. she just needed someone to be a distraction for the real mission she had going on. and for your name I just know." he smirked at me.

I stand there frozen after hearing what the dark lord had told me. was I really a distraction? was it all a lie? was everything the queen said to me a lie?.

the dark lord moves Infront of me placing his hand on my cheek caressing it as he look at me in the eyes with this look that I cant tell what.

" don't worry love you will be so much more here with me if you would join me?" he said gently. that was the first time I heard him speak so gently with me. I look up at him in the eyes as tears start to flow down my checks.

" was my sacrifice for everything I have done my whole life meant for nothing?" I cried out to him

" no it wasn't darling, you were just on the wrong side so what do you say join me, don't let all the sacrifices you made go to waste" the dark lord said as he held me with this look in his eyes that I have only seen once in my life and that was when my parents saw each other after a long day of work. love, admiration, and longing.

it made me feel a different way. I felt butterflies in me when he looked at me like that. I felt all of the blood in my body push to the surface making me feel hot and no doubt a blush on my face. is this was it felt like to have someone to care for you, to love you, to want to do anything for you?.

" I have one question first?" I muttered

"what is your question love?" he said

" what is your name? its only fair I know your name since you know my name" I questioned him

" it Charles love"

Authors note:

So how is this for the first post??

Should I make a part two to this?? Vote or comment and I'll get to writing it 🥺

#f1 blurb #formula one #f1 x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x y/n #charles leclerc 16 #cl16 x reader #cl16 x y/n #cl16 imagine #darkxcharlesleclerc #dark charles leclerc

[gabessquishytum]

This is short:

Dream is the Foreign Witch!Queen to Chief Viking Hob.

Fighting a populous who distrust him, having been "sold" Hob to prevent war (even as Hob tries to be nice about it), and needing to produce a heir.

Ooo intriguing!!!

Hob is, if nothing else, a decent guy. He's not afraid of conflict, but it is important for his people to have some safety and security in their village. They're vikings - they go and ravage other people's territory. And they keep their homes safe. So, if this alliance is vital for them to keep the peace and save their homes from being burned, then Hob is satisfied. Its not like Dream can do anything to hurt him - he's as skinny as a twig and hardly looks like he'll last the winter.

But Dream does have magic. Enough that he could probably hurt Hob quite badly if he chose, and enough that he could also carry Hob’s heir. He's willing to do so but Hob’s comrades don't trust him enough to even leave them alone together. Hob has a very nice house with furniture, warm furs, a good fire. But there are always servants spying on Dream. Warriors glaring at him when he goes out to feed the animals. The only people who actually treat Dream well are Hob himself, and his little son Robyn who was borne by Hob’s first wife. Robyn giggles at Dream’s little feats of magic and snuggles up to him in the big bed to keep warm.

So when Robyn gets sick, Dream nurses him day and night. Hob is frantic. But Dream makes medicines and casts gentle healing spells over the child, and the runes must be favourable, because Robyn lives through his illness. And that very night, Hob scoops his little witch queen up in his arms and kisses him firmly in front of all the skeptical villagers. It's high time they conceived a new heir, a little sibling for Robyn, a living embodiment of their alliance.

If the gossips and the spies are lucky, maybe they'll even hear Dream getting railed by his husband. Dream doesn't need any magic to make sure that Hob thoroughly enjoys the experience.

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft

[giorno-plays-piano]

House of Chains

Part VI

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x mage!reader

Warnings: noncon, yandere, obsession, canon-typical violence, chase scenes, death of minor characters.

Words: 1.4k

Summary: In return for help to come back to your home world, you have been faithfully supporting the Greens to put Aegon on the throne. But when your promise is fulfilled, neither Otto nor Aemond are keen on letting you go.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

P.S. Finally, the long-awaited twist!

_________

At first, Daemon's face betrays nothing as if he hadn't heard you. You think he might consider it a joke as anyone else probably would: you don't look like a lunatic, asking to be burnt by a dragon. Hell, you went as far as travel to Dragonstone, to the lair of your worst enemy, for this, somehow evading soldiers and Rhaenyra's supporters on your way. Daemon surely thinks there is some catch.

"So dramatic," he muses, making an imperative sign with his hand to make Caraxes quiet, the dragon restless behind his back, eager to have you between its teeth. "There are enough dragons in the Red Keep. Why mine?"

You feel yourself trembling, droplets of sweat sliding down your back from fear and pressure. No, no, you can't. You must stay firm, or it'll all go to Hell. Daemon should believe your lies.

"I am pregnant with Aemond's child," you declare, loud, the sound multiplying and echoing deep in the cavern, and Daemon's face finally changes, eyebrows raising. "He forced himself on me. His payment for all I've done for him and his brother, I suppose. And I better die in flames than work for him again."

Luce whimpers softly against you, a bit of blood staining his grey collar.

Before Daemon can ask you questions and ruin your story, you continue, "Why should you care? Because you don't want me alive. You know I'm not truly a Hightower, don't you?"

There's a recognition in his eyes, and Daemon bows his head mockingly as you draw a deep breath, griping the blade harder so it won't escape your sweaty palms.

"I am behind the murder of the White Worm and most of her spies," you smile, baring your teeth at him like an animal. "I killed Ser Harrold Westerling when I found out he supported Rhaenyra's claim, and many others who thought they could fake their promises to King Aegon II. I've been spying, torturing, and killing your wife's friends in the Red Keep for more than 2 years. But Hightower betrayed me, and I'd rather die than give birth to Aemond's child."

The more you talk, the more Daemon's face twists in cold fury, his hand clenching a torch like it was a sword. Does he believe you? It is, perhaps, difficult to trust a word of a woman who looked too young and too feeble to do any of those things, but you have arrived to the Dragonstone undetected and even took Lucerys hostage despite the castle being full of guards, lords, and servants. It isn't a coincidence, and Daemon has always been too suspicious of you, a girl appearing out of nowhere and serving the Queen with too much vigor.

The anger and a thousand of other emotions in his eyes give you some hope.

"Burn me, Daemon Targaryen." You exclaim loudly, trying to make him act, your hand trembling. "Send my charred remains to Aemond as a gift. I'm sure it is a fair price for the sins I've committed."

"Why going such a long way?" The man suddenly asks, and you freeze, afraid you won't answer his question. "You could have jumped from the balcony and killed yourself instantly."

You lick your lips nervously. "I could, and Aemond would grieve me. But when he knows I prefer to go to his greatest enemy and have my body burnt rather than marry him, he'll be enraged."

Finally, you see a ghost of a smile on the Rouge Prince's lips. Yes, this is violent, resentful enough, a good reason for him to believe you. Mysaria's murderer wouldn't want to die like a faint lady-in-waiting. She'd want revenge. She'd want her betrayer to hate, not mourn her.

Daemon makes a move with his hand, and Caraxes crawls closer. There isn't much for him to lose.

"Let the boy go, and I'll burn you," he simply says, and you are ready to burst from the surge of adrenaline, your heart beating wildly.

He said yes. Daemon said yes, and you'll be going home.

"But please, burn me for long!" You almost cried out, too excited to keep calm and almost releasing your grip on the boy. "Burn me till there are only bones left."

Lucerys weeps in your grasp, but you don't hear him. You don't even feel the handle of the dagger in your own hand, eyes on Daemon as he smirks, recognizing a fellow monster he thinks you are, a daring creature dressed in white cloaks's robes and armor that don't even fit you. It is impossible to not recognize a woman in men's clothes, and yet no one asked questions when you boarded the ship. No one saw anything suspicious when you landed. No one demanded an explanation why a woman was marching in the Dragonstone castle among the Kingsguard. No one saw you kidnapping Rhaenyra's son.

Perhaps it is true you murdered Misariya and her spies. He knew somebody did. You are sure he thought of Larys, the slippery bastard, but tracking down so many spies in such a short time seemed very unlikely for him without someone's intervention.

Someone who could point at the right people as if by magic.

Truly, you are a creature he would never understand, but Daemon is not a fool. Leaving a dark horse like you alive is too much of a luxury when you are conveniently asking for death right in front of him.

The man nods, and you gigle like a madwoman.

"I'll let Lucerys go on the count of three," you announce, and Caraxes steps closer, his monstrous, clawed feet leaving giant imprints on the ground, and you feel the earth tremble a little. "Shoot the flames then."

It's a horrifying feeling, but you are electrified, every part of your body filled with magic you saved for the last incantation. You are going home. You will be back to the Tower, free to join your teacher and family. No more gloomy stone castles with their ice-cold chambers and pesky kings. No more swords, heavy armor, pretentious dresses, and silly jewels. No more spying and murder.

No more Hightowers and Targaryens.

"I'm sorry, kid," you whisper to the boy before you start counting. "One. Two."

Luce stills against you, color drained from his face.

"Three."

You drop your dagger, and he dashes to the side, holding his neck as if it bleeds profusely, but you don't look at him. Your eyes are on Caraxes and how it unclenches its massive jaw, fire building up inside its throat like in a forge of a blacksmith. It should be enough. Caraxes is not a young dragon, and his strength might rival Vhagar's. It will be enough.

When it unleashes its flames, the words of the incantation are ready on your tongue, and you feel the glow filling you up like hot air fills a giant balloon. It's working. Caraxes' fire is enough.

You chant, and you chant, and you chant until the world starts spinning around you, and the cave, the dragon, and the men finally blend into the great nothing.

________

Subtle wind plays with your hair.

You stand in the midst of the dead gardens of Babylon, surrounded by hollow grey trees that had dried up a thousand years before you were born. Their crooked forms don't scare you: you are far too familiar with the view, wandering here after each of your trips to the other worlds. On the contrary, if anything, it is comforting.

You have arrived safely back to the world of the Tower. You can even see it from here, its tall, proud form making you tranquil and nostalgic.

Unbelievable. You are home.

You have to wipe away the tears with your dirty hands before you can take a step towards it. You've made it. Soon, you'll be sitting on the red and yellow pillows in the great hall, listening to your teacher berating you for such a dangerous journey, eating barley soop and garlic bread, and wearing a long embroidered tunic and your many necklaces and rings. You will never see Westeros again. You won't even step out of the Tower before you feel whole again, pulling your old self back piece by piece before you remember nothing of the stupid, cruel world you have been a prisoner for two long years.

You are free to do as you like.

But when you make a step towards the Tower, you hear someone's sigh behind your back. And when you turn your head, you see a man dressed in black leather who sits on the trunk of a fallen tree.

__________

Aemond Targaryen stares back at you, a crooked smile spread over his face.

Part VII

Tags: @heavenly1927 @yazzzmints @devils-blackrose @lost-and-founds @kennafild

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond #hotd #house of the dragon #the house of the dragon #ewan nation #yandere

[theladyofbloodshed]

You're The Closest To Heaven I'll Ever Be - Part One

The last of the family staff hurried into a waiting carriage, likely prompted by hefty purses of money. The light was bleeding from the sky, casting the grand mortal manor in a muted light. There was no soul to the house. No bleeding red stone walls like the House of Wind or worn love of the town house.

It wasn’t often Azriel ever ventured this side of the wall. Once or twice perhaps. It hadn’t ever been for pleasantries. His spying never took him this far. Mortals had nothing worth gaining. They were not worth establishing any connections with because their lives were so fleeting.

Feyre’s silhouette stood out as the ornate front door was opened.

‘They’re very afraid,’ she murmured to Rhys.

He offered a wry smile. ‘We’ll play nice.’

Beside him, Cassian let out a low whistle as he turned in place, surveying the grand entry hall, the ornate furniture and paintings. They were simply there to show off wealth. Azriel knew the type. He had suffered enough of them.

‘Your father must be a fine merchant,’ Cassian said. ‘I’ve seen castles with less wealth.’

A clever way of questioning the father’s whereabouts. He had gathered little intel on the family on Rhys’ orders. Feyre wasn’t to be spied on. His only information had come from snippets overhead by the wraiths. A father with lofty ambitions. A mother who wanted greatness for her daughters. One living. One dead. Two sisters. One soft. One hard.

‘Come,’ Rhys said, offering a subtle nod for Feyre to lead the way. ‘Let’s make this introduction.’

Azriel trailed in last after a silent plea to his shadows to make themselves scarce whilst they were here. There were many others they could listen to in the village.

***

There was no mistaking the family resemblance. The light of the chandeliers coaxed the golden hues of their hair to glisten. They stood beside a window where a heavy curtain was drawn across it. The mortals stood so still they could well have been posing for a portrait. One reminded Azriel of a doe, frozen to the spot, but ready to run at a moment’s notice. The other stiffened as her eyes roamed over their wings. This one was not a runner. No, she formed a fist then edged closer to her sister. That movement told Azriel everything he needed to know. It was the only piece missing from the jigsaw he had been building. The shorter one with darker hair was Elain; the father’s favourite who could win anybody around. Which meant the one stood poker-straight, ready to fight three Illyrians with her bare hands was Nesta Archeron.

‘Cassian, Azriel, and Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court.’

He bowed to the sisters – a gesture undeserved. No other high lord would bow to a mortal, especially not females. ‘Thank you for your hospitality – and generosity.'

Elain tried to return Rhys’ smile but balked. The taller sister scrutinised them once more then decided she was thoroughly unimpressed with any of them. ‘The cook left dinner on the table. We should eat before it goes cold.’

And with that, she strode off. The heels of her shoes clicked on the wooden floor.

Azriel watched her go, the skirts of her dress wafting around her feet as she moved. It wasn’t arrogance that had her marching from the room, or fear. He couldn’t even pin the dismissal on ignorance either. There was something else there that he couldn’t pinpoint – a total indifference towards them. That sort of behaviour from a mortal female was unsettling. She would be the issue in hosting the mortal queens, Azriel could already surmise.

‘Nice to meet you,’ rasped Elain before scurrying after her sister towards the polished cheery wood dining table.

They were the guests in the home, but politeness was in short supply towards Illyrians across Prythian.

As they followed through to the dining room, Azriel was already running through ways to convince the sisters to be more aligned with their plans. Clearly love for Feyre wasn’t enough. There needed to be an undercurrent of fear running through it; judging by the eldest’s protection of the middle sister, Elain may well end up being the leverage they needed to convince Nesta.

The eldest assumed the mantle of lady of the house in lieu of a mother or father present, so had taken the seat at the head of the table. There was a silent challenge in that to see where Rhys might place himself. On her left, Elain trembled. Her fear clouded the air as Cassian took the chair beside her. Feyre opted for the one beside her elder sister, perhaps to contain her, followed by Rhysand then Azriel sat on his left.

Elain’s fear mottled the air. It was a cloying scent. A brief glimpse at her hands revealed the bone-white knuckles that clutched her knife, perhaps debating whether to ram it into the arm of the Illyrian beside her. A faint smile bloomed on his lips, imagining Cassian’s reaction if it occurred. His brother was trying not to make too much noise as he forced his wings into the back of the chair. It creaked under every slight movement of his heavy weight.  Even better if the chair broke beneath him. Maybe the eldest sister’s steel veneer might crack. No, he doubted Nesta Archeron was prone to smiling, much less laughter.

In silence, they filled their plates. The mortal food lacked a smell or even much colour. But they had had worse. He had had much worse. There had been days locked in that cell below the ground without food. Days where his brothers made him beg and beg until he cried out of frustration for a morsel of a meal. It didn’t matter if the food lacked taste, as long as it filled his stomach.

‘Is there something wrong with our food?’

Nesta was staring at Feyre, rage simmering in her gaze.

It likely tasted of ash to her now she was fae. Feyre exaggerated her chewing then swallowed with a gulp before washing it down with half a glass of water. ‘No.’

‘So you can’t eat normal food anymore – or are you too good for it?’

Rhys dropped his fork. His brother was showing the heart on his sleeve too readily to a female who didn’t know. Maybe she was unaware of faerie mating bonds entirely. Azriel didn’t know. Or care.

Her hand splayed out on the wood. ‘I can eat, drink, fuck, and fight just as well as I did before. Better, even.’

‘If you ever come to Prythian,’ said Rhys, intervening with a cool breeze of words, ‘you will discover why your food tastes so different.’

She squared her shoulders then blinked slowly. ‘I have little interest in ever setting foot in your land, so I’ll have to take your word on it.’

Mother above, this female was not right. Azriel could read people easily. Within a handful of minutes, he knew a person. A few conversations and he knew what they believed in, what they thought for. Not this one. This female was a mystery. There were no outward signs of fear as she completely dismissed Rhysand and Azriel was sure it wasn’t foolishness blighting her. Nesta Archeron was a female who didn’t care how close she flew to the sun because she’d already been burnt.

‘Nesta, please,’ murmured her sister.

A chair creaked. Cassian swung back on the legs to give himself more room at the table. There was a gleam in his eyes that Azriel recognised. It usually had cocky Illyrians, who thought they were up for a challenge, scrambling to escape.

Sharply, her head swung to him. ‘What are you looking at?’

That would rattle his brother. His brows lifted, amusement fading. ‘Someone who let her youngest sister risk her life every day in the woods while she did nothing. Someone who let a fourteen-year-old child go into that forest, so close to the wall.’ Cassian shook his head, strands of black hair loosening from the bun at the nape of his neck. ‘Your sister died – died to save my people. She is willing to do so again to protect you from war. So don’t expect me to sit here with my mouth shut while you sneer at her for a choice she did not get to make – and insult my people in the process.’

Anybody else might have crumbled. Might have dipped their head in shame or fear. Not this one. Nesta did not bat an eyelash as she studied him – then she turned away, completely disinterested in continuing any sort of conversation with Cass. That would wound him. And he'd end up hearing about it for the next decade.

His chest heaved as he readied another battalion of words for the sister, but Azriel swooped in. For once, the words hadn’t been carefully practised to slot into a conversation. ‘Apologies for the disturbance to your evening. We must remember our manners.’

Both of his brothers were staring at him. And Nesta. Her silver eyes landed on his face, combing over it in a way that had him ready to pull his shadows back to conceal himself. For once, a stranger’s gaze did not dip to his hands. There were no rushed, repeated glances at them. No, Nesta held the eye contact longer than anyone else would dare. Then, once satisfied, she gave the slightest dip of her chin and turned back to her food. He was certain the corners of her mouth had lifted.

A flare of pain hit him squarely in the chest. He glanced over his shoulder, anticipating an archer readying another bow. His brothers hadn’t reacted. Nobody had. Azriel stared down at the siphon on his chest, half-expecting to see an arrow protruding from it. He rubbed at the ache under his ribs. It was like a hook beneath his skin, tugging and writhing as it burrowed deeper. It was a noose pulling too tight, strangling him.

Again, Azriel looked to his brothers, certain that the food was laced with something. Neither had paused from their quiet eating. Elain took small forkfuls whilst Feyre pushed most of it around. Still, his chest burned like something had hooked itself to his rib.

He felt the heat of a stare on his face. Azriel raised his head and was met with a pair of simmering, quicksilver eyes.  

#nezriel #nesta archeron #azriel #nesta x azriel

[4rainynite]

EAH Dorm Rooms Headcanon pt 1

Apple & Raven's Dorm.

One's a princess who's loyal to her destiny, while the other princess is rebellious and fighting for a cause.

Throughout the series we've seen Apple & Raven's room the most since they're the main characters. but let's dive in a little more.

It's obvious that Raven and Apple have different styles as Raven's style would be associated with the gothic subculture and Apple would be associated with the preppy subculture. Apple's main colors are red, white, and gold (and sometimes pink) and her motifs are apples, bows, and pearls. Raven's main colors are purple, black, and grey/silver (and sometimes turquoises) and her motifs are birds/feathers, chains, and scales. Also, their main colors are Ever After High school's color and their alliances purple for the Rebels and red for the Royals.

Mirrors seem to be one of the things that unites the two girls. Think about it, in the Snow White story it was a magic mirror that told the Evil Queen who was the fairest. Throughout the dorm mirrors are shown on both sides (heck, there're tiny mirrors on Raven's slippers). Throughout history mirrors have been used to reflect what we see and who we want to see. And during the book and web series mirrors have been used during important story lines for example: Headmaster Grimm hearing the Evil Queen laugh, Apple using the mirror net to spy on Raven (consent much?), how the Evil Queen spies on others (Ugh, privacy!), mirrorpads, mirrorphones, mirror prison, the booking glass in Dragon Games, etc. Mirrors are important in the EAH world.

From what is stated on Apple's card (under Apple's side) the room she and Raven share is the largest dorm room (in the girls' dorm) reserved for epic tales. Seeing how the Headmaster plays favorites I'm surprise he didn't give this room to Apple first. But maybe he doesn't assign the rooms and as long as the character is from an epic tale: evil, good, or neutral they can have it!

Apple's side: Apple is a Royal both in alliance and birthright. Apple aspires to be the perfect queen and her dorm room reflects it. Honestly, don't tell me this wasn't the bedroom you wanted when you were five-years-old and in your princess phase.

From what I read in the books Apple's furniture consists of: redwood furniture, canopy, gilded chairs and wardrobe. Only the best for a future queen!

Apple lives and breathes the princess lifestyle and not just because she is one, she works hard for it. She's also very studious as she is one of the few students with the top grades so whenever she's not checking herself in the mirror she is studying, reading, or preparing for future school events.

Apple cares deeply about her looks and her magic talking mirror helps her both in fashion and in confidence. I love the irony that Apple spends more time consulting a magic mirror than Raven.

Though it was never seen in the show Apple did receive a jewelry box similar to Raven's. The jewelry Apple may keep in there are probably pearls, rubies, mini crowns, and apple barrettes since that is what she usually wears.

In the Getting Fairiest line Apple has a nightstand where she places her crown while getting ready for an event or sleeping. It was never shown in the webseries, but we did see Briar's nightstand where she keeps her sunglasses (will show when it's Briar's turn) and them seem to be larger than the toy version.

Apple's Fainting Couch has been seen in a few episodes, sadly we never saw her use it. Which is a bummer because, picture this:

Apple laying on her fainting couch writing in her diary WITH HER GLASSES ON! Suddenly, the door knocks and Apple scrambles to put her glasses in the secret compartment and looking very awkward hiding them. That could've been a running gag, we were robbed of that and seeing Apple in her glasses! Plus, the embroidered apple pillow is so cute!

It wasn't seen during Dragon Games, I'll let it pass since the animators were probably busy and we're human we forget stuff. I also believe that Apple keeps her diary in the storage of the fainting couch.

Seeing how she and Raven have the biggest dorm (in the girls' dorm) of course Apple would have a closet and a dresser to fit all her luxurious clothes. But, sometimes the closet isn't there in some scene. My theory is that since Ever After High School is magical maybe the furniture appears when it is needed, or for example when the student is in the room the windows will appear to bring in some like. Like I said above during the Fainting Couch the animators are busy and the layouts change with each animator.

The vanity was originally Apple's desk which had a bulletin board above it. Again, layout change and the furniture appears when it is needed. I kinda like that Apple has fairy lights seeing how traditional her style is, but see does have a poster of guitar, so she may have a spark to her.

Raven Side: Even before the Rebel movement Raven had a rebellious streak in her. She questioned how her world worked, her story, and herself. Despite Raven's fashion sense matching a traditional fairy tale villain it was her choice to dress that way.

Raven's didn't originally look the way we see it now; Apple (along with Briar) redecorated her side of the dorm to resemble more of an evil queens lair. In the webseries Apple gave Raven an evil throne, an evil crown, and an evil haunted mirror (she may have added the extra mirrors), while in the book Apple put spikes on most of Raven's furniture and gave her a goblin bed sheet set. As nice as Apple was trying to make Raven feel at home, it wasn't right of her to change roommates and go through Raven's things without consent.

One thing that stands out in Raven's room is a white guitar, which gives us the idea that Raven is a music lover. One of my many headcanons is Raven's dad got her into music as a bonding activity between the two and the guitar used to be his before he passed it down to his daughter.

Personally, Raven's is my favorite room design (that we got to see) and if I had the budget, I would remodel my room like hers.

As stated above the room Briar (and Ashlynn) are currently living in the same dorm as Raven's mother (and Cerise's mom). I believe Raven lived in her mother's dorm during freedom year (freshmen year) or will live there her final year, and like many boarding schools/ colleges students don't live in the same room every year.

In the color palette it says imperial gold, but I see black in the color scheme, sure there's 'gold' in the flooring and candlelight, but maybe this was an early idea that the creators had to unite Raven and Apple in a way.

Despite being the future Evil Queen, Raven spends the least amount of time looking at herself in the mirror, gotta love irony. It was also mentioned in the book that Raven tries not to compare herself to Apple since that's what lead to her mother going off-book and vain, so she avoids them.

I believe the wide-eye girl was Brooke, which means besides Maddie and Kitty, she's the only non-Wondelander to see a narrator (lore).

We were able to see the jewelry box when Raven was getting ready for her date in 'Date Night' and an actual was available like Apple's. The jewelry we saw Raven take out of the jewelry box were mainly a silver ring and a chain necklace; so, her jewelry is mainly chains, spikes, and amythest. On the bracelet one of the charms is a potion bottle and Raven does have a potion/ bookcase (can be seen in one of the above images) that I wish we saw in use.

In the getting fairest line Raven has a nightstand where she places her high collars during the night. It wasn't seen in the show, but it's somewhere in her dorm.

We only saw glimpses of Raven's destiny vanity in the webseries. In 'Unfairest of Them All' Raven was heartbroken when Baba Yaga Hut's baby destroyed it., luckily it was rebuilt. The vanity has a built-in keyboard and a brush that looks like or doubles as a microphone. Raven is usually seen with her headphones on, listening to Taylor Quick, playing her guitar, or playing on her keyboard at her vanity. She probably spends more time making music than looking at herself.

Like Apple's diary in her fainting couch I think Raven keeps the books in the vanity's cabinets and reads them when she's alone.

The closet and evil throne (not shown) are only seen in glimpses since furniture appears when it is needed. At first I thought Raven was the only student with a fireplace in her dorm, before we saw 'Epic Winter' on Briar's side of the dorm has a fireplace as well, so I guess each dorm has a fireplace on one side of the room. To keep warm during the cold months and having two fireplaces is a bit much and a fire hazard.

At the beginning of 'Croquet Tastrophe' Apple was first seen in Raven's side of the room for some odd reason. But, wait, Apple has a mug in her hand for some reason. Which made me think Raven owns a coffee machine that she lets Apple use sometimes.

The girls do have a balcony (pretty sure everyone at the school has one) that the girls like to go out to get fresh air during times of stress and peace. In 'Apple's Princess Practice' they have a zipline which I'm pretty sure Briar set up.

Well, that's the first of the dorms, now to the next.

Images can be found here: EAH wiki, Royal&Rebelpedia, and @teatimewithmaddie .

#ever after high #everafterhigh #ever after rebel #ever after royal #eah #ever after high headcanons #raven queen #apple white #dorm room #my art

[halevren]

FHJY Spoilers || my live thoughts as I watch episode 11

three hours. three hours along. this might take me a bit to get through 😭😭 I might not note every little thought because that's. A lot. But definitely a good portion of the normal random stuff

THE CONTENT WARNINGS ARE CONCERNING ME.... BODY HORROR??? GORE??? THIS ISN'T A HORROR SEASON. I THOUGHT THIS WAS GOING TO BE A FUN HAHA SEASON???? WHAT??????????

HELLO ONE AND ALL

Ally Brennan Beardsley Mulligan

"What if just shows up for the interview" well I guess that means riz and fig have to create a

PETE WENTZ IS WANDA'S (RECENT) EX BOYFRIEND

"Cause if I say it to Brennan, I'll just be wrong"

CANCELLED 😭

im showing my emo autistic friend this session because they know literally everything about emo bands and apparently Pete Wentz has drank piss multiple times before. Hm.

"Let him sweat"

Mommy/baby time??????

"You are my little baby"

Sklonda embarrassing Riz to Fig is so real and accurate

spys tongue

spy's tongue or spies tongue

Very Humanoid Animals 😭😭😭😭😭😭

AN ORANGUTAN

NAT ONE BECOMES 23 🔥🔥🔥🔥

19 steal orangutan tho

VOMITING

NAT 20 MURPH

BROKEN CRYSTAL??

BLOOD SPLATTER?

oh goodness

Something happened here

CONFUSED?

STABS HER HAND?

Copperkell

Riz asking his mom to see dead bodies

omg did Kalina say Ragh Barkrock because she wanted them to investigate everything that she did back then in reference to him specifically (like the killing clone Lydia / destroying the house, etc.)

Emergency meeting. Even you Fabian.

CARBONIZED BLOOD?

rage kills

CRRRRRRIT it's a 7

IDENTIFY SPELL!!!!!!!

oh no. Brennan why you asking the state of emotions

"Fuck"

TWO IN ONE ONE IN TWO

Identify spell is overwhelmed

ATTACKS ADAINE????

NAT 20 PERCEPTION CHECK

The rot of dead gods??

INTERIOR OF A BODY?

gross gross gross gross

"gorgug..... very good....."

"You have to tip me this time" "nah"

building a God??? oh my...

The daymare queen

Bobby Dawn.

Asking what would make Kristen angry is such a loaded question. So much stuff

"My president!"

gorgug just grabs the angry shard

"I did not tell you I shit." "No, the whole school knows about it"

ADAINE HAS A SCOOTER?

AELWYN ASKED THE SHELTER FOR ALL THE UNWANTED CATS 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

AND SHE'S ALLERGIC TO CATS 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

"I have so much love to give exclusively to cats"

Camaraderie in toxicity

SHE HAS NO FRIENDS 😭😭

omg aelwyn and fabian boned

"Fuck you. Bitch"

Malarkey

"Tell Kristen to not come back."

zac's little shrugs hehehehe

"I drive down to bastion city and do crimes."

"I shall steal everyone's bones"

THE CATS CAN SMELL THE WARD AND THEY WON'T TAKE THE MEDICINE

aelwyn my beloved I love her so much

FIG DISGUISED AS KIPPERLILLY COPPERKETTLE

Ruben is just constantly being terrorized by fig in the dreamscape

devil's nectar Gertie infodump

KRISTEN AND GERTIE KISSED

"Okay, well let's go out sometime. I'm painfully single, uh, and none of my friends wanna see me naked anymore." Kristen Applebees you are so fascinating

LOCAL FOOD TRUCKS? THE FUCKING FOOD TRUCK FEST

KRISTEN MAKING OUT WITH GERTIE TO DISTRACT HER FROM FABIAN

"Kristen, you know that's my nemesis right?"

KRISTEN GOT HER KISSES IN 🎉🎉🎉

RIZ IS ON THE SCHOOL STAFF?????

LET FIG BECOME THE CLERIC TEACHER

LET WANDA CHILDA BECOME THE CLERIC TEACHER

A CV OF WANDA CHILDA

A WICKER PAPER??????

"I pooped right now."

Adaine over break research paper of curses

RUBEN IS HENRY'S NEPHEW

NAT 20 GORGUG PERCEPTION

He leaves the motherboard.... I worry that it might be stolen by someone else

"Seems suspect." "What do you mean suspect?" "Seems Suspect" their sibling dynamic is so real

THEY BROUGHT ZAYN!!!!

how did they get Zayn through TSA

TELEMAINE HAS A LITTLE THING THAT SAYS GORGUG'S NAME 😭😭😭😭😭

YAK BAK

GRAPE NIP

Hillariel is so pretty

GILEAR IS SO STRESSED

GILEAR SAID FUCK

Gilear is the only person who has made the fig curse the main priority

"I want the yogurt back on my shirt"

ALL THE MONEY GILEAR IN THIS SITUATION MAKES GOES STRAIGHT TO ADAINE

"HE GRABS ME?"

RIZBERT

"TELEMAINE STOP BULLYING ME"

(High pitch voice) "how did she bring winter?"

I heavily fw gertie x tracker

THEIR PLAN B IS SHRIMP JUMP

CRAW FATHERS

GORGUG CLEARLY PISSED OFF

oh fig.... I feel so connected to you

"Who's Wanda Childa....?" "She's my alter emo"

Sandra is so true. I often ask my friends how they percieve me so I can understand myself better.

"What if I punished this man to eternal rock"

"I don't want to see that." Sandra grabs fig's cigarette and takes a hit instead.

SPY'S TONGUE LORE

Kalina with the Spy's Tongue........

I love this lore and conspiracy theories talk

they're annoying but have great record keeping

GORGUG PUT HIS HEADPHONES ON THE SECOND THEY ENTERED THE CHURCH

NAT 20 INSIGHT

Narnia burning man

Fig and Fabian are living it UP

tracker............. i can't say I like her very much after that phone call. So I'm not the most thrilled to see her.

GORGUG PUSHING EVERYONE OUT OF THE WAY TO THE HOT CHOCOLATE

WORLD STAR

Half the party is living it up having hot coco while the other half is experiencing / witnessing a very emotional moment

RUNES RELATING TO GIANT DEITIES

GIFT EXCHANGE

PIPES OF THE SEWERS

CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA

THE RATETTES

EAR WORM?

"PUT ME IN YOUR BRAIN"

A PULL UP BAR!!!! IMMOVABLE BAR

BRACERS OF DEFENSE

"Oh shit they're so practical. I have to wear bracers. What can I do? They're so tactic?"

RIDDLER RIZ?

FIRE GIANT JUICE

"Is this legal?" "It's Not."

WOODEN ORANGUTAN MASK

SO MUCH HOLE

HE SENDS A TEXT TO MAZEY THEN PUTS HIS PHONE ON AIRPLANE MODE

KRISTEN NOOOOO

THE BAR

assisted pull ups 🔥🔥🔥

Naradriel is actually so sweet

Hillsong / wolfsong close enough

NAT 20 INVESTIGATION CHECK FOR MURPH

SCORTCH MARK?

LIST OF NAMES??

WEDDING CONTRACT

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

RUVINA MAID OF HONOR

THE MASK

"PUT THE HOLES AWAY AND MAKE THEM"

WHAT'S THE NAME. WHAT'S THE NAME. WHAT'S THE NAME. WHAT IS IT. WHAT IS THE NAME BRENNAN

OH GOD

ANKARNA

GLOWS RED? OH MY GOD FIENDISH ENERGY

ADAINE BROUGHT BACK ARKARNA AND LYDIA'S CHEST CRYSTAL

OH MY GOD IF LYDIA DIES I'M GONNA PUNCH MY WALL /HJ

negative one initiative........

SAVING ROLLS FOR FIG? WHY

PRIDE ARMOR

THE MOON BEGINS TO WHAT?

TEARS HER FLESH? OH GOD

BRIDE ARMOR

CASSANDRA IS PROTECTING THEM 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

SEVERAL DIVINE INTERVENTIONS ARE HAPPENING SIMULTANEOUSLY IN CONFLICT??????????

FIG INTO THE BRIEF CASE JUST LIKE GILEAR WAS

SIX LEVEL COUNTERSPELL

COUNTER SPELL CRIT!!!!!!!!!

FIG WAS ALMOST KILLED?????????????

RIZ JUMPS AFTER FIG

BARONNNN FROM THE BARONIES

ROËMAENCE PARTNÆR

FABIAN DIDN'T JUMP INTO THE BRIEF CASE. GORGUG, FIG AND RIZ HAVE SO FAR

okay thank god fabian did jump in

DIVINE INTERVENTION ROLL

DEATH WARD ON AELWYN 🔥🔥

BARON IS WARNING KRISTEN?

DID WE JUST WATCH GILEAR FIG DIE?

NAT 20 DEX THROW FOR KRISTEN

what dimension are they in. What is riz's briefcase

ENDING OFF ON A ROLL FOR INITIATIVE??

I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FEEL WHAT

#fantasy high junior year spoilers #fhjy spoilers #dimension 20 #d20 #fantasy high #d20 fantasy high #dimension 20 fantasy high #fantasy high junior year

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

Slow Horses

Fave viewing over the past few years has been SLOW HORSES on AppleTV+. A spy show with all the intrigues of a John le Carré novel, but if George Smiley was written as a sarcastic smart arse and every other spy was a downbeat comedian. 

River Cartwright chased by one of ’The Dogs’.

The show focusses on spies who’ve disgraced themselves, but for various reasons can’t be set free into the wild. We are led into this espionage backwater by an earnest young spy who has become persona non grata with Mi5. His efforts to get back into the slick world of Regent’s Park puts him at the heart of the action in the series. Though he’s from Mi5 royalty (as his grandfather used to head the organisation) he’s banished to a shabby facility called Slough House. 

Lamb uses his signature flatulent power-move on Taverner. 

This kingdom of losers is ruled by Jackson Lamb, hilariously played by Gary Oldman. Famed for being a chameleon, Oldman is clearly having enormous fun here, playing this jaded old cold warrior, who doesn’t care any more. Lamb has let himself go physically, but is still mentally sharp enough to anticipate when he’s being setup. Which is often, and most likely by his Mi5 boss Diana Taverner (played with deadpan ice queen flair by Kristin Scott Thomas). Her disdain for the screwups of Slough House doesn’t stop her from using their services. These ‘Slow Horses’ are ostensibly kept on by ‘the service’ for menial jobs - filing and desk work - but they are sometimes caught up in intrigues too. Simply because Mi5 often needs fall guys.

Shirley & Marcus pinned down by The Tiger Team.

Mi5 is portrayed as a world of grasping political climbers. The higher up the political totem pole, the more damehoods & knighthoods there are. But ruthless sociopaths abound too. More than willing to sacrifice their underlings if it advances their own interests, or covers up a blunder. The traditional baddies of spy stories are here, but rather than the Russians or international terrorists, domestic political dirty dealing is responsible for most of the body count.

Min & Louisa surprise an intruder at Slough House.

For all their flaws, the Slow Horses have more decency than the ‘winners’. They are prickly & snarky characters, that are nevertheless likeable. A fave of mine is Roddy Ho, Slough House’s IT expert. His hilariously pompous dialog is brilliantly played to the smugly annoying hilt by Christopher Chung. Pint-sized firecracker Shirley Dander (Aimee-Ffion Edwards) and wily old school operative Catherine Standish (Saskia Reeves) are a couple of other faves, but honestly, all the characters have their moments. 

Roddy analyses the kidnap photo of Standish. 

The show-runner is standup comedian & writer Will Smith, who manages to deliver laughs aplenty but also real drama. Main characters can die, and probably when you’d just learned to love them. We enjoyed watching this show so much that, after finishing the 3rd season, we RE-watched the entire thing, and were entertained even more the 2nd time. 

Jackson Lamb has an ice cream.

Having just exhausted all the viewing options available, Julia & I just began the book series that the show is based on, by Mick Herron. Though many details differ, the books are remarkably similar to the TV series, tonally. Added background details to the characters & plots make them enjoyable even after seeing the show. Hopefully they will feed us enough Lamb until season 4 drops at the end of 2024.

#illustration #reviews #tv #slow horses #jackson lamb #drawing #roddy ho #shirley dander #catherine standish #diana taverner #marcus longridge #louisa guy

[killmongerskeepermain]

Her Heart // Chapter 1 // Shuri

Summary: You left behind the life of a wardog and continued on as Y/N of Wakanda and the heart of the black panther. Your world is suddenly flipped upsiode down when an old target kidnaps you and the Queen of Talokan. Can Shuri keep her head on straight and get you back before it too late?

Pairing: Shuri x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Spoilers // Mentioned Character Death

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 //

Today was supposed to be simple. Shuri would train with the Dora Milaje in the early hours of the morning. Becoming the black panther meant she had to train harder than when she would spar with you. Back when T'Challa held the mantle. You being one of the best spies in Wakanda meant you could put up a good fight. Then she would spend time with you working in the lab. You had some designs for some new weapons to show her. You were proud of them. So she was excited to see what you came up with. This was the last thing on her mind. Namor was the last thing on her mind.

"How dangerous are these threats?" Shuri asked as the council gathered in the throne room. 

"Reports are telling us that Namor has resurfaced. With clear intentions of destroying Wakanda." Okoye said with her hands behind her back. Scared? No. Worried? Of course but she couldn't let the council know that.

"Namor? I thought there was a truce with Talokan?" Ayo questioned and Shuri began zoning out. Namor was still set on attacking Wakanda? After everything he's already done. Yes, Shuri demanded a truce but in the end, he killed her mother. Something she could not forgive. When will it end? Shuri refused to let someone else she cares about fall due to his actions.

"Princess." A voice tore her from her trance and she looked up to see all eyes on her. 

"I'll go to the checkpoint with Okoye and Ayo. If he's planning something, I must stop him before any attacks happen. Even if that means killing him this time. We leave in an hour." The black panther sneered as she stood from the throne both her mother and brother once sat. The room remained silent as she walked out with a heavy heart. Everyone knew where she was headed. To inform her dearest of this mission. A mission she may or may not return from. Namor couldn't attack again. Hasn't Wakanda mourned enough? Buried enough. Lost in her thoughts she entered the lab, her eyes finding your form almost immediately as you talked to other scientists. A small smile appeared on her lips as you waved your hand over the floating screen.

"Good evening, Princess." You perked up upon hearing Grio announce her presence and you went up to hug her. You may be a trained spy but she's the only one to make you smile brighter than you have before. She hugged you back and you pulled back before your smile fell. Her eyes held sadness and you caressed her cheek.

"What bothers you my love?" You asked with concern laced in your voice and she kissed your palm.

"Everyone out! Now!" She demanded and all the other scientists scattered out of the lab. You looked up at her with confusion evident on your features as you sat down the clipboard in your hands.

"Why did you send them off? What's going on?" You were worried now as she took a deep breath. Whatever she was about to tell you, isn't easy for her to say. 

"We've gotten reports that Namor is planning to launch another attack. Your body went still as you held the gasp that threatened to leave you.

"And who said that? Where did you hear that from?" You questioned and she held your arms.

"One of Talokan's people came to the river border last night. Told us to be ready. He wants to finish what he started." She told you and you had to hold back tears. You knew she was about to go out there. You wouldn't be surprised if she was still hell bent on killing him. After what he did to her mother. 

"Are you-" you couldn't finish your sentence as she slowly nodded and a small whimper finally cracked. "Why? Why now? He has a family now, what could his reasoning be behind this attack?"

"I don't know. That's what I'm going to find out." 

"You can't go out there. If any of this is true, he could very well be trying to separate you from the palace." You started to panic and she grabbed your hands. 

"I have to sthandwa. I might be able to talk some sense into him. If he is planning an attack I need to know when and why." She pulled you closer by your waist, hoping to calm you down.

"No. No! What if it's a trap set for you?" You argued and she sighed. She knew you would not agree so easily. "If he does want to attack, taking you out first is a battle strategy. He almost took you from me once. I cannot bear that pain again."

"I'll return to you Y/N." She held your face and you shook your head. You closed your eyes as she rested her forehead against your own. "I promise you."

"If you die on me, I'll resurrect you and kill you myself." You stated and she couldn't help the smile on her lips. No matter how serious you were. You almost never had to use your abilities. You gave up training them after you failed to bring the queen back. Her lips found yours in a passionate kiss as if to seal the promise. Your fingers dug in her hair and her hold on your waist tightened. The kiss held much more than a promise. It meant, come back to me. I love you. Be careful. Everything you couldn't say without the dam breaking.

You didn't even hear Okoye enter the lab until she cleared her throat. "M'Baku and the Jabari tribe have been notified. It's time to go princess." The two of you parted and you bit your lips as you hugged her one more time. 

"Please-"

"I know my love. I promised, didn't I? Keep the lab from falling into chaos until I get back." She asked before backing away from you. The two of you didn't release the hold on the other's hand until she had gotten further away. You felt empty when her hand slipped from yours but you held up. No more tears. She was gonna come back. You had to be strong. She was the black panther. Everything will be just fine. You still followed behind her as the two went to the elevator. 

"I'm gonna see you off." You told her and she nudged you with her shoulder. You looked over at her trying your best to keep the tears in your eyes. She rested her forehead on yours and you sighed as you leaned into her. The doors opened and the wind from the royal jet had your curls blowing in the wind.

The aircraft had been prepared and you walked out with Shuri. Intertwining your hand with hers as you neared the landing dock. She squeezed your hand in reassurance which you greatly appreciated. On the outside you may have it all together. But you were torn apart on the inside. You can't lose her. Not now. She's to become your wife in a couple of months. And you hers. When the time came she turned to you before kissing your lips one more time. It was quicker than the one you shared in the lab but held all the same passion. You watched as she walked into the jet with Okoye and Ayo not far behind. Aneka walked up to you before putting a comforting arm around you. Just like you, her love was going on what could be a suicide mission. You leaned into her embrace as you watched the jet disappear into the clouds. A light hand on your shoulder tore your attention from the sky and onto Aneka. "They will be okay. She will be okay. I am here if you need anything Y/N." You nodded before turning on your heels to go to the room you shared with Shuri. There you changed into a black battle suit you had stored away in your closet. Shuri had it made for you after you fought off some mercenaries who came to steal vibranium. You let out a sigh as you prayed for Okoye, Ayo, and Shuri's safety. Your eyes opened and you quickly ran to the lab. Upon entering you clapped your hands and looked at all the scientists present.

"Okay. Wakanda might be in danger. Those weapon plans I went over with all of you. It's time. We need to get them prepared for Shuri to look at upon her arrival back to the palace." You grabbed your clipboard and turned to the page with the vibranium daggers you had drawn out. You weren't going to deem yourself useless again. "Starting with these."

// The River Border //

Shuri felt as if her heart was beating out of her chest as she used the conch Namor left behind to call to him. Her thoughts ran wild as they waited. Why would he attack now? Why does he want to attack? Wakanda hasn't done anything to Talokan to receive such threats. She just wanted this to be a bad dream so she'd wake up next to you in your bed. The sun beaming down on you making you look like an angel. You would kiss her good morning and the two of you would lay there for a while talking about the wedding. Who you wanted to invite. What type of flowers you wanted in your bouquet. All the small details.

"Princess." Okoye called out as the water rippled, showing he arrived. She balled her fist as he stepped out of the water with Attuma close behind. He seemed a bit confused with the call but stopped at the edge of the water upon feeling the tension in the air. 

"Princess. To what do I owe this meeting?" He questioned as Okoye and Ayo stood on alert.

"Don't play dumb with me Namor. We heard about your plan." She spat and now he frowned.

// The Palace //

"Ms. Y/N. The queen of Talokan is here to see you and the princess. She is waiting in the throne room." You frowned at the announcement Grio made. What was she doing here? How dare she show her face in Wakanda. You shot up from the computer and walked to the throne room where Namora stood by her queen. The queen saw the way your brows nearly touched because of the frown on your face and she gave a slight bow.

"You seem troubled." She said holding a blue hand on her swollen belly.

"Why are you here?" You asked and she was a bit taken aback by the sudden outburst. You had always shown her with respect. "Shouldn't you be standing by your husband?"

"I am here because I was summoned here." She replied and now you were the one confused.

"Summoned by who?" You questioned and she was a little concerned by your lack of knowledge on the information. 

"One of the Dora Milaje called from the river border. Said there was something you and the princess needed to speak to me about. But it seems you have no idea what I'm talking about." She stated and you slowly backed away.

"We didn't send anyone. It would've been one of us to invite you personally on important matters. Not Dora Milaje. Especially not a single Dora Milaje." You told her and you caught the way Namora tensed. 

"Where is the princess?" Namora asked, holding her weapon. Her eyes scanned the throne room as you sped to the table and grabbed your kimoyo beads.

"The princess has gone to the river border to confront Namor. Someone from Talokan alerted us that Namor was planning an attack." You told her and she frowned.

"He has made no such plans. Someone from Talokan? That's not true." She said taken aback and you sighed running a hand through your hair. You didn't like where this conversation was going. Neither of you knew about what was just revealed. It couldn't have been-

"Shit. Namora I'm going to need your help. We both have to stay with her at all times. She cannot leave this palace! Grio lock us down!" You shouted and the queen had fear rush across her features. 

"What's happening?" She exchanged looks with Namora who was prepared to protect K'uk'ulkan's queen with her life. 

"This whole thing was a setup. Both Talokan and Wakanda are without their protectors. You were lured here. The queen of Talokan. Who is currently pregnant with the child of a God. Someone knows something." You told her and she froze. Fear for her unborn child's life rushing through her body. 

"I'm going to do my best to keep you safe. With Namora here that's more than possible. Come, we have to get to the lab." You stretched out a hand to the queen and she took it before the two followed you to the lab. You reached the lab where the scientist seemed to be surprised that you brought the Queen of Talokan here. 

"What's the progress on those weapons?" You asked and one scientist spoke up. 

"98%! Finishing the last one now."

"Hurry and print everything!" You shouted as you reached for the vibranium daggers you had finished. The blades were sharp to the touch and you slipped them into your boots. The last weapon, a vibranium short sword, had finished printing as Grio spoke out.

"Palace is locked down Ms. Y/N."

"Good." You grabbed a spare kimoyo bracelet and slipped it on Amera's wrist. "This is how we communicate. If we were to get separated for any reason, you can use these to contact me. I have the earrings as well so it won't be too noticeable. They can also reach the princess. And I'm almost certain Namor will be with her."

"Grio! Try to get in contact with Shuri." A couple minutes went by and you could hear your heartbeat in your ears. The pounding sound of a drum causing you to lose your breath. 

"She didn't answer."

"Try again!"

// The River Border //

"Plan for what exactly?" Namor asked and Attuma stood in front of him. 

"Your plan to attack Wakanda a second time. You were bold enough to send a message through one of your people." Okoye spat and his lips went into a thin line. 

"I did no such thing. Besides, how do I know you're not pulling something on me. After requesting my wife come to your palace after my so-called threat of an attack." He spoke and Ayo looked over at Okoye. Neither of them had knowledge of this.

"We have no knowledge of this."

"What are you on about?" Shuri asked as her kimoyo beads vibrated on her wrist. She pushed to answer them this time and Y/N was on the other end.

"Shuri! Shuri, where are you?" She asked. Her voice held panic and worry.

"We're here with Namor. He claims he doesn't even know what we're talking about." Shuri told her dearest and the other end was silent.

"It was a setup." She said and everyone's attention turned to the princess with shock evident on their features. 

"What do you mean a setup? Y/N what is happening?" Shuri became confused as her dearest was panicking on the other end.

"Amera. Namor's queen, said that a Dora Milaje came to the river border saying that we requested her presence at the palace. Apparently someone from Talokan said Namor was planning an attack. When I mentioned it to her she didn't even know what I was talking about." Shuri felt her heart drop to her stomach. Everyone has been tricked. Both leaders were drawn out from their kingdoms. "My love. I believe it's best for you to return back to Wakanda for I fear-"

A/N: Her Heart!!! But I plan to condense to longer and less chapters. Hope yall enjoy!! New fics coming soon!!!

#black panther shuri #letitia wright shuri #poc reader #princess shuri #queen shuri #shuri #shuri black panther #shuri fanfiction #shuri fluff #shuri udaku #shuri x reader #shuri fic #shuri x y/n #shuri x you #black panther wakanda forever #wakanda forever #namor #shuri x black!reader #shuri x fem!reader #shuri x woc!reader #her heart fic

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Did you read The Times article from April 20th, that said Camilla has totally cut off Eug and Bea because she thinks they are Sussex spies??!!

Wtf 😅

Pretty bold of The Times to so openly attribute this sentiment to the Queen. And then to go on to say that the two have been consistently leaking sensitive info to the couple and so the it's upto Camilla to safeguard the sanctity of the institution.

I'm wondering if this is Camilla clapbackto Andrew and Sarah trying to crawl their way back in using their daughters.

Is Camilla using the ultimate weapon - Public outcry - to put Andrew and Sarah in their place? Surely Eug and Bea can't be that bad!

I know Eug seems totally sympathetic towards Harry, and frankly it's been cringe to witness that, but Bea IMO hasnt shown any affiny towards Harry or Meghan since 2018. And certainly not after she herself got married.

That being said, for someone so quiet and lowkey, Bea sure seems to get dragged into a lot of York stupidies -

- Andy's infamous BBC interview.

- Her sweet 16 or 18th princess themed party to which Epstein and Maxwell were invited.

- And now these Sussex spy allegations.

I saw it. Didn’t read it. It’s not the “real” Times newspaper - it’s The Business Times, a Chinese digital media organization focusing on business, politics, and tech news in China.

The Camilla v Yorkies story is sourced from the Globe, a tabloid publication like the National Enquirer. I don’t give it any credit. Camilla doesn’t give a shit about the Yorkies - she skipped both sisters’ weddings. That’s not someone who has a vendetta to ice them out and cut them off; it’s someone who couldn’t care less about them and using her husband’s dead ex-wife as an excuse to hide her disinterest. (Camilla didn’t go to Eugenie’s wedding because of a previously-scheduled appearance and when everyone went “wtf,” Camilla’s friends hinted that the real reason she skipped the wedding was because Diana was close to the Yorks and she didn’t want to make them uncomfortable, so she stayed away out of respect to Diana’s memory. Yeah, the face you’re making right now is the same face we all made 6 years ago.)

Sorry to burst your bubble, anon. This isn’t the story you think it is. It’s a busybody making up drama because nothing else is happening.

#ask #brf #yorkies

[crownmemes]

Citadel Sentences

(Sentences from Citadel (2023-). Adjust phrasing where needed)

"Some would say you are the queen of alternative facts."

"For as long as they've been around, spy agencies have started wars, assassinated world leaders, and killed innocents."

"Do you want to save your family? Come with me."

"This is the moment where I'm going to raise my hand and say I need a little more clarity here."

"Are you smiling? Don't do that! Spies don't smile!"

"Did they teach you that in spy school?"

"Why would you trust me? I'm exceedingly untrustworthy! I'm a spy!"

"Bite this. This'll hurt."

"You always had that sociopathic je ne sais quoi about you."

"For a man who loves to talk, you've gone awfully quiet."

"If you get me out of here, I'll tell you everything."

"Everything you know is a lie."

"You can't possibly believe you're the only man to come to Paris with me."

"You know I have other missions besides ours, right?"

"You can't stop an interrogation!"

"A spy can have a hundred names, a hundred faces, a hundred identities - but you only get one soul."

"I've known you for a decade. I know your behaviour patterns and how you think. You acted very out of character today."

"You always had the gift of a silver tongue."

"Can a spy ever truly love?"

"We've run out of time and I've run out of patience."

"I thought I already killed you!"

"When you have kids, you do anything to keep them safe."

"There are always repercussions for failing; the key is to adapt before they arrive."

"They can't kill what's already dead."

#rp meme #rp memes #roleplay meme #roleplay memes #rp prompts #roleplay prompts #sentence starters #specific; #spy drama; #filmtv; #citadel;

[jacksgreysays]

"things you said when we first met" from Things You Said prompts. Sasuke's POV of meeting (getting to know(?)) Shikako

Hi aryaokayfriend!

Hm… for this prompt, do you mean canon!DoS or an AU? Or a Gardens-verse Shikako meeting a different world’s Sasuke?

Because if it’s canon!DoS, that’s just when both of them are 6 years old and in the Academy for the first time and it’s probably not much more than hi, hello, my name is ____.

And maybe Sasuke was bubblier than his, you know, brooding antihero vibes that we have now. But I can’t imagine it’s too wild.

Unless this is a canon divergent AU in which the first thing that comes to Shikako’s mind to say to this soft, smiling 6 year old boy is that his entire family is soon going to be killed by his hero older brother because a creepy old man has weird self esteem issues, bloodlimit envy, and possibly a decades long unresolved crush on either his Uchiha-hating sensei or his Uchiha teammate.

Oops.

In WHICH CASE, that would be both horrifying and funny.

You know what… this COULD be an AU in which… well, maybe I’m in this specific headspace because of one of our previous exchanges and also yesterday’s post

But what if this is the Hail to the Queen: She Who Has Divine Right and it’s because since she could speak, she has been dropping “prophecies” about the future. Like. If it starts when she’s a toddler and she says something like “the Cloud ambassador is a ruse, they’re going to try to kidnap Hinata” to her father, the Jounin Commander, and if he takes it seriously—or at least, seriously enough to either let the Hyuuga know or to increase internal security/patrols—and then they actually DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT SUCH THAT HINATA ISN’T TRAUMATIZED, HIZASHI DOESN’T HAVE TO BE SACRIFICED FOR NO REASON AND THUS ALSO NEJI ISN’T TRAUMATIZED. Then, yeah--Congratulations, Shikaku, Your Daughter Is A Prophet.

So, okay, telling a 6 year old Sasuke that his entire family is soon going to be killed by his hero older brother because a creepy old man has weird self esteem issues, bloodlimit envy, and possibly a decades long unresolved crush on either his Uchiha-hating sensei or his Uchiha teammate ISN’T GREAT but, also, as long as you heed her words, things can be fixed.

I’m also just wondering how much of this AU becomes… like… well, she’s trapped herself into this role of prophet and it’s true that she knows A LOT of the future. But also, because things keep changing, she knows increasingly less.

You know what would help in making sure she can keep up with information? A spy network. You know who would make good spies? The grateful members of Konoha’s two powerful eye-based blood limits.

#jacksgreyson #aryaokayfriend #ask box advent calendar #ask box things you said #dreaming of sunshine #shikako nara #sasuke uchiha #shikaku nara