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lya-dustin · 2 months
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Shock and Delight
Chapter 11
Cw: mentions of childbirth, parental neglect, murder, witchcraft, westrosi culture is its own warning
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“Rhaena has a headache, I hope you do not mind me for today, mother.” The girl poured their cups with watered down wine just as Rhaenyra did for her father before being made Princess of Dragonstone.
After Rhaenyra one of Alicent’s Hightower cousins had filled the role until Aegon was old enough to pour the cups, only Aegon took that for granted and eventually Helaena did it until she married.
Aemond had yet to master living with only one eye and by then Vicky had become her cupbearer.
Bethany had replaced her and now Aemma only had to appear to make the painfully shy girl melt into the shadows.
It wasn’t her fault, Alicent knew the girl never did it on purpose.
Much like the sun, it was merely her nature to outshine anyone beside her, even when she was born eight and ten years ago.
There had been a tourney to send Rhaenyra into her confinement and as Criston seemed to be winning his last tilt the twinging the princess had been hiding turned into a worse pain.
Criston had become distracted by the sight of his former lover clutching her large belly in pain and been knocked off his horse by his opponent, Ser Harwin Strong.
But the tourney went on so the people could celebrate the birth of the heir or all be gathered there should it end as it did five years ago.
Rhaenyra had cried for her mother and in her delirium mistook Rhaenys for Aemma, she had also cried for Alicent, but Alicent refused to go to her and claimed her children needed her.
It was a quick thing, a girl born with a bloody caul on her little head like a crown as the crowd cheered for Ser Harwin who proclaimed to crown Rhaenyra his queen of love and beauty.
The baby girl had scarcely been named Aemma when her brother was born with his plain looks. The Andal blood of the Arryn and Baratheon lines had shown through Jacaerys with only the dark Velaryon eyes to confirm his paternity.
And much like Viserys with her children, he promptly ignored the boy and held up the infant girl as the dragons roared.
The word for prince and princess is the same, he had said later as he rambled on and on about the babe he envisioned and butchered the first Aemma for.
I was wrong, it was never a prince I had seen, it was a princess, he had laughed as if Alicent hadn’t been forced to bear him child after child because Alicent just had to tell her father about the strange dream Viserys had had the day he killed Queen Aemma.
At first the queen believed he kept Rhaenyra as his heir out of guilt and shame for his actions ---murdering her mother and marrying his daughter’s best friend to satisfy her father--- but then she learned he truly believed in dreams and in the words he whispered as he looked at the plain Valyrian dagger.
Alicent had come to know that her suffering was not divine in nature no matter how much she tried to make herself believe it was.
It was then that she began to let her resentment truly take root, and if the gods would not make her suffering be for something, she would.
And now she had to make a deal with Daemon of all people to make sure her son doesn’t burn himself and them as he courts the girl filling her cup.
“Prince Daemon has requested we see if there is any way he could have the funds to support his campaign at the Step Stones. Seeing it will give us a temporary truce with Dorne and keep them from encroaching on our borders and keep the islands under our rule, the King wishes we approve of his petition.” The queen wants to get this over with and knowing her father will be against it, she had approached Beesbury beforehand and Tyland as well.
Her father believes her to be working for his goal, but they are not. As the end of Viserys’ reign comes fast, Alicent has decided they are doing things her way to achieve her goals and if Aegon wishes to keep her father as his Hand, she will make sure her father knows he is not the one with the power.
Not anymore.
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There are few private yet public places in this keep, as far as people know Aemond and Aemma are merely promenading in the Godswood and not planning their false courtship to end before he goes to the step stones with Daemon.
Mother will say no, but eventually she will relent just to keep them away from each other thus giving Aemma the chance to find a perfectly suitable husband while he becomes the first of his brothers to become a true warrior.
Really if he must endure Maris Baratheon saying Baela is twice the man he is because she has fought in battle any longer, he will have to kill her.
“You haven’t sent me flowers.” The princess points out as she steers them towards a group of eligible young men.
“Didn’t you get enough this morning, there was queue outside your family’s wing of the Holdfast.” Aemond knew it was expected of him to woo a lady, but he had hoped he wouldn’t need to woo Aemma.
They knew each other already and it wasn’t a real courtship anyways.
He’d never even gotten Jena flowers and they have been involved since they met three years ago.
“If you wish for us to sell the ruse you have to look as if you are really courting me, as horrid as it might be for you.” She answered as if she was an expert on the subject.
And between the two of them, she likely was.
“Any flowers of you would like?” Aemond asks knowing she will ask for anything that symbolizes love or desire or anything like that.
“Surprise me, I’m sure all your book-reading has to help you out there.” Aemma answered with a teasing lilt.
“I could end up giving you yellow carnations, Aemee.”
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“You haven’t told me why she insists on the prince’s war, sweet sister.” Her brother asks with that smile of his that makes even her skin crawl.
Alys had come to court as Larys’ spy, or so he thinks.
After finding herself widowed and childless once more thanks to the double-edged blade her gifts were, she couldn’t stay in Harrenhal anymore.
Too many people were becoming suspicious as to why all her births ended the same way: no blood, no baby and a murder occurring in the vicinity.
She was Lady Lothston now, even if she was a bastard, she was also the legitimate widow of Ser Otho Lothston and stepmother to Lucas Lothston, whose mother had been her younger sister, Ada Strong.
Ada’s marriage to the hedge night was as suspicious as the fire that killed their father and brother, in fact, Ada had been wed to him when the mourning period was over even if she was too young to wed.
With Larys away, the Witch of Harrenhal had begun to investigate the fire that occurred when she was Lady Butterwell’s wetnurse and lover at Whitewalls.
Otho Lothston had received Larys’ sister as a reward for helping him kill Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin while Larys was away wooing the Briarwhite heiress.
The shadow demon she birthed with Otho’s seed ate his soul and tossed him out of the tower after he confessed.
And now that the Queen is her friend and confidant, Larys would pay. Lucky for her there is Valyrian seed in abundance here and those produce the best killers.
Alys had killed Larys’ darling mama when she gave her maidenhead to King Viserys when she was a maid of six and ten. The shadow demon had let her feel as if she had been the one to smother the woman in her bed and left no trace of itself as it dissipated into the night air like the others before and after it.
“To keep the Blacks occupied, if Daemon is gone with their fleet and dragons, they will be too weak to fight back.” The true answer was not as good, but the witch cannot afford to say Alicent made a deal with him, so Aemond doesn’t wed their enemy’s daughter.
Alicent had only seen the other benefits to Daemon’s war after agreeing to it.
Of course, some greens who hunger for glory and their mettle tested in battle would leave with him thinking the usurpation will not need them, but they have the West, and they are enough for now.
They would be lost without Tyland Lannister.
If Tyland took her seriously, she could make him Lord Lannister, but alas he needs someone to secure his position as the Lannister of Lannisport.
“So, she says to appear in control, but tell me, how much does the prince’s attachment to the little queen influence this great idea of hers?” Larys is not fooled, of course he wouldn’t, but it never hurt to try.
But Alys is protective of her mistress, it had taken some work to remove the chains that kept Alicent blindly loyal to her father and now that Ser Otto was finding the puppet strings cut one by one, it was Larys’ turn to lose his control over the queen.
As much as Alys has come to care for the queen, she is not useful to her if she is dead because she listened to her father and Alys’ baby brother about usurping Rhaenyra.
The Riverlands always burn during wartime, Alys cannot have Harrenhal and all its riches if it’s burnt to a crisp.
Who says she cannot have Alicent and Harrenhal in this life?
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reyofluke-ocs · 4 months
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OCs DESERVE BETTER -> Ariadne Paris / Penelope Jackson (Percy Jackson & the Olympians) Disney: Abby James Witherspoon Movies: Eline Powell Books: India Eisley
"I'm not - that's impossible. I was found abandoned and given to Lord Oceanus as a baby to raise. I'm not this... Penelope Jackson you seem to think I am. Why should I trust anything you say? You can't even see that the gods don't give a damn about you!"
A little known fact to anyone that is not Sally, Percy and Poseidon - Sally was originally pregnant with twins, a boy and a girl. But only the boy, Perseus - Percy - survived. Or so everyone always assumed. In reality, the Titans and their followers had discovered that not only had Poseidon broken the oath and set the Great Prophecy potentially in motion, but the woman was pregnant with twins: a flip of the coin, and either child could be the one of prophecy. So a plan is devised, one that is cleverly hidden from even the Gods - kidnap one of the babies and leave another in place, one that would be enough mix of sea and mortal to fool even Poseidon but the baby's soul was already in the Underworld. The baby that is kidnapped is born Penelope Jackson and is given to Lord Oceanus to raise as he would. And so Penelope Jackson is renamed Ariadne Paris - a reminder of the cruelty of both gods and humanity - and raised with one goal in mind: serve Kronos and destory the Gods and Olympus itself when the time comes.
When Zeus' bolt is stolen and word is recieved that Poseidon's demigod son is being sent on a quest to retrieve it, Ariadne is given the mission of infiltrating Camp Half-Blood as a spy for the Titans. But like calls to like, and Percy and Ariadne still find themselves drawn to one another, while the camp tries to figure out who's parent the mysterious new camper is and why their powers seem more aligned with the Sea God's more violent side.
psd: oblivion-crackships tagging: @endless-oc-creations@stanshollaand, @foxesandmagic , @hiddenqveendom , @arrthurpendragon , @cas-verse, @eddiemunscns , @far-shores, @oneirataxia-girl, if anyone wants to be added/removed or I accidentally forgot, please let me know!
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ironverseocs · 6 months
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impromptu plot bunnies -> Ishita Prasad
She's a daughter of Apollo and a member of Camp Jupiter, fourth cohort. She has a love of cinematography and baroque music. With the personality of a wolf – stoic but fierce –, she is a force to be reckoned with. Her power lies in music and her weapon of choice is her violin, a skill she's built upon since four years old when her mother put said instrument in her hand and told her to "just try".
PRONOUNS: she/her
ETHNICITY: Hindu Indian
HOMETOWN: Fort Bragg, California
FACE CLAIM: Amita Suman
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forever taglist: @arrthurpendragon @shrinkthisviolet @foxesandmagic @ocappreciation @ochub @allaboutocs | if you'd like to be added, send me an ask or dm
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savemewattpad · 10 months
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Wicked and Divine: Part 1, Chapter 2
all her life, she’s bound to lose…
Summary:
When John Winchester gets a call from a thirteen-year-old girl claiming to be his daughter, he and Dean go to investigate, bringing them into a complicated web woven by a charismatic cult leader named David Elwood–who also claims to be the girl’s “husband.”
Or, how Esther Smith became Leila Winchester.
Chapter Summary: Dean and John attend a cult meeting.
Warnings: Sexual Abuse, Religious Abuse, Cults, Child Marriage, Pregnancy, Miscarriage
Pairings: None
Last Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist
Read on AO3
There’s a tension in the silence between John and his son as they sit on opposite sides of the diner booth. It’s this endless loop of quiet understanding: Dean isn’t happy to learn about his father’s dalliance. John knows he’s not happy. Dean knows John knows he’s not happy, and John knows Dean knows that John knows that he’s not happy. And nothing is said about it. 
The diner they’ve found themselves in is crowded with the breakfast rush, and Dean is pensive as he stares out the window. John can’t fault him; he’s just found out he may or may not have another sibling who may or may not be in danger.
If John wasn’t as good at compartmentalizing as he is, he’d be consumed with the same topic of thought. He is that good at compartmentalizing, though, and he flips through the newspaper as they wait for the waitress to take their order.
John’s mind is always on alert, always making connections, and he often has to scan his own thoughts for paranoia, to discern whether the alarms going off in his mind are a real sign of a case or just the result of living the way he has for fifteen years. The obituary section has the alarm ringing. Multiple mysterious deaths from the last few months, all young. A few cops, an FBI agent, a reporter or two. All died of hypothermia. 
One thing at a time, he tells himself. 
The diner is in Carolina, Oregon. It’s the same place he met Melisa Candan almost fifteen years ago. He chose a booth on the opposite side of the diner. It’s the paranoia again. Part of him thinks something about that case must have been cursed. 
The waitress arrives, middle-aged but energetic. “Good morning, boys, what can I get you?” Two black coffees, two classic breakfasts, burn the bacon for John’s. She leaves. The coffees come a few minutes later, and within minutes John’s mind is awake and thinking clearly. 
The obituary observation was not paranoia, he feels, and then sets it aside. One thing at a time.
“Woodscross,” he says without preamble. “What did she mean by Woodscross?”
“Maybe she was wrong about what state she’s in. Is there a Woodscross in Washington, maybe?”
John shakes his head. He’s actually not sure that there’s not; he just knows that he never met a woman named Melisa in Washington. It has to be near Carolina. Too much of a coincidence otherwise.
“Maybe there’s a street called Woodscross,” John muses. 
“What’s this about Woodscross?” the waitress asks as she sets their food down. John doesn’t get snuck up on easily. Maybe he’s not as good at compartmentalizing as he thought, at least when it comes to this. 
Dean looks up at her, smiling charmingly. “We got a call from a friend asking us to meet him there,” he lies easily. John wishes, not for the first time, that he could’ve given his son a life where he didn’t have to learn to lie so well. “Do you happen to know where it is?”
“The only Woodscross around here is the Gibborim community that lives out in the woods.”
“Gibborim?” Dean repeats incredulously. “That new-age cult?” And then John remembers the Gibborim bible on Melisa’s nightstand. Of course. How could he not realize? 
Well…he knows why. Over the past fourteen years, on the rare occasion that Melisa Candan has crossed his mind, he’s always assumed–hoped–that she’d made it out of Gibborim. The cult had reached its peak in the mid-nineties, and most sects had died out by the new millenia. 
Apparently not all of them, though.
The waitress shakes her head. “This is an offshoot. They’re more old-fashioned. And I wouldn’t call it a cult around them, but…”
“Where can we find Woodscross?” John asks her, trying not to sound as urgent as he feels. 
“It’s about ten miles north into the woods by Clinton street,” the waitress replies. “You have to go off the trail about five miles in. But between you and me? I’d call your friend and ask to meet somewhere else.”
John and Dean look at each other. 
“Can you bring us the check?” John asks. 
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The ground is surprisingly level even off-trail, and they find Woodscross late that afternoon. It’s almost militaristic looking, surrounded by tall fences with barbed wire at the top, a stark contrast to the wood cabins, gardens, and farmland inside. 
When they reach the gates, the guards ask their names. They’re dressed in handmaid clothes, but John can tell they’re carrying guns. 
Dean opens his mouth to give them their current aliases, but John’s instincts advise otherwise, and he gets in before Dean can speak. “John and Dean Winchester,” he says, ignoring the look his son shoots him. “We were hiking. New to the area, got lost a few hours ago.”
He expects them to give his directions back to the road, to have to push back on that and ask for more help. Instead, one of the guards runs into the compound to “ask for guidance.” When he returns, he’s not alone. 
John knows he’s the man in charge even before he identifies himself as such. He’s tall and thin, with gray hair and military posture and an unsettling calm about him. 
“Hello,” he says, in a voice that feels smoother than it should be. “I’m David Elwood. I hear you’ve had trouble navigating the woods?” He holds out a hand. John shakes it, and then Dean does the same. 
“You heard right. Would it be an imposition if we stayed and rested awhile? It’s been a long day.” John smiles in a sort of apologetic aw-shucks way. 
“A long and hot day. I imagine you must be hungry, too. We have a church service starting soon, you’re welcome to attend; after that, you can join us for dinner, and then we’ll drop you off back in town, if you’d like.”
Cars, guns, phones–they’re not averse to using technology when it suits them. John files it away for future reference. 
“That’s mighty kind of you,” he says. 
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The church is another log cabin, but this one with a steepled roof covered in solar panels. The service is strange and Dean understands, now, why they call Gibborim a cult. David’s sermon is vague and emotionally charged all at once, emphasizing obedience without specifying what that entails. It’s about Jesus, and about David himself–their prophet, their leader, God’s servant–and sometimes it seems like David might be hinting at aliens. 
There’s a girl in a chair behind the pulpit, scribbling something in a book. She’s got dark, curly hair and olive skin, with two beauty marks, one above and one below the side of her mouth. She’s clearly young, fourteen at the absolute most. Too young to be as pregnant as she is. And as hard as Dean tries to pay attention to everything else going on, trying to file away as much information as possible for later, his attention keeps coming back to her. There are angry red marks on her wrists, barely visible below the sleeve of her shirt. 
Dean doesn’t realize the service has ended until people around him start standing up. John stands, too, and then Dean follows his lead, but his eyes don’t move from the girl behind the pulpit. David goes over to her, takes her hand and guides her to her feet, and kisses her on the forehead. Then he gestures towards Dean and his father, and the girl turns wide, curious brown eyes onto them. 
David leads her over to them. “Gentlemen, this is Esther Elwood. She’s my wife and helpmeet.” He has this smile on his face–calm, small, casual, but it feels like he’s daring them to object to their marriage, to her pregnancy, to her age. 
Dean can tell John is seething with as much rage as he is. He stays calm. Dean follows his lead. But he could swear that David can tell they’re angry, that he’s delighting in it. 
John smiles and extends a hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Esther,” he says. “I’m John Winchester. This is Dean.”
Something clicks in Esther’s dark eyes. Recognition, and something like hope. This is the girl.
“I’m sorry, women aren’t allowed physical contact with men outside of their families,” David says apologetically. “You understand.”
That’s not a woman, that’s a child. 
“Entirely. My apologies, I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Not at all,” David says. Then he looks down at the girl. “Go ahead.”
Esther smiles a little. “This is for you,” she says quietly, and holds out the book she was writing in to John. The marks around her wrist are more marked close up, and they look like rope burns to Dean. It doesn’t escape his notice, either, that this is the first sentence Esther has said to them directly. He wonders if that’s how it always is, David speaking for her, or if David is creating a wall between his “wife” and the outsiders. 
John takes the book, careful not to let their fingers brush. It’s a Gibborim bible. 
“Thank you, Esther,” John says politely. “That’s very kind of you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, again in that soft, hesitant voice. 
David looks down at her. “Go and study with the other women,” he says. Esther nods and looks at John and Dean. “It was very nice to meet you both,” she says politely, and then leaves. 
“You’re welcome to join us for the Patriarch’s class,” David tells them. “We usually have dinner after that.” It doesn’t escape Dean’s notice that this isn’t the original plan he’d invited them into. 
“That sounds just fine,” John says, and Dean nods, following his lead. 
David leaves to go talk to the other church-goers, and Dean finds himself watching him. Something about him feels sinister, like at any moment he could pull the rug from under their feet in a way they’d never see coming.
“Dean,” John says, and Dean’s attention snaps back to his father. “Look.”
John is holding the Gibborim bible open casually, like he’s just curious about it, but Dean can tell that he’s seething again. He looks down at the book.
The words “HELP ME” are written in large, childish handwriting on the first page. 
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starsandstormyseas · 4 months
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LIBERTY HORIZON UPDATE - CHAPTER 31
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Fandom: MCU, Captain America: Civil War Rating: M Characters: OC. Peter Parker, Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Pairings: N/A Summary: The past year has been going well for Amelia Fletcher. Her family is blossoming, and Rebel Columbia is becoming part of a new team of heroes. But then strange things start to occur that has Mia questioning everything. Are the threats real, or just in her head? Old friends and enemies alike will come together in the only way they can. Explosively. (Sequel to Bitter Protocol.)
The Beginning: Rebel Columbia.
Chapter 31: FFN | Ao3
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dancingsunflowers-ocs · 9 months
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𝙊𝘾 𝘾𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙧 𝘽𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙤 2023
Sami Upton
↳ for @thecaptainsgingersnap
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evita-shelby · 1 year
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Of Gods and Witches
Chapter 2
Cw:some light racism, mentions of death, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of suicide attempts
Gif by: @unicornspwnall
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“I hate speaking in that language.” He admits once he has gotten comfortable in the cushions she had placed around the low table.
“I’m glad you speak Nahua, but I suppose I should invest on lessons in Yucateco.” Eva took a small colored glass bowl of nuts from the table. “Again, I apologize for calling you Quetzalcoatl, you must think I am the stupidest witch in the world.”
“I heard your voice through the waves, you sing terribly, but then I saw you dancing and decided to stay.”
Drawn like a moth to a flame, a witch could bewitch someone just by being seen.
Eva knows she has that effect on people, it was one of her greatest assets. And her most used weapon.
Served her greatly during her time in the war.
And now she had summoned a god like man here.
K’uk’ulkan was not the God K’uk’ulkan. He was named after him and had the usual origin story of a god, but apparently that does not make him a god.
Strange thing to learn.
“I am flattered, K’uk’ulkan, to know my meager looks were able to summon a man out of the depths of the ocean.” Eva offers him nuts and he offered her the bottle of Balché as a trade.
She had prepared with some Mayan delicacies and drinks, had she known she would be entertaining a man born some fifty years before the Spanish conquered Mexico, she would have had a traditional Mayan feast laid out.
She shouldn’t be drinking, Doctor Pereira said it was imperative that she avoid a relapse now that she’s sober.
Eva has been sober for the past six months, and yet she drinks straight from the bottle just like he did.
If she were feeling poetic, she’d say something about sharing a bottle being almost like kissing.
But the witch is still embarrassed about failing her own fucking ritual.
It wasn’t her fault, her mother was supposed to train her, but she was dead. Shot in the back by some cowardly American soldiers who panicked when mother's hands started glowing.
“What did you want Quetzalcoatl for?” he asks putting the glass bowl between them.
“To kill my enemies, hence the small feast and the clothes I am wearing. I’m not above bribery, just so you know.�� She likes him. Therefore, something was deeply wrong with him.
Eva has a thing for cursed things, but he wasn’t cursed. She’d know if he were.
“You’d give yourself to a god to see a man dead?” he asks looking almost surprised.
“You see the man by the window?” she gestures slightly to the man dozing off by the hammock.
Eva had drugged him, she could have killed him, but she is not that desperate yet.
“What about him?” he asks intrigued.
“He just got orders to strangle me before the week is up.” Eva answered in a whisper. “His superiors decided that instead of giving me a fair trial, it is better if the world thinks I committed suicide.”
“Why don’t you kill him yourself?” he asks leaning closer to her.
“I will, but I need to cut off the head of the snake or they won’t stop sending people to kill me. He is the third or fourth person the president and his cronies have put in my household to do their dirty work.” Eva takes one last drink of the bottle promising herself it will be the last thing she drinks tonight. “Need Venustiano Carranza dead and unfortunately, I cannot do that myself. Even the assassins my family employs for these sorts of things have refused me.”
“I won’t kill him, surface-dweller.” He takes back Balché and drinks the rest of it.
“I think I preferred Chilan, Kukul,” she shortened his name and he bristled. Eva supposed he is not the type to like nicknames.
Plumed, feathered, she calls him and he is annoyed at how comfortable she finds herself with him.
He doesn’t scare her, takes more than that to do the trick now.
“My enemies call me Namor.” there is something about him that strikes her like lightning striking a tree.
Sparks that will burn a forest to ash, but what great fire it will be.
“Enemies don’t drink together while watching the ocean, so I will use the name your mother gave you.” She reminded him. Eva doesn’t care, she only has four days to live, if is offended than fuck him. “Besides if you meant to kill me, you would have used that thing you and your people do and have me walk into the water and never be seen again.”
She’s heard the tales, heard about sailors dying or survivors who could not do more than speak nonsense about blue skinned Mayan ghosts and their deadly siren song.
“It’s bad luck to kill a priestess, even a surface-dwelling one with the blood of those who hunted and enslaved our people.” He points out and wrinkles his nose as he mentions her mixed blood.
It makes sense that a god king would be racist, a shame it had to be this one.
“My great great grandfather liberated our country from Spain, my great grandmother descends from Moctezuma himself, my grandfather’s country was invaded like ours was and my father came from a nomadic tribe of people who aren’t exactly accepted everywhere.
They are white, but not like the white people you encountered.” She said defending her family from his cruel assumptions. “Besides, it doesn’t matter if my father was a white man, or that my mother had the blood of the last Mexica Emperor and the first President of Mexico, my family is all dead.”
“I am sorry for your loss, wàay.” He said offering her the last of the Balché.
Sorcerer, he calls her and yet it doesn’t sound insulting like surface-dweller does.
“Thanks.” And she feels a spark when their fingers brush against each other on the bottle. “But I shouldn’t be drinking, last time I drank I ended up trying to fling myself from a balcony in my melancholy.”
“I was a boy when I lost my mother and stepfather. I age slowly, you see. They died of old age by the time I turned twelve.” He intimates and both find common ground: grief.
“Hmm, you cursed with immortality, and I cursed with luck.” The witch reaches out for one of the crystal glasses with water on the table.
“I think we are the only two people who think of it that way.” K’uk’ulkan hides his pain well, but she can feel it still, makes her shiver even.
“No one else has lived the lives we have. How would they know how it feels to outlive everyone you love?” Eva pointed out as she brought her knees up to her chest and hugged them for warmth.
He was warm, but he got a little angry at her using the nickname his mother gave him and was prejudiced against people of mixed races, so she wouldn’t try leaning against him for warmth. He would feel nice, she thinks. His hands were warm when he helped her to her feet.
“To curses then.” He lifts the bottle in a toast and she clinks her glass with a quirk in her lips.
“May all who envy us never know how we suffer.” She said and both drank in silence.
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ghostlyxserenade · 2 years
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𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦  𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵  𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦  𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵  𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦  𝘪𝘯  𝘮𝘺  𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 ; ash  &  morpheus  feeding  the  birds. * the sandman universe OC.
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𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐝𝐞  '𝐚𝐬𝐡'  𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫.  (FC ; diana  silvers)  eighteen.  born  and  raised  in  a  small  farming  town  in  nebraska.   high  student  by  day,  waitress  by  night.  part  of  hard  rock  band  called  '' the  nightmarish  nightmare .''   painter  &  guitarist  by  choice,  oneironaut  (dream  walker)  by  twist  of  fate.  daughter of a small-town cop and crystal shop owner.   narcoleptic  with  addiction  to  energy  drinks  and  vegan  junk  food.  𝐞𝐧𝐟𝐩-𝐭  ;  disorganized,  stressed  out  easily,  overly  emotional,  enthusiastic,  empathetic,  highly  creative.  sagittarius.  demisexual.
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Violet DeWitt-Bukater
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Fandom: Titanic
Face Claim: Alexis Bledel
Age: 20
About: Violet is a curious and studious person. She loves learning about anything she can, and takes a particular liking to geography. She has a collection of old maps that she's fond of, and scrounges for new ones anywhere she goes. She's easily excited, and has a bad habit of interrupting if it seems, to her, conversations are at a standstill. She's especially bad about it when it comes to her sister, with whom she wants to share everything. Violet can gush about her interests, even if it seems people are bored with her. She's often written off as a, "silly girl," despite also being expected to take on all the responsibilities of an adult woman.
Romantic Pairing(s): TBD (Potentially James Moody)
Key Friendship(s): Thomas Andrews, Fabrizio
Plot Summary: Violet's mother wants nothing more than to secure an appropriate match for her elder daughter. Rose treats her as if she were younger, and tries to protect her from the world. But Violet herself desires adventure and exploration. She wants to see the world - to taste its many flavors and to be unbound to any one location. Society demands she be a wife and mother, but Violet has other plans.
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misskatiewrites · 1 year
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Chapter 6: The Lady’s Curse
The night of the wedding
Daemon
He had left the great hall, disgusted by her lies and annoyed by the Dornishman. Now, he was roaming the dark corridors of the Hightower. The truth was he was getting bored. Not just tonight, no, of Oldtown as a whole. The city and the Hightowers had offered some diversion, and he conceded that provoking the elder daughter still held some fun – but their interactions were getting more and more tedious.
It had nothing to do at all with her blatant rejection of him, he had not expected her to reveal that buried desire shel felt for him in her uncle’s great hall and Daemon was not invested enough to try and wheedle the admission out of her. What did he care? She was not the sort of woman that could entice him, after all, not the sort of woman that would occupy his thoughts. Clarice Hightower might have a sharp enough mind, but she was of First Men descent, brown-haired and blue-eyed. Her ancestors had still quarrelled over stones and meadows when his had founded the Freehold. Her ancestors had ploughed the fields with oxen while his had brought forth dragons from magic, fire, and blood.
Oxen and dragons. And no clever word play, no icy glare could change their nature. It had been entertaining, his moon here at Oldtown, but as entertaining as a bard’s song: predictable, repetitive, shallow, bearable only because it ended soon enough. His stay would end soon, too. He was a dragon but among the oxen, dogs and rabbits of the Hightower, his fire would go out.
This early in the evening, the corridors were still hauntingly empty. With the fog, fear had risen and the nobles of the Reach, cowardly fools that they were, moved in buzzing swarms, never daring to venture too far from the hearth’s warmth – or from each other's company.
Once that Dornish bastard had taken his new wife up to their chamber to fuck her and claim her, the corridors would fill with drunkards and wantons looking for diversion.
By then, Daemon would have left the tower for the Street of Silk. All he wanted before the long descent was a cup of wine. Daemon had just helped himself to a filled jug in the morning hall when the door opened quietly.
He half expected her to have come looking after him but was disappointed.
The cousin had followed him like a lap dog.
“I saw you leave,” she said in her high, whispery maiden voice.
He took a swallow of wine.
“I thought perhaps you wanted company," she ventured further when he made no reply.
“Then why leave?”
A part of him was annoyed. The girl was boring and predictable. Another part, the one that had listened rather too closely to Clarice Hightower’s admission, thought that the cousin had come at just the right time. He had wanted wine and a good fuck, after all.
Cup in hand, there was only one thing missing. Daemon had always had a taste for this sort, young, dewy-eyed maidens. He found them amusing.
She was a maid, no doubt, and obviously wet for him.
And pretty, in a common sort of way. All the Hightower girls looked alike: the heart shaped face and soft features, those large eyes. But this girl's eyes were a muddy hazel, not blue, and she was shorter, too. She looked rather like the younger sister, the annoyingly precocious girl that clung to Rhaenyra like a bur. Alicent.
“I have never seen a dragon before.” She sat down on the bench next to him. Daemon tried to recall her name but gave up quickly. It didn't matter.
Don't use her to spite me .
“Would you like to ride one?” he asked, waiting for that traitorous flush. It came, and it did not go well with her auburn hair. Too easy.
“Would you let me, my prince?” The girl fluttered her lashes in what Daemon thought was supposed to be a seductive look. He didn't bother to hide his amusement.
“I can show you how.” He leant in closer, took in her sweet, flowery scent, the sight of her body, her large eyes. Even in the Street of Silk, he could not have found a more willing maid. Just what he needed.
Please. Leave her alone. You would ruin her.
Daemon traced the line of the girl’s cheekbone. When she raised her face to him in response, his finger travelled lower, down her neck, to her collarbone. There, they rested, only for a moment.
I have never tried to seduce you .
Down to the neckline of her gown with newfound determination. It was too tightly laced and her tits spilled over the bodice. With a lazy move, he pulled it down. She wore a chemise underneath, but it was thin silk that did not hide much. For a moment, his eyes darted up to her face. The girl’s eyes were focussed on him. There was fear, he thought, but more excitement. She wouldn’t stop him. Not tonight. Not when her cousin had interrupted their dance. Not when she had something to prove.
Did you hope to ruin me? Or was I simply not to your taste?
Daemon's other hand went to the hem of her skirts. With girls like this one, he had to be subtle, or he'd startle her, but quick, or he'd lose interest.
“You are the most handsome man I’ve ever seen,” she breathed when she noticed his look. “Like a knight from the songs.”
He almost groaned in annoyance. Why did she feel the constant need to talk when she had nothing at all to say?
“A knight?” he laughed at the notion, and every mild semblance of arousal was gone then. He dropped her skirts.
“You have fought valiantly in battle and in tourney.” She smiled as if that was some generous compliment.
“You were there?”
Her smile flickered.  “I  – I heard all about it. You once asked my cousin’s favour. Alicent’s, I mean.”
Daemon couldn’t recall but he didn’t rule it out. It would have annoyed Otto Hightower, to be sure.
“You like me, don’t you?” Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks and the faintest trace of uncertainty had crept into her voice.” You have always been most charming to me.”
What do you want?
Daemon withdrew his hand from her bodice. This was no good. Fucking her would come with complications. It wasn’t worth the bother.
That sort of insight was strange for him. Usually, he would have found out the next morning how complicated exactly it was. Was he getting old that he developed such foresight?
“I don’t even remember your name.” He downed his wine.
She stared at him. If she started crying, he’d leave.
“Is it Clarice you want?” the girl asked, an octave too high.
Daemon snorted in reply. “Go back to the dance.”
“She’s married. She’d never take you. She doesn’t even like you. She talks about you with father and uncle Otto, mocks you.”
It meant nothing to him. A dragon did not concern himself with the mockery of oxen.
He rubbed his eyes impatiently. “Get out.”
When she touched his forearm, his hand darted up to her jaw.
Then, she finally squirmed but Daemon held her in an iron grip.
Tears welled up in her soft hazel eyes. A child’s eyes, despite her years. 
"Go. Back."
He let go after a moment and reached for his cup. The girl was sobbing as she fled his presence. For a moment, Daemon tried to recall her name in earnest. Then, he gave it up. She didn’t matter, as little as the rest of her damned family.
He meant to leave after that, he did. But he refilled his cup and drank, the muted notes of ribald songs in his ear. The bedding was about to begin.
For a third time, Clarice Hightower would be undressed by her father’s allies, for a third time, her wedding gown would be torn in their haste to get her out of it, for a third time, men would rip the laces of her corset, tear at the high neckline of her linen shift. Daemon had seen it all before. He had found that women’s bodies rarely improved with age, so why bother to take another look?
The wine did its work to dull the sounds and lull him into that foggy haze, a timeless state.
Daemon looked up at the sound of wood on stone and found Clarice Hightower staring at him.
“I had heard that the Hightower was haunted,” he noticed himself how much he slurred his speech, “and by a widow, too, but I never believed the tale.”
“If anyone is haunting the tower, it is not me.”
She remained on the threshold, one hand on the door handle and a wary expression on her face.
Had she come here for solitude? Or for something else?
"A cup of wine?" he asked with an offering gesture.
She threatened to smile.
“That is my uncle’s wine you are offering me.”
Daemon raised a finger, as if to caution her to listen. As the silence dragged on, he looked at her: “I do not hear him protest.”
She pushed the door open a few inches and Daemon saw that she wore only a bedgown under a robe and slippers on her naked feet.
He straightened in his seat.
"I must return to my husband."
She did not move. Daemon did not want her to. Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the golden light of torches, her hair falling in waves to the hastily tied belt of her bedrobe, she looked almost like a maiden on her wedding day. 
"Careful my lady, one might think you fear to be alone with me…Tell me, is it my weakness you fear or your own?"
She raised a brow in that inimitable way, impatient, arrogant and derisive at the same time. "Have you considered it might be your idea of interesting conversation?"
He stared at her. The wine had made her beautiful, softened her features, softened her voice. It woke a numbed part inside him.
She averted her gaze, strangely uncomfortable. "I take mine red and spiced. From the Arbor, not Dorne."
“Anything else, m’lady?”
He poured her a cup of Arbor gold like a servant. It was the only wine he hadn’t touched so far.
She closed the door carefully before she walked over to him, slowly and alert, as if she was trying to catch him pouring poison in her drink.
She looked different, and it wasn’t just the wine. Her hair was longer than he remembered. As a widow, she had worn it pinned up, usually wound around the back of her head, hidden underneath a heavy veil. Perhaps it was the divergence from her usual apparel, her sensible hairstyles and modest gowns, that made her flowing hair and bedrobe so appealing. She had clearly not thought to find someone here, or she would have taken greater care to hide her shape. The robe had been made for the bedding: Cream silk and frills of lace that did little to hide how low the neckline was. If she bent forward, he’d get a good look at her tits.
She had not been fucked, he though, as he tore away his eyes from the neckline of her robe and gave her hair a second glance. He could see the pin marks and the locks hung long and smooth and shiny.
Had her husband not claimed his rights? Had he truly been so foolish? Or had he done it so quickly that no evidence remained?
There was something wrong with Blackmont, he had sensed it as she had, and it was not his taste for cock. But she bore no bruises, showed no sign of the sort of terror a violent man woke. Not yet, at least.
Kill this one sooner.
Their fingers met briefly as he handed her the cup. Hers were ice cold. Had she not come from a warm bed?
“I will drink my wine and then I will go back to my chambers.”
It pleased him that she seemed to feel the need to tell him this. 
“Your beloved’s waiting for you, is he?”
Daemon sat down again and, to his surprise, she took the seat opposite him.
“My lord husband is fast asleep.”
She was cautious, always cautious. There was a reason why she had fled from their chambers on her first night with him. Did she fear the Dornish bastard?
What do you care? He did not. It was a casual interest, as one would watch a hare being ravaged by a wolf. There was nothing unusual about this. At all.
“Your bedding was over quickly.”
“My lord husband is not the ceremonial sort.”
Her tone was pleasant as if they were discussing the rising price of oranges, her face betrayed nothing.
Daemon had never known anyone with such a frozen face. Clarice Hightower had always been comely enough but she had never attracted as many suitors as her beautiful sister. There was something strangely distant about the older Hightower girl, something that kept lords and ladies at arm’s length. Her manners to everyone but him had always been welcoming, it was something else, something that sat deeper than the studied courtesies of a well-bred lady.
Her icy demeanour had always provoked him and ever since he knew what was underneath, there had been a challenge in it, too.
He could rip her frozen mask off, he was certain. She was young and inexperienced, pleasure would hit her like a wave and knock her off her feet. He could imagine it well enough, the way her well-practised faint smile would slip in that moment of intense pleasure. Would she cling to him in ecstasy? Would she moan his name?
Only one way to find out.
As she bent forward to pour herself another cup, the neckline of her silk robe slipped. It was a slinky thing and had no doubt been part of her first trousseau. 
When she looked up she saw him surveying the revealed skin with casual interest.
The frozen widow wrapped herself tightly in the annoying garment with raised eyebrows.
“You can hardly blame me,” he said, “this is a welcome derivation from your usual widow’s attire.”
“This is a bedgown and you are not supposed to see me like this.”
But she didn’t tie the belt as tightly as she might have and the silk fell back in place, as it had before.
“You should not be roaming the halls in this then.”
“Well, neither should you. Should you not be lavishing gold on the meanest brothels in the city?”
“I am your uncle’s most cherished guest. And your father did tell you to keep me entertained.”
She raised a brow in that delightfully disapproving way of hers that told him she had fully understood his implication. “He told me to keep you occupied.”
“And yet here I sit, idle.” Daemon played with his empty cup, his grin now openly suggestive.
But Clarice Hightower was not her cousin. His charm had never worked on her.
“I am sure there are whores galore who miss you on the Street of Silk.” The remark was meant to cut but the meaning of her words undermined their intent.
It took her a moment to realise what she had just implied. “Your coin. I meant to say they miss your –”
“I know what you meant to say.” His smirk only intensified with her growing anger.
“Stop it. You’re drunk.”
“Stop what?” he grinned as he watched her squirm. She would not be able to say it. He doubted her tongue was capable of allowing such words to trespass. But there were other things her tongue would be capable of after two husbands and no pregnancy.
The wine had woken his lust. Her slinky attire fuelled it. His desire had nothing at all to do with the woman before him. If anything, she was usually someone who cooled him down. 
“I will not exchange ribald jests with you.” She crossed her arms before her chest, perhaps hoping the posture would give her more dignity, make her look more formidable. Instead, it only enhanced the look of her cleavage.
“Who’s jesting?” The jug was forgotten, he had no thirst for wine. “You taught me so much about your home –”
“Name one fact you’ve remembered,” she interjected flippantly.
He ignored her. “Perhaps I want to teach you something now.”
“I require no lecture.”
“It will be more practical than that.”
“You’ve had too much wine, my prince. You’re forgetting yourself.”
“Then why are you still here? On your wedding night?”
“I’ve had a thirst.”
“And for what, I wonder.”
He stared at her then, laying all the intensity of his wine-fuelled lust into his gaze. A treacherous blush crept over her cheeks although her face remained stone still. Hot fury shone in her ice blue eyes.
Read the full chapter on AO3 or FFN
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shrinkthisviolet · 9 months
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OC Creator Bingo 2023
Kiwi
for @mshrom
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lya-dustin · 6 months
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Shock and Delight
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The invention of the printing press brings about the creation of Westeros' first scandal sheet.
How does this affect the debut of Princess Aemma, the elder twin sister of Prince Jacaerys, and Prince Aemond’s desire to never marry?
And most importantly who is the mystery writer behind The Morning Scandal and why is Daeron so invested in discovering their identity?
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
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reyofluke-ocs · 6 months
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OC HALLOWEEN CHALLENGE '23 - Day 4: Twisted -> Jacen Skywalker (Star Wars)
"Don't you get it? I have to do this. No one else is. I can end this, for good."
In which the Dark Side being the reason Jacen lost his entire family is not enough to stop him from also falling. The First Order will be destroyed... one way or another. For the good of the galaxy. For what splinters remains of his family.
tagging:@endless-oc-creations @stanshollaand, @foxesandmagic, @hiddenqveendom, @arrthurpendragon, @cas-verse, @eddiemunscns, @far-shores, if anyone wants to be added/removed or I accidentally forgot, please let me know!
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ironverseocs · 28 days
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Video Draft of Percy Jackson OCs -> Kelly Fortson & Lisa Carson
Son of Ares and Daughter of Athena
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forever taglist: @arrthurpendragon @foxesandmagic @shrinkthisviolet @themaradwrites @goldheartedchaoticdisaster | @ochub @ocappreciation | contact me somehow if you'd like to be added! :)
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dolce-elegy · 11 months
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♎️ Rachel Moriyama
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Sorry this took so long! Here’s the zodiac aesthetic for Rachel Moriyama aka Phantasm! She’s an Aries! Also for those you who either don’t know who she is or can’t remember, she’s my Danny Phantom OC (post-canon 3 years but no phantom planet) who’s the extremely sheltered daughter of an ex-GIW scientist and who got ghost powers after being shot with an experimental ecto rifle by a person from her dad’s past and left for dead. The ectoplasm “seeped into her blood” and “mutated” her into a halfa. However she’s incredibly physically unstable due to her body rejecting the “new” ghost dna and is close to fully dying so in order to prevent that she travels across the country searching for a cure snd to find her kidnapped father too. Rachel overall is a super, peppy and optimistic, tomboyish girl (who may be more of a Stepford smiler than she appears), who loves the color orange, loves arts and crafts, and loves meeting new people, experiencing new things and getting to experience freedom after being trapped in her home for 15 years due to being so “sickly” all her life anyways.
Ask Me to Make an Aesthetic Board for my OC’s Zodiac ♎️
@ocappreciationtag @arrthurpendragon @allaboutocs @fyeahocsofcolor @carmens-garden @multifandom-oc-hell @ocs-supporting-ocs
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starsandstormyseas · 5 months
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LIBERTY HORIZON UPDATE - CHAPTER 30
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Fandom: MCU, Captain America: Civil War Rating: M Characters: OC. Peter Parker, Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Pairings: N/A Summary: The past year has been going well for Amelia Fletcher. Her family is blossoming, and Rebel Columbia is becoming part of a new team of heroes. But then strange things start to occur that has Mia questioning everything. Are the threats real, or just in her head? Old friends and enemies alike will come together in the only way they can. Explosively. (Sequel to Bitter Protocol.)
The Beginning: Rebel Columbia.
Chapter 30: FFN | Ao3
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