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weasleyreidstyles · 1 month

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a game of wizards chess on a rainy day

~∞~ i've never written for enzo before but my mutuals (love you all🫶🏼) have slowly been turning me into an enzo girlie 🤭🤭 this if for week three of @thatdammchickennugget's hogmarch challenge!!

pairing: enzo berkshire x fem!slytherin reader, platonic mattheo riddle x reader

prompt: wizards chess/"you filthy cheater, we go again!"

warning(s): none its all fluff!!!

The weekend's rainy weather brought with it a sense of serenity and peace as it swept across the Scottish highlands like a flurrying storm. The castle grounds were barren of people, everyone making the unanimous decision to avoid the heavy downpour that had steadily been building in a crescendo all week. The corridors were even emptier, avoided by those who wanted to escape the cold, only the odd person running late to a detention, or for a quick stop in the kitchens, could be seen or heard amongst the chattering painting and silently gliding ghosts.

The common rooms however, were teeming with students, from all year groups. In the Slytherin common room, you and your friends had been some of the lucky few to snag a small grouping of pleated seats, right beside a roaring fire. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that one of said friends was the feared Dark Lord's son, but either way, you were grateful that you could relax by the fire for a few hours, soaking up what little warmth the dungeons could provide in such miserable weather conditions.

Except that you feel anything but relaxed right now. You had somehow found yourself sitting across the small coffee table from Enzo, a fierce game of wizards chess playing out between the two of you. It was common knowledge, between you and your friends, that you absolutely sucked at it, but that didn't stop you from trying, and failing, to beat Enzo at his own favoured game.

You jumped back on your haunches as his bishop savagely destroyed one of your lone pawns and gaped as he jumped up and cheered at his small victory, ignoring the way students around him violently shushed him with scowling faces. Your friends, who only paid sporadic attention to the pair of you, smirked as Enzo sneakily glanced your way, to watch how your face would scrunch in barely restrained irritation.

"And he strikes again!" He says with a cheer, that has Draco glaring at him from over his Potions homework with narrowed eyes. Enzo vehemently ignores him in favour of watching the way your face shifts between a million and one emotions in a split second. "I'm like two moves away from checkmate, sweetheart. Are you sure you can handle losing, again?"

The way he's smirking at you, with mirth painting his face, those brilliantly vibrant eyes of his shining as he stares across the table at you, has a blush fighting it's way up your neck. You scowl at him, menacingly.

"No one likes a show off, Berkshire." You snap, as you move your last remaining rook to take his knight. When Mattheo and Theo snicker from behind you, you turn and rapidly send a glare worthy of one of their own that has them covering their faces to try and hide their laughter from you. Even Draco, who'd been more withdrawn lately, had let out a quiet chuckle.

Sorry love. Mattheo says to you wordlessly and you narrow your glare, solely, on him. But you're not doing a very good job at this.

"Well there's no need to laugh at my misfortune, Matt." You reply and he smirks as he watches the way Enzo looks questioningly between you and him, before he moves another one of his pieces, putting you in checkmate.

You turn towards the table again as you hear the sound of shattering porcelain, watching as your rook is destroyed by his queen, which is now somehow in line with your king piece. You search the board for somewhere you can go, and come up agonisingly empty. You gape at the smug boy across from you.

"You filthy cheater!" You accuse and Enzo sends you a smirk that could bring you to your knees at anytime of the day.

"I did no such thing, sweetheart." He says, but the mischief shining in his russett eyes makes you believe otherwise. "Maybe you should pay attention next time."

His words ignite a challenge within you and you steel yourself as the pair of you become locked into a heated staring contest. In your peripheral, you watch as your friends whisper conspicuously between each other, but you pay them no mind.

Huffing you use your wand to fix and rearrange the pieces to their original positions.

"We go again!" You say resolutely, kneeling closer to the table, as if it would somehow make your wizards chess abilities rise to the surface. But you knew that it was wishful thinking.

Ready to lose again, sweetheart? Enzo speaks to you wordlessly, and your glare intensifies at the way his voice lowers a decibel or two, making it a low rasp in your head. I promise I'll go easy on you. He's smirking to himself as he moves the first piece.

And the cycle continues for another hour, until Blaise lets out an aggrieved sigh and takes your place. You sit beside Pansy huffing as you cross your arms over your chest, casting a look of contempt at Enzo, who does a terrible job of hiding his smug face. After half an hour, their game is a close one, and Blaise only just beats Enzo with a move of pure luck.

The latter comes to sit beside you after that, the game becoming abandoned on the table, an arm reaching across the back of the sofa, hand tracing featherlight patterns against your jumper covered shoulder. He's staring at the side of your face, tracing the way your hair falls in rippling waves as you tilt your head in favour of engrossing yourself in a book instead of focusing on him.

"Still bitter that I won, sweetheart?" He murmurs, leaning in close so that his lips brush the shell of your ear.

The twitch of your lip is the only thing that gives away that you hear him, but you choose to ingore him in favour of finishing the chapter, or at least you try to.

Since Enzo had sat down, you'd read the same sentence at least five times now. He pokes your shoulder with the hand that had been previously caressing it and you turn to him, breath hitching imperceptibly when you realise just how close he is to you.

"I'm only bitter because you cheated. I could've won fair and square." You say, your lips falling into a pout that Enzo desperately wants to kiss away.

"I'm no cheater." He says with enough self assurance that you might be inclined to believe him. "You were the one who turned away from the game."

"Only because Matt distracted me!" You retort, your face moving closer to his on your own accord.

"Perhaps I should put you out of your misery and teach you how to play." He whispers. The tension building between the two of you could be severed by a knife with how palpable the charged atmosphere is.

Said knife appears in the form of Theodore's hushed voice, which sounds fed up as much as it is amused.

"For Salazar's sake, please put us all out of the fucking misery of witnessing this and kiss." It was meant to be a muttered statement between himself and your other friends, but it reaches you nonetheless, causing you to recoil from the close proximity to Enzo, covering your reddening cheeks with your hands.

Enzo doesn't bother to remove his arm from where it practically cradles you into him as he scowls at his best friend. But when you don't move away from his touch, he thanks any god he can think of that you don't shy away from him.

The rest of the afternoon is spent in content silence as you and your friends bask in the murky green glow of the lake, warmed only by the heat of the fire. But you feel heated for a whole other reason, because Enzo's arm is yet to be unwound from your shoulder as you busy yourself with burrowing into his body heat, the position cosy enough for you to settle into finishing your book, and eventually even lulling you to sleep.

Enzo stares down at you with a smile as your book falls limply into his lap. He gingerly picks it up and slides the bookmark, that you'd left on the coffee table, into place before gently putting it on the floor beside your bag. He brings your body closer to his and marvels at the way you instinctively nuzzle your face into his chest, relaxed by the steady beat of his pounding heart.

He places a barely there kiss to the crown of you head and he swears he sees the ghost of a smile gracing your pretty lips.

One day. He'd confess to you one day.

And by the twin looks that he spies on Matt and Theo's faces, that day may come sooner than either of you may think.

~∞~

A little bonus scene:

"I don't understand how the two of them are so oblivious." Pansy says quietly as she watches the way you berate Enzo with no mutinous ammunition behind your words. "They're so obviously in love with eachother."

"Well they are idiots, bella." Theo says with a laugh. "It'll take it being spelled out for them to realise it."

"We cannot meddle with their love lives." Blaise counters, although his glimmering eyes give away that he wants to do exactly that. Draco looks like he agrees.

"Oh come on, B!" Mattheo retorts, a devilish look overtaking his features. "Where's the fun in that?"

"I'll bet twenty galleons that you can't get them to admit it by the end of the month." Pansy offers with a feline smirk and Mattheo's eyes light up in challenge.

"You have yourself a bet, love. Prepared to lose?" He smirks at his friend who only winks back at him before she settles into Theo's side.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." She says and they all turn to watch the way Enzo blatently stares at you, eternal love shining in his russett eyes. "Enzo's looks like he's about to burst with it."

#hogmarch challenge #lorenzo berkshire x reader #enzo berkshire #lorenzo berkshire #enzo berkshire x reader #mattheo riddle x reader #slytherin boys x reader #fluff #so much fluff

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recreationalfanfics · 10 months

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ANOTHER TWISTED NIGHT AT THE MUSEUM THOUGHT: REXY.

Like, imagine if Rexy was able to come with you to Twisted Wonderland one day or something and everyone just freaking out because giant skeleton T-Rex but also, like, the fact that only YOU can calm down the giant skeleton T-Rex.

- Imagine fighting someone during their overblot and you just grab a bone and they catch it and they're all: "HA! Was that supposed to do anything!?" and you're all: "Yeah, this. REXY, HERE, BOY!" and all they hear is a roar before they get head butted by this fucking dino.

- Crewel could probably tame Rexy tbh and would watch him for you when you go out. Like, Rexy is growling at him but Crewel hits his snout with a whip and tells him to sit and he DOES. But then he'll pet him and be all sweet.

- LMAO, FLOYD WOULD TRY TO CLIMB HIM AND SHIT AND AZUL AND JADE HAVE TO STOP HIM. Azul would try to trick you into making a contract with him for Rexy but you and the giant dinosaur just glare at him and he realizes that he's in danger.

- Obviously some people can magically restrain him but you will fight to the end just like you fought for Grim. That is your SWEET BOY AND YOU LOVE HIM.

- Rexy being a bit distracting because he's waiting outside your class window and all the guys are just staring out the window at him as he whines for you and you chuckle nervously at Trien whose giving you a very stern look.

- THE BOYS USING HIM TO PRANK RSA STUDENTS. Like, Ace has the bone and he's all: "C'mon, boy, c'mon!" and Jack is advising them that this isn't a good idea and Epel is all: "No, it's a fantastic idea!" and Jedediah is all: "YOU SAID IT!" and Octavius is there like: "It's really not."

- Rexy would still be scared of Malleus honestly, like, he cowers whenever Malleus comes around and it dissapoints Malleus because he loves Rexy so much. He's like a non magical dragon- what were they called again, oh yes! Dinosaurs. After you get Rexy used to his prescence, he'd love to hear you info dump to him about dinosaurs and the two of you walk around campus exchanging gargoyle and Dino facts.

- The way that Rexy will often times come running back to you with a random student in his mouth and throw them at your feet excitedly, Rook is smiling like a freak as he admires how beautiful and dangerous Rexy's teeth are and you're like: "REXY, GET THAT OUT OF YOUR MOUTH! You don't know where he's been-"

#Twisted Night At the Museum AU #Twisted wonderland #night at the museum x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #ace trappola x reader #deuce spade x reader #Rook Hunt x reader #malleus draconia #malleus draconia x reader #ace x reader twst #twst ace x reader #twst deuce #twst ace

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yuurei20 · 4 months

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So how many people do we know the circumstances of how they got their unique magic now? Like Riddle apparently studied really hard and got it, Idia was born with it, and Deuce and Epel's were both shown in game.

Hello hello!! Thank you for this question!

As you say we have confirmed Riddle's unique magic manifested when he was 10 through sheer effort (at his mother's behest), which was also confirmed in the novel.

"‘Does that mean that you cannot discover your unique magic without studying?,’ Yuuya asks. With a contemplative look, Riddle responds, 'That is not always the case, but it was for me.'"

"Riddle learned ‘Off With Your Head’ when he was only ten years old. According to Trey, it was the result of Riddle’s devotion to his studies and his mother’s strict supervision."

Riddle is particularly interesting because it is insinuated during Book 6 both by Idia and Riddle himself that he was maybe never meant to have the power that he does, but his mother decided she was going to birth a powerful magic-user and brute forced it into happening, artificially enlarging his magic pool to ensure he'd "be an exceptional mage, starting from when (he) was in the womb."

Deuce is our first time seeing a unique magic manifest on screen in an interesting example of how it can happen without the user even realizing it before, during, or after the process.

Like Deuce, Epel's magic also manifests from his efforts to protect others from harm, but it was a slightly less confusing experience as Epel had Rook on hand for advice (and Rook seems very comfortable with the role of "unique magic manifestation coach." Was this possibly not his first time being present for the initial appearance of someone's unique magic?)

In both the (original) game and the novel, it is mentioned that Leona was born with his unique magic:

"Unique magic that is inherited at birth has nothing to do with the person’s will, but humans wrapped up in their own superstitions are ignorant to common sense. Or maybe they think this is a power that I desired, and fought to obtain."

The situation is a little vague but I don't think this means that he was turning people and things into sand as an infant, but rather King's Roar just manifested naturally around the time he came into his magic, instead of being something he studied for, fought for, or even wanted in the first place (in contrast to other mages).

We technically see the process of Azul crafting his unique magic through sheer effort via a flashback: unlike Riddle, who worked for his UM to please his mother, Azul seems to have been motivated by a desire for revenge.

He says that he spent years "studying everything (he) could get (his) hands on," but while Azul seems to have designed the spell himself, it's possible that he didn't know he was creating what would be come his own unique magic at the time. He might just have wanted a spell--any spell--to take talent from others, and it becoming his unique magic was possibly an unintentional bonus.

(Which really makes me wonder what it was that Riddle was doing when his UM manifested at 10 years old. Was it born from a conscious or subconscious urge to stop someone from using magic, like Azul, or did it adapt to the situation he was in at the time, like Epel and Deuce?)

As you say, adding to the list of ways that Idia and Leona are curiously similar, Idia was also born with his unique magic.

He seems to have inherited it directly from his father, who inherited it from Idia's grandmother, Aidne, former head of the Shroud family.

This poses several questions, such as whether or not human-Ortho had also been born with this magic but died before it had been able to manifest, what will happen to the Island of Woe if it is ever left without a blood-relative heir, do cousins count, etc.

I don't think there has been too much information yet about how/when Idia's magic manifested, but it may be a similar situation to Leona, much like how Azul's situation seems similar to Riddle's.

And I think that may be everyone we have heard of thus far! Trey, Cater, Ruggie, Jack, Jade, Floyd, Kalim, Jamil, Rook, Vil and the others have all been fairly quiet about how their unique magics first appeared.

(I am dying to discuss the various magics of Book 7, but this blog pretends that nothing from the main story exists until it is released on EN. Hope to revisit this topic again as EN progresses through the ongoing story! Exciting!)

#twstask #twisted wonderland

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fragileheartbeats · 25 days

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— SUNFYRE ִ ۫ 𖥔 𓈒

𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐲𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧, 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐆𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧.

𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝑰𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝑬𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒉, 𝑬𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚, 𝑫𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆.

Sunfyre is a dragon characterized by his brilliant gold scales that glisten like beaten gold in the sunlight, along with pale pink wing membranes. His flames also share the same golden hue. Notably, Archmaester Gyldayn declares Sunfyre the most beautiful dragon ever witnessed in the known world.

Sunfyre is a young and fearless dragon. He is a formidable fighter. Despite enduring severe injuries in every battle—injuries he could never fully recover from—Sunfyre managed to triumph over every opponent he encountered. This includes Meleys, described as a splendid dragon. He also killed Moondancer, who left him very injured, and he further killed and devoured Grey Ghost. Sunfyre's last victim was Rhaenyra Targaryen, who attempted to usurp Aegon's crown.

Despite suffering severe injuries and a damaged wing, Sunfyre miraculously managed to fly back to Dragonstone. The reason for this return is considered to be that he sensed Aegon needed him. Sunfyre had a strong connection to his rider, Aegon II; their bond was one of the best, and Sunfyre never let him down. Aegon deeply cared about Sunfyre; he made his sigil a golden three-headed dragon breathing golden flames on black to honor him. This sigil also became the main symbol of the Greens. When Sunfyre died, Aegon wept.

— VHAGAR ִ ۫ 𖥔 𓈒

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬.

𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝑰𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝑬𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒉, 𝑬𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚.

Vhagar was a she-dragon of House Targaryen. She was ridden by Queen Visenya Targaryen during Aegon's Conquest, alongside Aegon the Conqueror's Balerion and their sister Rhaenys's Meraxes. Other known riders of Vhagar are Prince Baelon Targaryen, Lady Laena Velaryon and Prince Aemond Targaryen.

By the time of the Dance of the Dragons, Vhagar was the hardened survivor of a hundred battles, had grown almost as large as Balerion, and was the oldest and largest of the dragons in Westeros. Her roar was so powerful that it could shake the very foundations of Storm's End. No living dragon could match her for size or ferocity.

Aemond would continue to fly Vhagar in battle during the civil war between King Aegon II and Queen Rhaenyra. During the battle at Rook's Rest, Vhagar and Aemond, and King Aegon and Sunfyre, ambushed the dragon Meleys and her rider Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. Meleys was an old and large dragon, and might have stood a chance against Vhagar alone, but died from the combined assault. Vhagar was the only dragon who left the battle reasonably unharmed.

— CARAXES ִ ۫ 𖥔 𓈒

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐖𝐲𝐫𝐦.

𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆, 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆, 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒅, 𝒄𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈.

Aemon's nephew, Prince Daemon Targaryen, had claimed Caraxes as his mount. Daemon took his paramour Mysaria with him on Caraxes when he retreated from King's Landing for Dragonstone.

Daemon used Caraxes during the War for the Stepstones. During those years, Daemon divided his time between the Stepstones and Dragonstone where he would often fly with his niece, Princess Rhaenyra, and her dragon Syrax. After Daemon remarried to Lady Laena Velaryon, the newly wed toured the Free Cities of Essos with their dragons Caraxes and Vhagar. Huge crowds came to see both dragons everywhere they went.

At the start of the Dance of the Dragons, Daemon landed Caraxes atop Kingspyre Tower during the assault on Harrenhal.

Atop Caraxes later in the civil war, Daemon challenged Aemond Targaryen and Vhagar at Harrenhal. All four were killed in the ensuing Battle Above the Gods Eye. At the end of the fight, Vhagar locked with Caraxes and they fell into the Gods Eye. While in freefall, even as Vhagar's claws opened up Caraxes's belly and used her teeth to tear off one of his wing-arms, Caraxes locked his teeth onto the larger dragon's throat and tore it out. Vhagar did not survive the force of the fall. Somehow, Caraxes managed to live long enough to pull himself out of the water and onto the shore, even though his entrails were falling out and one of his arms had been torn clean off. The dragon soon died in front of the walls of Harrenhal.

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angelltheninth · 9 months

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Ready to be the Prize

Pairing: Virgin!Male Orc (Rook) x Fem!Readerx Orc!Warlord (Larek)

Tags: nsfw, smut, virginity loss, size difference, size kink, degradation, name-calling, free-use, sharing is caring, orc customs, mentioned gangbang, blowjob, rough sex, feral sex, threeway, pussydrunk!orc, experienced!Reader

Word count: 1.7k

Ao3

A/N: Reposting this because Tumblr flagged it so only I could see it so I'm trying it again with a different image.

You were already sore from being on the thick cock of your new orc warlord Larek. It was another victory for him and his clan and as his favorite human you wanted to give show him your appreciation. His large hands pushed you down on his cock, another surge of cum washing over your insides as you collapsed onto his muscular chest.

"Tired already, pet? The party just started. Everyone's having fun out there tonight." If you were able to focus on something other then him you'd be able to hear the various, eclipsing moans, begging, roars and growls going on outside. "You need to hold out a little longer. We have a special guest tonight."

"G-Guest?" You sigh against him, wiggling your hips on his cock, not wanting to leave, to lose the fullness of him inside of you.

"Mhm. Make sure to treat him right. Don't scare him." Larek nuzzled the top of your head, his tusks grazing your forehead, tickling you a little.

You laughed and pulled back, "What? My lord, you make it sound like you got me a puppy."

"He's about as dangerous as one." The whistle made it even funnier but instead of laughing you turned to see a younger orc entering the room, looking quite flustered, with a very noticeable bulge in his pants, which were the only thing he wore other then his leathery shoulder guards. "Don't stand there soldier, she's not gonna bite you. Ouch! You little bitch!" Your laugh was cut off as he fisted his hand in your hair and pulled you away from his shoulder which now had a clear bite mark on it.

You looked up at Larek, then back at the soldier, he looked so shy to be here. Yet he was unable to keep his eyes off you as you rode Larek's cock. Being watched made you shake your hips harder, eliciting a gruff grunt from Larek before he pulled you off him, much to your dismay.

He chuckled at the pout on your face, "Its okay beautiful, just changing positions, you need to be able to take Rook's cock too." You locked eyes with Rook, mouth dropping open in pleasure as Larek's cock split your pussy open again, "Rook here drew his first blood today, tastes victory for the first time, its only right that his first pussy be the best one of all, yours. And you know me sweetheart, I don't share you with just anyone."

Larek was incredibly possessive of you. Whenever anyone thought to treat you in a way deemed disrespectable they were swiftly punished by him. Neither of you took that shit lightly, however in the bedroom you always allowed him to handle you however he liked, because you knew that under it all, under every degrading word, under every thrust, every growl, there was love and respect.

"You... you'd share her with me sir?" As Rook approached you his cock twitched in his pants, straining to be free, a obvious stain at the front.

"Only once. So cherish this." Larek kissed your shoulder, nibbling on it just a little, "Don't be shy, show her your cock." Rook stiffened at the suggestion, "Look at her, she's already drooling for it. She needs it. Don't you sweetheart, don't you need his cock?"

You nodded and reached clumsily for Rook's pants, his hips jerking forwards when you touched his bare skin and pulled his pants down, "Oh." His cock stood tall in front of you, leaking with cum, "Oh you're not gonna last long with me." You licked your lips, wrapping a hand around his cock, both smaller and not as girthy as Larek's own. Just kissing the tip had him weeping and groaning, "You're a cute one Rook."

"T-Thank you ma'am, I- gods above!" He roared as you wrapped your mouth around his cock and took his length, he walked closer the moment you pulled back, not wanting for the warmth to leave him.

"Down." Larek growled at you, his hand pushing your head towards Rook, "Hold her, fuck her face, use her how ever you want. Its what she's here for." His heavy balls smacked against you with force, full of cum that you soon knew would be inside your pussy. With shaky, gentle hands Rook held your head in place and started thrusting back and forth slowly, moaning every time your tongue flicked over the tip of his cock. It only took a few taps before he was coming down your throat, "How sloppy. You have a lot to learn." Larek grabbed your shoulder and pulled you back against him roughly, his hands grabbing at your breasts while he rutted into you, his cock making you come moments before him, his cum flooding your womb. "See how well she takes my cum? Thank gods we have pregnancy prevention tea eh? Or else this cockslut would have been pregnant all the fucking time."

You turned your head towards him and placed his hand on your belly, "You did promise to have a family with me one day, don't think I forgot."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He nuzzled against your neck, for a moment forgetting that Rook was in the room. Rook however seemed revigorated by the idea of seeing you pregnant, his instincts starting to take over. "We're being rude to our guest. I think its time for his real prize."

Larek lifted you up like you weight noting, all of his cum flowing from you like a river. He urged you forward to Rook, whose cock was fisted firmly in his hand, eyes almost glazed over as you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down to the floor, his hard cock rubbing against your clit, "Ready?" You husked against his ear, biting his ear before you pushed him back to angle his cock with your entrance.

"Gods, so wet." He mumbled as his tip passed through your folds and pushed against your entrance. He was so slow as he pushed in, his mouth falling open as he was enveloped in your tight, slippery heat. "So this is what it feels like."

"That's a human cunt for you. Perfectly made for us if you ask me. You've seen them out there didn't you? All those human whores spreading their legs for us so willingly. More then enough motivation to keep protecting them don't you think Rook?" Rook could only nod, entrenched by you, how your mouth opened for Larek's cock, how you moaned around his cock and let him gag you with it, "As long as they're here every single one of their holes is for us. This one is no exception. She might be my cocksleeve now but almost every orc here has had their cock inside her at some point."

"A... a cocksleeve... fuck... I want her too... she feels so good!" Rook's hips finally pressed against yours, "Can I breed her? Please sir, it feels like her pussy's begging for it, she's begging for my cum." Little did he know that he was the one begging, and sounding so needy and pretty while doing so too.

"Go right ahead. We can take turns on her tonight as many times as you're able to. You hear that? When you walk out of here tomorrow every orc here will be able to smell how well seeded you've been. Maybe they'll give you a go too. It's been a while since you've been gangbanged hasn't it." You moaned around his cock at the idea and Rook's cock spasmed inside you upon feeling how much you tightened in excitement. "Greedy, greedy. That why I love you sweetheart."

You loved Larek too, which is why you did your best to move your head, to suck his cock, to get the combined taste of you and him memorized by your tongue. Rook on the other hand was getting really close, every thrust more desperate then the last, his hands on your legs, keeping them spread apart.

"That's the spirit Rook. Now you're getting it. She doesn't want gentle when she's cockdrunk like this, don't hold back on her."

For the first time since he stepped into the room you saw Rook fully subcum to his desire, hips pistoning into yours with force befitting of a warrior, "You'll take it right? My cum? You'll take it and you'll be so pretty when you're full of it. Right ma- slut?" He growled as he surged forward, mouth wrapping around one of your nipples and cock shooting more warm cum into you.

You felt full, secure, cared for, and so thoroughly fucked out of your mind. As Larek pulled away you grabbed his cock again and sucked him off more, needing to get him to come too, again.

"See? Told you she was greedy." You already missed the fullness as Rook pulled out, his cum leaking out of you, "Shame for all of that. I think you need more, love." His smirk was toothy and cocky as he pushed your head away.

"More." You whimpered.

"We got you. Come here." Larek picked you up in his arms and carried you back to bed, motioning for Rook to follow. "Alright. Lets see how much you can take for the rest of the night. Can you tell me your safe word?"

You blinked up at him as he laid you across his body, his cock at your entrance, "Sword."

"Good girl." He pushed down on your ass, your moan coming out broken as your overly sensitive cunt was stretched once again, "I think you're ready for two."

"Can she take two? She's human, won't it hurt her?"

"Don't tell me what my whore can and can't take." Larek growled, "She knows her limits, and so do I." You wrapped your arms around Larek's thick neck and thrust your hips back at Rook. He gulped hard before you felt it, the tip pushing in, even slower then the first time, mindful of how you loosened up around the two hard, thick orc cocks, coming again as soon as the two were inside of you. "Good girl, you're taking us so well. You'll be treated well tonight." You heard him whisper against your lips before clamming them as his once again. He didn't need to claim you, no matter how many cocks you had before or you will have inside you in the future, you were his and his alone, and you both knew it well.

#monster x reader #monster romance #monster boyfriend #monsterfucking #monster lover #orc x reader #monster imagine #monster x human #monster x girl #monster smut #orc smut #monster fic #terato

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 months

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 10: Blame Everyone But Me For This Mess]

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

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Aemond-induced chaos, death and destruction, witchcraft! 🔮

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

Chapter title is a lyric from: “I’ve Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Only 3 chapters left! 🥰💜

“Aemond!” he roars into the cerulean midday sky, knowing it is useless, that fate has already spoken.

All his life, fate has proven Criston Cole wrong. He once believed he could not rise above being born to a steward in the Dornish Marches. He once feared he would never be permitted to join the Kingsguard. He once felt in his twisting, self-loathing guts that he would never love any woman but Rhaenyra. And Criston once knew—without reservation, without complexity—that Alicent’s eldest son would never amount to anything worthwhile, could never be courageous, self-sacrificial, competent, a true king. Each time, fate had a different ending in store.

All around him, Green soldiers are dying in what will be known to history as the Butcher’s Ball. They are being slit open, disemboweled, crushed beneath the hooves of warhorses, stabbed and clubbed and speared. The Northmen have scorpions with them as well, with massive bolts to bring down dragons; but they are unnecessary. There are no dragons on the battlefield today.

Criston pictures Aemond as a boy, always so sullen, always so dutiful. He read and he wrote and he sparred in the castle courtyard until the blisters on his palms burst and bled and then turned to callouses, knots of dead-nerved scar tissue that grew over his wounds but never cured them. Criston did not just believe in Aemond’s abilities, his honor; he was certain of these things, he carried them as interminably as the lines in his palms. Criston knew Aemond and Vhagar would be the saviors of the Greens in this war. He knew Aemond would be here.

But he’s not. He’s just not, and there’s nothing I can do to bring him.

Cregan Stark is cutting through the Greens’ men. He is not a soldier, he is a force of nature, he is a thunderstorm or a famine or a rogue wave, he is winter coming to rip the trees bare and bury the weak in frostbitten earth. Arrows are loosed by the Northmen’s archers, lethal hissing rain. One hits Criston in the shoulder of his sword arm. Another pierces him through the small of his back, severing his spinal cord and dropping him to his knees.

Through the fray, Cregan sees the Kingmaker. He wants him, he wants Criston’s blood on his blade, his hands, his face; and what the Warden of the North wants, he is never denied.

Alicent, Criston thinks, and he remembers her lying in bed after giving birth to Aegon. She was a girl, just a girl, pale, sick, in terrible and unspoken pain, never the same in body, forever darker in mind, alone in a room full of tapestries of her husband’s house as the court celebrated her newborn son. She knew she had been used. She knew this was her life and always would be, a wheel that goes around and around and crushes the same bones until they stop mending, until the misery and desperation becomes so much a part of you that you could almost forget it’s there. It’s your shadow, it’s your religion, it’s a sigil or a ring.

I suppose now I have something to live for, Alicent had said, and Criston sat on the edge of the bed took her small, cold hand in his own. He raised her knuckles to his lips and answered: I swear to you that I will always protect him. That I will never let him die.

Here in the Riverlands as Cregan Stark descends upon him, Criston looks up again and sunlight spills over his face, warm and kind and golden; but the sky is still empty.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the gardens of Dragonstone, on a bench carved out of gloom-grey basalt, you pull Aegon’s legs into your lap and roll up his loose cotton trousers to inspect them: scars that have knit shut the gashes bones once cut through, muscle mass that is slowly building itself back again, good circulation, able to carry him if only for short, hard-fought distances. You have bled twice since Aemond flew back to the Riverlands to seize Harrenhal. Here under flinty autumn skies and pine trees that sway in brisk wind that smells like saltwater and metal, you think that perhaps the earth is done giving things. This is the time for harvests, not blooms. This is the season of endings, long nights full of cold stars, firelight, reaping.

“Stop,” Aegon says gently. He’s clutching a thick wool blanket around his shoulders. He’s always cold now, pale and shivering. His silvery hair hangs in untamed waves around his face adored with only a single small braid that you weave for him each day. “I don’t want you to do it.”

No; he only wants the maesters to see his weakness, his suffering. “I like taking care of you. It’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s how we met, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” Now he smiles. “I have no idea what you saw in me.”

“An exemplary cock, mostly. Better than any in my medical books.”

Aegon laughs, a sound you rarely get to hear anymore. Then he is grave again. His hair blows in the gales that roll in off the ocean; his eyes, a tumultuous blue like waves in a storm, are ringed by shadows. “Angel, listen to me.” He places a hand over yours where it rest on a knot of scar tissue just below his kneecap. “If I don’t…” He pauses, and you think as you look at him: He’s nothing but scars now, he’s nothing but pain that is calloused over but never forgotten. “If I’m not here when the war is over, I want you to know that you’ll still be protected. Aemond knows. Larys knows. You are to be provided for. You will reside only where and with whom you choose to.”

“Why wouldn’t you be here?”

Aegon shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “We should be realistic.”

“You’ll be here. You have to be.”

Aegon stares into a thicket of rose bushes, blood-red petals and twisted thorns. And he says faintly, like something a strong wind could carry away: “I’ll try.”

“We’re winning, Aemond and Criston and Daeron and the Greens’ armies. They might have won already and we’re just waiting to hear the words. Aemond will end the war and then we’ll all be together again in King’s Landing.”

Aegon gives you a wry smirk as you roll back down the legs of his trousers, concealing his roadmap of harm. “A man like Cregan Stark would not be such a disappointment. He would be able to ride into battle. He would not have compelled you to bloody your own hands. He would not be feeble and deformed.”

“It can’t be anyone but you.”

Overhead, half-shrouded in mist, there is an immense reptilian shadow and a rumbling like the earth splitting in two, cracked and forced apart by eruptions of steam, lava, trapped toxic heat. Gingerly, Aegon returns his boots to the earth, stony and barren. He winces and groans before he can bite it back to hide it from you.

“I’ll go,” you tell Aegon, skimming your fingers through his hair and touching your lips to his temple. His wave-blue eyes are watery, grateful. “Stay here. I’ll bring him to you.”

You hurry through corridors and down spiral staircases, watched by dragons of iron and stone with fire burning in their mouths. And of course, there is more than one reason why you want to greet Aemond by yourself. You don’t know what he will say to you; you don’t know if he’s still angry. But when he strides through the entranceway of the castle to meet you—his hair in one long white-blond braid, his black coat billowing around him in the sharp wind—he is not alone.

There is a woman with him.

“…Aemond?” you say, staring at her: hair like onyx, skin like snow. She grins at you beneath eyes that are pools of ink, dark and glassy and with hardly any whites. You do not believe she intends to unnerve you; still, there is a blade-cold shudder that tumbles down the rungs of your spine.

Aemond replies with pride that is hushed, pure: “This is my wife.”

“Your…?” You cannot look away from her. Her gown is black lace with long, dragging sleeves and a train that curls around her like a dragon’s tail. You can see glimpses of her starlight skin through the fabric, her forearms, her waist, her thigh. Isn’t she cold? You are wearing heavy velvet, pine green like Aegon’s banner, and still the impending winter needles at you. “Who…?”

Lord Larys Strong arrives, his cane tapping on the stone floor. When he sees the woman, he jolts to a halt and gawks. “Alys?”

“Hello, brother.” Her voice is deep, smooth, melodic. She speaks the language of ocean currents, roots in dark fertile soil, the revolving of the stars.

You turn to Larys. “Who is this?”

“A bastard daughter of my father,” Larys answers, slow and disbelieving. “Alys Rivers. She…she was at Harrenhal, last I saw her…years ago…”

“And now she is here with me,” Aemond says. “She is precisely where she belongs.”

Silence fills the room, the world, the space that has opened up between you and Aemond. Wife? Bastard? Harrenhal? At last, you manage shakily: “Aegon is in the gardens. He’s waiting for you.”

“Good,” Aemond says. He wears something you have never seen on him before: not just pride but serenity, consolation, contentment. “There is much to discuss.”

As slate-grey wind whistles through rose thorns and cranberry bushes, you and Larys step out into the gardens with your uninvited guests. Aegon’s eyes snag on Alys, widen, and then dart to you. He mouths: Who the fuck is that? You shrug, bewildered.

Aemond says: “Allow me to present my wife, Lady Alys Rivers of Harrenhal.”

“Your wife?!” Aegon exclaims, like he couldn’t possible have heard correctly. “Your wife?!”

“Yes.” Aemond’s arm snakes around Alys’ waist. She folds into him, palm to his chest, lips to his throat, something creeping and boneless like ivy or mist or smoke. “You’ve had two now. I’ve only just found mine.”

“Rivers,” Aegon echoes incredulously. “A bastard from the Riverlands.”

Larys notes: “One of my father’s natural children.”

“A Strong bastard?!” Aegon cackles and looks to Larys. “Where is Daeron presently? Can he be summoned here? He should see this.”

“It is no jest, Your Grace,” Aemond says calmly. “It is a true pairing of souls.”

“And you were not at liberty to give yours. You have to marry Borros Baratheon’s daughter. That was the deal, that’s why he has pledged his army to us.”

“Daeron can do it.”

“Daeron won’t be old enough to marry for years, and that’s not the point! This is a slight, an egregious slight, to reject a Baratheon noblewoman in favor of a…a…what was she, a serving wench? A wetnurse? What happened to your pathological obsession with self-righteous duty? And why aren’t you and Vhagar with Criston?! Is this what you’ve been doing for the past six weeks while I was trapped here, suffering and useless? You’ve been hiding in the crumbling towers of Harrenhal with your so-called wife? What was so fucking crucial that it kept you from the battlefield—?!”

“She carries my son,” Aemond says.

A gasp spills from you before you can silence it; Lord Larys covers his mouth with one hand. Aegon stares numbly at his brother, not warring with envy or spite but raw astonishment. This is an asset to the Greens, it is a detriment, it lifts a burden from his shoulders, it imperils all of you. “You have no way of knowing what it is yet.”

“I know. We know.”

“And why have you flown to Dragonstone?” Aegon demands. “To torment me with your disobedience, to illustrate so vividly how all that relentless, calculated striving has finally cracked your brain in half—?!”

“No.” Aemond glances to you. “Something has happened. And I wanted to be here in person to deliver the news and…express my condolences.”

“Condolences?” you say, fearful, alarmed.

“Lord Larys will not have received word yet,” Aemond continues. “It has only just transpired. But Alys has seen it.”

Aegon shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. “Seen it…?”

“She sees things. The future, the past. Not every detail, but some of them. She’s seen Mother in the Red Keep, a prisoner but still alive. She’s seen Jaehaera safe and well at Storm’s End. The child has a protector, though Alys isn’t sure who.”

“She’s a witch?” Aegon says flatly. “This bastard Strong woman that you have taken to wife is, among all her other deficiencies, a witch?”

And Alys answers in a voice like the night sky, dark but threaded with glimmers of stars, moonshine, comets: “I am a woman who lives between two worlds. Your Angel is much the same, I think.”

Aegon blinks at her, not entranced or awed but fighting the instinct to flinch away.

“There have been riots in King’s Landing,” Aemond says.

“Yes, obviously. Everyone is aware of that. I think the Wildlings north of the Wall have heard.”

Aemond ignores the jab. “The Master of Coin, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, was travelling through the city in a carriage when…” He trails off, uneasy. He glances at you again. His sole remaining eye—river-blue and without any malice—shimmers with grim compassion.

“What?” you say. “What happened?”

Aemond speaks to Aegon in words you cannot comprehend, swift ageless High Valyrian.

Aegon sighs testily. “Slower. Enunciate.”

Aemond tries again. Aegon repeats a certain word, unable to decipher it. Aemond offers him several others, what you can only assume are synonyms.

Aegon’s face goes even paler, the last of the blood draining out of his cheeks. Then he reaches out a hand to you. “Come here,” he beckons softly.

“Why?”

“Angel, come here now.”

“They killed him, didn’t they?” you ask Aemond. Your voice is trembling, icy, choked. He was an architect of Rhaenyra’s war effort, but he was your father first. He was a beast with blood on his hands, but now you are too. “The common people hate Rhaenyra and they hate my family. So they murdered him.”

Alys says: “They did not just murder him.” And she is not taunting you, though she grins like she might be; she has lost pieces of what it means to be human. She is no longer fluent in anything as trite as sympathy or decorum. Her obsidian eyes gleam, polished, glowing. Her long black hair blows in the wind. There are raven feathers in it, you notice now, and twigs, pine needles, earth, sand, ashes. “They bound and tortured him, they sliced off parts of him to keep as relics, they rode on horseback through the streets swinging his severed head and cock as they celebrated an end to all taxes—”

“Will you shut the fuck up?!” Aegon shouts at her. “Angel, please, come here.”

“Your brother was there too,” Aemond says solemnly.

Yes, of course he would be. He was always Father’s favorite. “Clement,” you whimper, pressing a palm to your chest. Your lungs burn as they drink down chill autumn air that cuts like a blade.

“No,” Aemond says. “The other one.”

“What?” No. No, that can’t be true.

“Not Clement,” Aemond insists. “It was the other brother. The burned man.”

No. No no no. I can’t believe it, I won’t believe it.

“Angel,” Aegon pleads, still reaching for you.

“Everett,” Alys says, dreamy, not knowing how cruel it feels, like splinters of glass beneath your skin instead of arteries and muscle, like shattered bones. “He was not difficult for them to catch. He could not run.”

Your words escape in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t believe you.”

Alys offers her hands. They are long, lithe, white like a skeleton’s. “Would you like to see?”

“No.”

“I can show you. Then you will trust what I say.”

“Alys, my love,” Aemond warns.

“No, you’re a liar,” you snarl at her. “You’re not a witch, you’re not some prophet, you’re just a liar and I don’t believe you—!”

And before you can flee she’s crossed the space between you, she’s gripped your wrist with those slender claw-like fingers, she’s pouring her magic into you like poison down a prisoner’s throat. The vision surges into your skull and fills it, sight and sound and scent: Everett screaming as he is dragged from the carriage, the hoard ripping at his clothes and his eyes, dull kitchen knives pulled from pockets, the coppery ether of blood in the air. You can feel the feverish heat of the crowd. You can feel their boiling-over animal rage. You can feel everything, but you can’t stop it.

Beyond the grisly mirage, you can hear yourself shrieking, muffled and distant; and you can hear someone else bellowing for Alys to let you go. Her hand is yanked off of your wrist and you are abruptly back in the gardens of Dragonstone surrounded by indomitable flora that warps and tangles and endures. You are kneeling on the cobblestones, tears flooding from your eyes. Aegon is on the ground with you, his arms circling around your waist. He is calling Alys a bitch, a monster, a demon. He is threatening to feed her to his dragon.

“Forgive me,” Alys says to you, peering down with a vague sort of regret etching lines into her brow. “I did not intend to cause any distress. I only meant to help you understand.”

Aegon seethes at Aemond: “Take your witch back to Harrenhal.”

“No,” you protest; and Aegon studies you, puzzled, as you gaze up at Alys, this half-human phantom that dwells between realms, something like a dark mirror image of an angel. “What else have you seen?” Tell me Aegon lives. Tell me the Greens win and we have a chance at a better world one day. Tell me this was all worth it.

“She has seen Daemon and Caraxes meeting me at the Gods Eye,” Aemond says. “She has seen me taking flight to join them in battle.”

Aegon is stunned. “When?”

“Soon. Three days from now.”

You sob, thinking of Everett; and Autumn too, wherever she is, who will reappear when the war is over searching for home but forever unable to find it. Aegon holds you and you pull yourself into him, arms slung around his neck. His silver hair brushes your face; his scarred right cheek is rough against yours. When you breathe in violent hitches, you inhale rose oil and wine and salt and warmth and misery, you taste the war that built him and now has returned to claim the debt.

“It’s Rhaenyra’s fault,” Aegon whispers, fierce and merciless. “We will kill Daemon and Cregan Stark. We will retake King’s Landing and capture Rhaenyra. And I swear to you that she will burn.”

Aemond is saying: “Do we have permission to stay the night or not? We’ve traveled a long way. My wife is tired, and so is Vhagar. Another flight so soon would tax her.”

“You can swim,” Aegon pitches back.

Lord Larys Strong—ever servile, ever composed—clears his throat, both hands resting on the handle of his cane. “Would anyone care for some soft-shelled crabs?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Mist hangs heavy over the castle the next morning, a cool metallic grey like steel; the sun is muted, only a wisp of itself, a memory that is swiftly fading. Alys Rivers stands in the surf fetching seashells and stones that she plinks into a basket. Locks of her long, wild hair dip into the roiling water and emerge sopping and heavy, sticking to her ink-black gown. Aegon is curled up with Sunfyre at the edge of the beach. The dragon breathes with rattling, labored heaves and Aegon pets his golden face, wishing the beast’s wings to knit themselves back together and his own legs to be strong again, murmuring to Sunfyre in some clumsy patchwork of High Valyrian and the Common Tongue to assure him that he’s served his king well.

You and Aemond walk down the windswept beach together, your boots sinking in wet sand and leaving imprints like bruises on flesh. Your gown is a deep, vibrant red like the sigil of the newly decimated House Celtigar; Aemond’s hair is wavy and damp and blows loose in the breeze. You are reminded of the night you shared with him six weeks ago, though you don’t want to be. Neither of you have mentioned that indiscretion. You believe you have silently agreed to forget it. You ask the prince regent: “How many people do you think you’ve burned in the Riverlands?”

“Why do you care? They’re not you. They’re not me.”

“Perhaps each life we take robs something from us as well. It carves a piece of the soul away and leaves it less than it was before.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow, intrigued.

“I am less than I once was,” you explain. “Acts of love feel like violence, violence is mistaken for love. Things that horrified me a year ago are now what give me solace when I dream of them. Vengeance, slaughter, fire and blood. Aegon grows more bitter, more ruthless. And so do you.”

“We will have the luxury of reforming ourselves when the war is won and Aegon is the undisputed king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“If there’s any part of us that remembers who we were supposed to be.”

“I remember exactly who you were.” Aemond grins. “Fawning over Aegon, weaving braids into his hair. Scurrying around with your bandages and vinegar and honey. Always seeking to take his pain away. Always waging your own little war against the agony of mankind.”

“That feels like a different person,” you say, peering out over the ocean.

“We will build monuments to those we’ve lost,” Aemond promises. “Jaehaerys, Maelor, Otto. Your brother and my sister. You say you dream of fire and blood? I often find myself dreaming of Helaena.”

You turn to him, startled. And you recall the warnings her ghost gave Aegon before Baela and Moondancer arrived on Dragonstone: Don’t fall, don’t fall. “Does she say anything?”

“She keeps telling me I’ll lose my left eye.” Aemond smiles wistfully. “And I answer: Helaena, that’s happened already. But when I try to comfort her, when I try to embrace her, she turns away from me and says it’s too late. That I’ve ruined myself.” He walks with his hands linked behind his back, his face thoughtful but not brooding. “I still miss her,” he says. “And I still feel responsible. But things are easier now.”

You follow his eyeline to where Alys is plucking a starfish from the frothing waves and placing it in her basket. And doesn’t it make some strange bit of sense that Aemond’s match would be someone rare, bizarre, gifted in ways that are in equal parts mesmerizing and fearsome? “I’m glad you found someone who eases your burdens.”

“She has suffered tremendously. She knows what it is to be unloved and overlooked. She had to reinvent herself, just like I did. She had to shed her skin and step into a new one that she stitched together herself.”

“Perpetual Resurrection,” you say softly.

“Perpetual Resurrection,” Aemond agrees.

Now Alys is trekking up the beach to join you, her soaked hair whipping in the wind and her basket slung over one arm. From where he sits with Sunfyre, Aegon watches her with narrowed, disapproving eyes. “This belongs to the king,” Alys says to you, opening her hand. In her palm rests the ring of gold wings and jade eyes. “You should return it to him. He does not like me.”

You gasp and take the ring that you last saw before Aegon fell from the sky and shattered his legs, his spirit. “How did you find this?”

“It spoke to me. I spoke to it.” She smiles, more like a leer, though she does not mean it to be. Her eyes—onyx, jet, black moonstone—are bright with amusement. “See? You do not understand. Sometimes it is best not to ask.”

You slip the ring onto one of your fingers for safekeeping until you deliver it to Aegon. From the stone staircase that leads up to the castle’s main entrance, Larys waves Aemond over to him. Aemond kisses the woman he calls his wife farewell—a deep, burning kiss—and then departs. You say to Alys: “How did you become…like this?”

“I surrendered to it. Anyone can, if your life is hell and you are willing to burn it down to the foundations. You go deep into the swamp and then it goes into you. It grows through your skin and into your veins. It tangles up with you, vines climbing your ribcage and spine like ivy on a trellis. It changes you. It makes you greater than you were before. The victim becomes the victor. The weak turn watchful and wise.” She is gazing at where Aemond stands with Larys, exchanging theories and plots. Aemond shakes his head at something Larys says. “I always knew he would find me. The man whose fractured pieces fit with mine. Yet each time I thought I glimpsed him only to realize he wasn’t the one, I would think: How long must I wait? I have buried so many children. Will I ever have more? Will he come to me before it is too late? Is it too late already? But no, he flew to Harrenhal just as my hopes were giving out like a dry well. And Aemond was worth every second, minute, month, year. He was worth the beatings and the contempt, the rapes and the blood. He was worth all of it.”

Alys reaches out to touch your cheek and you recoil; but she is not giving you a revelation this time. She is merely tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a fond, maternal smile. There are mottled plumes of violet and indigo on the side of her throat, you notice only now. Alys catches you staring.

“Aemond can be rough, domineering,” she says with a sly smirk. “You know how he is.”

You know how he is. You know how he is. Horror strikes you like lightning; you imagine what other visions she has swimming in her changed blood. “It was a mistake. Aegon must never learn of it.”

“Of course not. That would kill him.” And you are gutted by a blade of cool serrated treason. Alys does not appear to be aware of it. “If I can ever be of service, please do not hesitate to summon me. I can appear and speak to you briefly, perhaps for five or ten minutes. I will be like a mirage, a ghost. Find a closed door and write my name upon it in blood. Then knock three times and open the door. I will be there.”

“A door? Which door?”

“Any door.”

You contemplate her. “Why would you believe that you owe me loyalty?”

“Because of Aemond,” Alys says simply, without any trace of resentment. “You mean something to him. So you mean something to me.”

He doesn’t crave me anymore. He has his own prize now. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“I never am.” Then Alys glides off to rejoin her husband.

Hours later as you are helping Aegon into bed—he must be carried up and down the castle steps by his guards in a litter, something he considers mortifying—you weave a new braid for him and then pour him a cup of milk of the poppy when his glazed eyes keep listing to the glass bottle of pearlescent relief, deadened nerves, liquid dreams. You crawl into bed beside him, curl up against his scarred chest, listen to the slowing thud of his heartbeat as his arms enfold you and draw you in ever-closer. His dragon ring glints on his hand, returned to its rightful place.

“Your legs?” you ask, kissing the gnarled scar tissue that has grown over his collarbones like climbing roses, like ivy. He can’t really feel your touch there, that’s not why you do it. You do it to show that you aren’t repulsed by his wounds and could never be, could never think of any part of him as something less than wondrous.

“That’s most of it,” Aegon murmurs drowsily. “I’ve started getting this ache in my back too. It won’t go away.”

“What?” You bolt upright in bed. “Show me where.”

He gestures: the curve of his spine, just above his hips. Panicked, you begin pressing lightly over where his kidneys are.

“Here? Aegon? Does that hurt?”

But now he’s realized how frantic you are, how upset. “Oh, no, never mind,” he says, clutching his pillow and feigning being too tired to speak on the subject for even a moment longer. He yawns dramatically. “It’s just a sprained muscle, I think. You know I’m always crawling around now like some kind of vermin. It’s nothing serious. It will heal in time.”

“Aegon—”

“I’m alright.” He grabs your hand and pulls you back down to him, buries his face in your hair, nuzzles and sighs contently as he whispers: “Shh. I’m alright. Stay, stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“You left him!” you hear Aegon yelling from his rooms, and you drop the book you had been reading in the castle library, an anthology of illnesses of the body, the mind, the soul. You sprint through the shadowy corridors towards the noise, the hem of your sapphire gown fluttering around your ankles. You are always dressed in jewel tones these days. You are anything but neutral.

In Aegon’s bedchamber, Larys has pressed himself to one stone wall like he wishes to disappear. Alys is observing with her strange, impassive, void-dark eyes. Aemond is being berated. He does not appear resentful or defiant; no, he is paralyzed. He is haunted, he is damned.

“You left him!” Aegon screams again, and hurls a full wine cup that strikes Aemond in the chest, spewing red through the air like blood spurting from slit veins. The king is standing, but with great effort; he is scrabbling through the drawers of his bedside table for things to throw at his brother. Yet the glass bottle of milk of the poppy remains untouched. “You abandoned him, you betrayed him, you fucking murdered him!”

“Aegon, what’s going on—?!”

“Almost a week ago, Cregan Stark’s army met Criston’s in the Riverlands,” he tells you. He is panting, red-faced, furious as he recounts Lord Larys Strong’s words, the news the Master of Whisperers only now received from one of his innumerable informants.

You stare at Aemond, horrified, already knowing what this means. “And Aemond wasn’t there.”

“He was at Harrenhal!” Aegon roars, tossing one of your medical books at Aemond, a volume on herbology. It strikes the prince in the nose, and blood gushes from his nostrils; ruby droplets freckle his hair. Aemond makes no attempt to defend himself. He is in shock, he is mourning. “He was fucking his witch while our men were being butchered!”

“Criston, he’s…he’s…?”

“He was slain in battle,” Larys informs you quietly.

Aegon staggers to his brother, shoves him roughly, receives no retaliation. “He was the closest thing you had to a father, he worshiped you, he loved you, and you left him to fend for himself after I told you over and over again that you and Vhagar needed to stay with him, and now he’s gone!” There are tears on Aegon’s face, crystalline tracks that bleed down his cheeks and jaw and throat. “You killed him, you killed him!”

“The Stark men?” you ask Larys, not wanting to know but needing to.

“Moderate losses. Now headed south towards Daeron and the Hightower army.”

“You fucking traitor,” Aegon hisses, sobbing, beating his palms against Aemond’s chest again. “Your whole life all you’ve wanted was responsibility and the second someone gives it to you, you throw it away! Why can’t I be the one with a body that works?! Why can’t my dragon be whole again?!”

And at last Aemond finds his voice. It is brittle and almost too hushed to hear. “I’ll make this right. When I defeat Daemon and Caraxes at the Gods Eye, it will be over.”

“It’s already over for Criston!” Aegon explodes. “It’s over for Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor, it’s over for Otto and Everett, it’s over for Sunfyre, we keep losing people and it’s all your fault! You started this war and you’re too much of a goddamn coward to end it!”

“He will end it,” Alys says in that deep placid voice like dusk, dawn, midnight.

“Don’t try that bullshit with me! I don’t want to hear about your delusions, I want him to do his goddamn job! I want him to act like the hero he’s been begging to be seen as since he was five years old! You know why no one wants to write books about him or carve his face into statues? Because he doesn’t fucking deserve it!”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond whispers, his mouth trembling.

“You should be!” Aegon hemorrhages, and then collapses to the floor, moaning with his face in his hands.

You go to him, try to soothe him, grab the wine cup from the floor and fill it with milk of the poppy, tilt it against Aegon’s lips. He gulps the numbness down with helpless, hated need. Aemond and Alys flee for the doorway.

Aegon says, suddenly more calm: “Aemond, wait.”

The prince regent stills and turns back, listening. Aegon, with great difficulty, begins to say something in High Valyrian. Aemond cuts him off. “No, that won’t happen—”

“Please,” Aegon rasps. “Listen to me.” Then he continues. And as he speaks, Aemond’s eye fills with tears, a glistening like ice over lakes in the winter, like gemstones in a crown. You look between them, searching for any clues you can read.

“I understand,” Aemond says at last.

“Good. Now get out.”

Aemond wipes his face with his sleeve and then disappears from the room. You tell Aegon as you rise to your feet: “I’ll be right back.”

Aemond is moving quickly; you don’t catch up with him until he’s passed through the castle entranceway. Down by the ocean waves beneath a blood-red sunset, Vhagar is already landing, leaving cataclysmic imprints in the sand with her claws, trenches and impact craters. From the edge of the beach, Sunfyre watches with dull, wounded interest. Alys is halfway down the staircase. Aemond stops when he hears your footsteps, waiting under the rising full moon and materializing constellations.

You demand: “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Aemond.”

“He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain. He doesn’t understand—”

“Aemond, what did he say?”

The prince regent sighs and looks at you. “He said he doesn’t think he’s going to get better this time.”

I can’t believe that. I can’t survive that. “Why did you have to do it?” Your voice splinters; your throat burns. “He’s right that you started this war. You’re the reason Rhaenyra will never negotiate. You’re the one who made this horror inevitable. Why did you have to kill Luke?”

The dusk is radiant on Aemond’s face like firelight. It is a long time before he speaks. “I never intended to.”

That doesn’t make any sense. “What?”

“I never gave Vhagar the order. She went after Arrax. I tried to stop her.”

It wasn’t murder. It was an accident. And you think of all the times people have told Aemond that everything that’s happened is his fault, and how he has never disagreed with them. “Who knows?”

“You. Alys.”

“No one else?”

“Who would believe me?” Aemond smiles faintly, profoundly sad. “And even if they did, would that make me so much more noble than a kinslayer? A Targaryen who can’t control his own dragon? A man who is reckless, ineffective, unworthy?”

Here in air the color of flames and gore, you tell him, perhaps more kindly than he deserves: “You’re worthy, Aemond.”

“I will end this. I will meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle. Alys saw it.”

“Did she see you win?”

“Are you worried about me?” Aemond teases, grinning crookedly. And he does something that he hasn’t tried in a long time. He swipes for your forearm and you snatch it out of the way just before his fingers can close around it, just before he can catch you. Aemond chuckles. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ll win the war for the Greens. We will return to King’s Landing, we will rebuild, Aegon will heal. He will live for a long, long time.”

“Yes,” you say, wanting so desperately to believe it.

“You know,” Aemond adds as it occurs to him. “If the king does happen to predecease you, in ten years or twenty or thirty…and you find yourself unincumbered…Aegon the Conqueror had two wives. Alys would always be first, but…”

“No, Aemond.”

“Fine,” he says, agreeably enough. He smiles down at you. “I will come back to let you know when it’s done. Then I will fly south to join Daeron in annihilating Cregan Stark’s army. And then we’ll all go home.”

Yes, yes, let that be true. “Good luck,” you tell him, soft like a whisper.

“I don’t need it.”

Aemond descends the staircase, climbs up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, takes flight with Alys into the late-autumn dusk; and you watch them vanish into the crimson horizon until the sky is empty.

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

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lord-of-the-prompts · 2 years

Text

A LIST OF SOUNDS/ONOMATOPEIAS FOR WRITERS:

Action

bam (a sudden loud noise/sudden impact)

bang (a loud noise like an explosion or gunshot)

beep (a short high-pitched electronic sound)

biff (a short, sharp movement)

blip (a short, high-pitched electronic sound)

boing (representing the noise of a compressed spring suddenly released)

boom (a loud, deep, resonant sound)

buzz (a low, continuous humming sound)

ching (the sound of metal on metal)

clang (a loud, resonant metallic sound or series of sounds)

clank (a loud, sharp sound or series of sounds)

clap (the act of striking the palms together/an explosive sound)

clatter (a rattling sounds as objects fall or hit each other)

click (a short, sharp sound/a short electronic sound)

clink (a short ringing sound)

crack (a sudden explosive noise)

crackle (rapid succession of slight cracking noises)

crash (a sudden violent noise)

crunch (a muffled or grinding sound made when something is crushed)

ding (a metallic ringing sound)

ding-dong (the sound of a doorbell, like the chiming of a bell)

drip (the action of liquid falling in drops)

honk (a long and loud beep, such as that from a car horn)

jingle (a catchy rhythmic sound/light metallic clinking)

kerplunk (a loud, dull sound or plunk)

knock (to strike a surface noisily in order to attract attention/ sudden short sound caused by a blow)

patter (a repeated light tapping)

pew-pew (a sound made by a laser gun)

ping (a short high-pitched ringing)

pitter-patter (the sound of a rapid succession of light beats or taps)

pop (a light/soft explosive sound)

pow (expressing the sound of a blow or explosion)

rattle (to make a rapid succession of short/sharp knocking sounds)

screech (give a loud, harsh, piercing cry/a lour, harsh, squealing noise)

sizzle (a hissing sound made when food is frying)

slam (a loud and forceful sound caused by something being shut)

slap (a sharp sound made by a forceful blow)

smash (violent breaking of things)

snap (tp break suddenly and completely, typically with a sharp cracking sound)

splash (a sound made by something striking or falling into liquid)

splat (a sound of something soft and wet or heavy striking a surface)

swoosh (the sound produced by a sudden rush of air or liquid)

thud (a dull, heavy sound)

tick (a regular short, sharp sound, especially that made by a clock)

thump (a dull pounding sound)

thunk (a dull, heavy sound, such as that of an object falling)

varoom (a roaring sound made by an engine at a high speed/revving up)

whack (to strike forcefully with a sharp blow)

whir (a low, continuous, regular sound)

whoosh (a sudden rushing movement and sound)

whump (a dull thudding sound)

wham (a forceful strike/impact)

zap (the sound of a sudden burst of energy)

Animal

arf (canine)

bark (canine, seal)

bah-gawk (chicken)

bellow (alligator, deer)

buzz (bee, hornet, fly, mosquito, wasp...)

caw (blackbird, raven, rook...)

chatter (monkey, mouse

cheep (bird)

chickadee-dee (chickadee)

chirp (bird, cricket, grasshopper)

click (crab, dolphin)

cluck (chicken)

cock-a-doodle-doo (rooster)

coo (pigeon)

croak (frog)

cuckoo (cuckoo)

drum (rabbit)

gobble (turkey)

growl (bear, canine, crocodilian, feline...)

grumble (boar)

hee-haw (donkey)

hiss (goose, snake)

honk (goose)

hoot (owl)

howl (canine)

hum (hummingbird)

maa (goat)

moo (cow, wildebeest)

neigh (horse, pony, zebra)

purr (canine)

quack (duck)

ribbit (frog)

roar (bear, feline, gorilla...)

scream (hyena)

screech (bat, eagle)

sing (songbird)

snarl (feline)

snort (pig)

squeak (hampster, mouse, squirrel...)

tlot-tlot (hooves)

trumpet (elephant, swan)

tweet (bird)

wheek (guinea pig)

whine (mosquito)

whinny (horse, pony, zebra)

whistle (bird, whale)

whoop (monkey)

Vocal

achoo/atishoo (the sound of a sneeze)

ahem (clearing throat to attract attention)

argh (expressing annoyance, dismay, embarrassment or frustration)

blech (to express distaste/gagging or retching)

blurt (to speak out suddenly and abruptly)

chomp (vigorous chewing)

cough (expel air from the lungs with a sudden sharp sound)

eek (used to express alarm, horror, or fright)

giggle (to laugh lightly in a nervous or silly manner)

glug (to drink or pour with a hallow gurgling sound)

groan (to make a deep inarticulate sound in response to pain or despair)

growl (a low rumbling noise that expresses discontent)

grunt (a short, deep sound inarticulated when angry, sullen, or lazy)

gulp (to swallow loudly and quickly)

gurgle (a hallow, bubbling sound)

hiccup (an involuntary cough-like noise)

huh (used to express scorn, anger, disbelief, surprise, amusement, or confusion)

hum (to make a steady continuous sound like a bee)

moan (a low prolonged mournful sound expressive of suffering or pleading)

mumble (speaking incoherently, like a sort of whisper)

murmur (to make sounds that are not fully intelligible)

ow (used to express sudden pain)

phew (an exhale of relief)

oops (an exclamation of surprise or of apology, as when someone drops something or makes a mistake)

ouch (an exclamation of sharp sudden pain)

squeal (to make a shrill cry/a sound of complaint or protest)

ugh (used to indicate the sound of a cough or grunt or to express disgust or horror)

yikes (used to show that you are worried, surprised, or shocked)

whimper (to make a low whining plaintive or broken sound)

whoop (a loud cry of joy or excitement/laughter)

whoops (another term for "oops")

#writing prompt #writing ideas #writing tips #creative writing #writers of tumblr #writers block #writing things #writing #writing advice #prompt list #sounds #action sounds

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yuri-is-online · 4 months

Text

Host With the Most (Vil Schoenheit x Yuu)

Intro

notes: they/them used for Yuu, in this house we love Vil Schoenheit and his pursuit of aesthetic beauty, Vil is very touchy with Yuu because he likes them, Yuu is a wee bit oblivious. Also happy New Year! Ha this took me too long to write. If you wish to see more of me, consider looking at my masterlist.

"As the default 'owner' of the Mansion it makes the most sense for Yuu to help me." Vil's voice has that firm air of finality to it that thunders through the air with the same force as Leona's roar or Malleus's storms. Speaking of Leona, he seems to be frightfully amused by this cute little attempt at imitation, and you have absolutely no desire to see them cat fight.

"Just what help do you need exactly? I'm not really the best choice for an understudy." You try your best to keep any trace of tiredness out of your voice, but you really should know better than to lie to Vil by now. He ignores his argument and cups your face in his hands to get a better look at your skin, pursing his lips ever so slightly to try and avoid a full frown.

"You really need to have more faith in yourself." The scolding is serious but the genuine affection in his gaze as you involuntarily chase his touch as he takes back his hands is real. "And to get more sleep. With enough practice you could be more than worthy, but lucky for us both that's not what I had in mind."

"Awww beta fish already claimed little shrimpy? Laaame." Floyd blows a raspberry and you stick out your tongue when Vil looks away.

"No chasing shromps for you." That cheers him up. You think.

"Stay!" Crewel seems to have regained a bit of his fire. "Ramshackle is Yuu's home, so having them work alongside Schoenheit will allow them to keep an eye on all you puppies and make sure you aren't destroying their living space."

"You have no need to worry yourself over such a thing Professor." Rook cheerfully says.

"Yeah! We're good house guests." Laughs Ortho.

"... Schoenheit perhaps you would like to take Yuu to look over costumes and explain your plans while I have some words with my third and fourteenth reasons?" Vil does not need Crewel to tell him twice.

~~~~

"We aren't planning on using any rooms you or Grim do regularly, though Rook and Floyd did have ideas for the attic." Vil immediately starts talking shop as soon as you leave the classroom. "Guests are going to walk though the house on a marked tour, and I'll be playing host for part of the show."

"A ghost host?" You expect to be reprimanded but Vil winks.

"In my first script the host had an assistant, but Ortho suggested he be placed in charge of screen mapping and projection so we didn't need to make as many adjustments to your dorm." Vil sounds just as proud of Ortho as Idia would be if he was telling the story. It fills your heart with warmth. "Thanks to that suggestion I get to have you stick with me for the rest of the week." And just like that the warmth floods up to your ears, damn that professional training for letting Vil say... things. Yes just things, you are reading into friendly banter too much. The way your breath hitches at the gentle ghost of his touch across your back as he guides you through the door he opens is natural, you just aren't used to Vil's touchiness yet.

"Have you already thought out the costumes?" You remove yourself from his side and try to place some distance between yourself and your feelings by looking over the fist set of clothes Crewel has laid out in this empty classroom, completely missing the brief flicker of disappointment Vil refuses to contain.

"I provided Professor Crewel some concept sketches and my script, but we still have some sizing adjustments to make..." Vil's voice trails off and you turn back in concern. Yet he does not seem distracted at all when you do, he simply proceeds with his thoughts evenly. "I hope you don't mind, but the costume I have in mind for you is raven themed, so you might end up looking a bit like our dear Headmage."

"Oh please no." You groan and Vil laughs.

"Just the bit." He moves to your side, directing your attention towards an admittedly sleek tunic like outfit with a hood and feathers embroidered down the cape. "Go ahead and try it on, I'll wait out here to look it over." As you turn to do just that you find his face close to yours, the typical intensity of his stares and danger of this specific smile suggesting something other than his usual ire. "And make sure to tell me if it's comfortable," he gently tips your chin up to look at him with a slender finger, it's as if he means to kiss you with how he tilts his head "you will be standing next to me for the whole night, I can't have my partner falling down from something as simple as fatigue."

Oh there is no need to worry over that when he is more than able to be the death of you on his own.

~~~~

The better part of your next three weeks is spent practicing the haunt and slowly loosing your sanity. You don't actually have any lines, or much of anything to do other than follow Vil around really, but that meant you had to spend more time around him. More time around those casual touches and compliments that have invaded your friendship since your trip to the underworld, battering your imagination in directions you had long since tried to convince yourself was forbidden. Vil is beautiful, and his confidence of it strangely not off putting to your foolish heart. But Vil had been clear, he was affectionate to all of his friends in private and no amount of skirting the boundary-

though it was all him, if you could only realize how he is trying so desperately to initiate that he is starting to come unglued

-would make your desire for his love anything less than a pipe dream. A dream made substantially worse by how you did know just enough about what one of his kisses would feel like to fantasize about tasting him on your lips. Not that you could see them from your position at the back of the test group, clammy hands fidgeting with the prop lantern you carry, but his slicked back hair and strategically rumpled suit are so ingrained in your dreams at this point you're sure you know what he looks like.

As if you are the only one tortured by fantasies, as if he did not design that cape specifically to see you in it. As if-

"Horntoads and lizards, fiddle and strum. Please answer the role by beating a drum!" Cater's head begins to "levitate" up off the table as he chants in a show of theatrics that's still impressive even if this is the 999th time you've seen it; Ortho's projection mapping coupled with Cater's willingness to improvise had blended into a really unique act. Something a Scarabia freshmen seems to really agree with you because he immediately starts screaming and flailing around in a way that has you deeply concerned for your poor dorm's safety. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, trying to examine the idiot's body language to determine if he was a threat or not. A decision that's made for you as soon as he goes for his magic pen and you note, perhaps too late, that maybe you should make your guests surrender them before going through the haunt.

"Excuse me." You make sure your cowl is lowered as you gently try to tug his hand away from his pocket and are rewarded with an easily dodged slap. "Well now you're just embarrassing both of us."

"Just what do you think it is you are doing foolish mortal." You swear you saw Vil walk forward, but your brain refuses to register his movements as soon as he opens his voice. "It seems you would prefer to take my way out after all." It's silly, being impressed with a professional actor staying in character, but then it must be equally silly to go a bit jelly legged at seeing Vil drawn up to his full height and radiating confidence. The student whimpers and you again reach for his hand, acting the good spirit gently tugging him away from the grip of the damned souls of the mansion.

"C'mon now, no need to be shy." The student lets you lead him away mutely, clearly disappointed in himself.

~~~~

"And I will see you all a little later." Vil bows, disappearing from the group as they flow into the dancers and he immediately drops his practiced face and begins making his way to his next scene. He has faith in you, so he is not surprised to see you waiting, cowl once again up and swinging your lantern to amuse yourself in a manner that would be cute if he wasn't so worried. "Yuu," Vil does not love how forceful his tone is for the way it makes you jump but the emotions running about in his chest keep him from softening it "are you alright?"

"Just peachy." You try a chipper tone but choke as Vil once again reaches to touch you. He cups your face in his hands like it is precious, examines it careful and runs his perfect fingers along your arms to examine your hands in what feels dangerously close to an excuse to hold them. "Dumbass," he purses his lips "sorry, po-ta-to thought Cater had actually lost his head because of Riddle or something. I made sure to hand him over to Crewel and suggested we take the guest's magic pens to make sure if they do freak out no spells get fired off."

"In hindsight that seems like a rather obvious precaution." Vil exhales, letting out the disappointment and intakes a prideful, teasing look to his eyes as he continues to focus on you. You swallow thickly, how many times has he said what he's about to in these past few weeks? "You're doing an excellent job, I knew I picked the right person to partner with." You look down at your hands, Vil still hasn't let them go. It hurts somewhat, more than nearly being slapped.

"You don't have to say things like that just to make me feel better." You cough and Vil frowns.

"I don't give compliments for the sake of ego you know." He lets go of one of your hand to run his thumb over your quivering lip, staring deeply at the tears you had not noticed until he moves to dry them as if he can erase them from time with sheer will alone. "When I say something to you about how grateful I am to have met you, that I admire you, when I say I find things about you to be beautiful and that I want you to stand beside me, I mean every word."

"If you say things like that I'm going to start thinking you mean something different when you call me your partner." You try to joke and for some reason this is what makes him falter.

"... wasn't that obvious?" Vil, beautiful Vil, has a genuinely surprised look on his face. As if he was not the one who had said he was affectionate to his friends specifically... as if he had expected you to notice how much longer he spent kissing you than Rook or Epel and divine his romantic intent from the way his hand sought yours alone. Perhaps he had thought you had more courage than you did, or perhaps, you think to yourself with some relief, there are some things Vil just doesn't quite know how to say because he is so used to having to prove himself worthy of saying them in the first place.

"Are you sure you want this?" You ask because you feel like you have to, but what you are really trying to ask is if you are allowed to want this, to want him.

"Dangerously so." He rests his forehead against yours, a contented sigh worming its way past his lips at the lack of ambiguity in the way your fingers finally thread through his. "I only have so much time left to keep you to myself you know? When the school year ends I'll have to make excuses to more than just a handful of classmates for why I deserve to be alone with you, without sparking any comments." You had considered that of course, let it fuel your doubts and even still now it flickers slightly in your mind.

"I don't want to take the coward's way out." You say and Vil's eyes betray momentary shock. "I don't want to keep ignoring my feelings."

"Then we are in agreement, my dearest partner." Vil draws you impossibly close and presses one kiss to your forehead to his joy and your rancor before he dips you to give the kiss you really want. "I don't think I could ignore you if I tried."

Welcome, foolish mortals, to this haunted taglist: @nothingfuninthislife

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #vil shoenheit x reader #bleh don't like this one as much as i wanted to #but i want it out

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roukabi · 6 months

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Swing your razor wide, Sweeney.

[image ID in alt]

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rose-tea-and-strawberries · 1 year

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Imagine Leona after his overblot, never taking off his gloves even when he plays magift/spell-drive life he used to, yet still seeing everyone flinch from his hands. Imagine him being thrust back to when he was young, where the whispers of the staff curled around him like he wishes his mother’s arms would have, feeling like a monster for something he doesn’t understand, didn’t ask for, didn’t want to have. Imagine him, who already saw his hands as a symbol of destruction and evil and cruelty, being shown yet again that people will only ever fear his touch.

Except, imagine that the Prefect is there. Imagine the prefect is hearing these whispers, sees the flinches, and is angry. The Prefect was there- magicless and terrified- in the middle of a sandstorm, fighting to survive and fighting to make sure her friends survive, who felt what King’s Roar does when it touches your skin, who has a matching scar with Ruggie from the battle against Leona’s blot. How can these nobodies, who have never known the sting of sand down to the molecular level act like this? How dare they, who had only seen Leona’s grumpy tsundere type of care and not the scars from the fight, now act like they understand the dangers of King’s Roar?

Imagine the Prefect, caught in this righteous anger, storming up to Leona.

Imagine Leona bracing himself for another emotional wound, knowing that from anyone- he deserves the scorn and hatred and fear that you may spew at him. He knows it will crush him in a way that no others could replicate, save maybe for the tiny cub that he pretends to not love.

Imagine the prefect stopping in front of him and grabbing his hand, taking off the gloves and placing the bare hand on their throat.

Imagine the whole school stopping.

Imagine Leona’s heart stopping.

Imagine the shaking in his hands, the weakness in his knees, the tear welling up in his inner child’s eyes when you say, for all the world to hear, “these hands aren’t evil. Leona isn’t evil. King’s Roar isn’t evil. I was there when these hands were used, when they were turned against me as weapons, but I trust them, I trust Leona.”

Imagine Leona, for the first time since his unique magic showed up, feeling someone trust him and his hands completely, without any covering or barrier or safety net. For the first time since King’s Roar ruined his life, he felt the warmth of another person on his bare hand.

Imagine Leona being able to tell his younger self that someday, he will find the most stubborn, annoying, foolhearty, beautiful, selfless, kind, amazing herbivore who will give him their lives to hold in his bare hands without flinching.

Imagine Leona being able to tell his younger self that someday, someone will love all of him, including his hands.

(My first time writing something, usually I just gush and reblog to @/scared-reader-electric-boogaloo, so let me know if this sucks or oversteps a line!)

AAAAAAAHHHHHH

ASDFGHJKLYTRTTREARSAW

THIS IS SO FREAKIN GOOD HOLY GUACAMOLE IF YOU HAVE A BLOG PLEASE SEND THE @ TO ME BECAUSE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS SO *CHEF'S KISS*

I've seen the trope of character A puts the hand of character B around their throat as a show of trust in a fanfic in two other fandoms I've been in and that is literally my kryptonite because it literally put's the whole "I trust you with my life" thing in a whole new context

(I've also had this WIP/blurb of Fem!Yuu/Reader doing something similar with Rook by having him shoot an arrow at an apple on her head from a distance (probably whilst blindfolded as well) and when he releases the super sharp, pointed metal arrow, she just stares right in front of her, completely straight-faced and unblinking, without even a hint of fear - kind of like this scene from The Addams Family Musical mixed with that scene in Divergent where Four throws knives at Tris)

But you know what's great about this trope being pulled of with Leona? Since he's a lion beastman - an apex predator built for hunting prey - he has enhanced hearing which means that he can hear Yuu's heartbeat and can literally have solid proof that Yuu isn't scared since their heartrate hasn't increased a bit.

And also, he loves his herbivore so much. Who needs a kingdom or a throne when he has the world?

#asks #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #twisted wonderland #twst #twst yuu

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nerdraging4point0 · 1 month

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Power Play // Chapter Three // Hockeyplayer!Noah AU

Tropes and tags: RPF:AU hockey player romance, angsty romance, hidden relationship, forbidden relationship, smutty, MF, multiple POV.

Content Warning: angsty romance, hockey player shenanigans, locker room talk, smutty, aggressive hockey players, PinV, MF relationship, possessive male, protective male.

This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

Active taglist: @ladyveronikawrites @tearfallpixie @beaker1636 @circle-with-me @synthetic-wasp-570 @itsjustemily @thesazzb @vinyardmauro @cookiesupplier @concreteemo @mountains-to-move @sundamariis @caitcoreeeee @crimson-calligraphyx @letmeadoreyoux @starsomens @artificialbreezy @lma1986 @iknownothingpeople @lilrubles @shilohrosechicken @missduffsblog @jessicafg03 @thatchickwiththecamera @mysticdoodlez @chels3a-smile @sinkingteethinwhitenoise @deathblacksmoke @roley-poley-foley @ravieisunhinged @dethronetheveil @to-be-written @somewhere-diamond @somebodyels3 @sacredthefran @cncohshit @flowery-mess @graveatspeople @cncohshit @nerdywitch20 @sundamariis @srorgana1 @malerieee @bloody-delusion-expert @sammyjoeee @deathofpeaceofmiiind @hayleylatour @deadboltsblog @broken0mens

The crowd is fired up as I squeeze between Dad and Jack on the home team's bench. The massive arena throbs with energy, flashing lights dancing across the packed stands and smooth ice. Blaring music competes with the deafening cheers of fans who arrived early just to watch warmups. On the Jumbotron above center ice, bone-crushing hits and highlight-reel goals from last season pump up the crowd. I bundle up in my cozy black fleece jacket, the team logo proudly displayed across my chest. My dad and Jack wear matching jackets and hats, pulled low to fight off the chill. I let my hair fall loose around my shoulders - an extra layer of warmth for my ears.

The arena plunges into darkness as the jumbotron fades to black. The crowd hushes in anticipation before a crimson glow washes over us. Bold letters flash across the screen: "Welcome the Rooks!" Our boys in black glide onto the ice - jerseys fluttering, skates carving arcs through the chill air. Moments later, a blur of gold and silver enters from the opposite end - the opponents have arrived.

The crowd roars as the Rooks and Pirates take to the ice. Fans decked out in black and red are on their feet. Across the rink, a sea of silver and honey gold erupts for the rival Pirates. The deafening cheers make the arena shake as the teams complete their warm-up laps.

Our players zip across the ice, passing pucks in a frenzied warm-up. They swing by the home bench, exchanging fist bumps with Coach on each lap. Sanders zooms over and bumps gloves with my dad, then swoops around to me. He flashes a playful grin, head tilted, and I can't help but smile back as our gloves meet with a thud. Then he's off again, swallowed by the sea of players circling the rink.

McClain, the towering goalie, glides around the net, his massive frame armored in pads as he gathers up pucks. Pierce and Dominick hit the ice, dropping into deep lunges to stretch out their legs before the game. The rink echoes with the sounds of pucks clacking off sticks and skates carving the fresh sheet of ice.

My eyes scan the team, catching Sebastian immediately. He skates effortless circles around the guys, poking their shins with his stick and shimmying his shoulders to get them loose. One by one, his energy infects them all until the entire squad is smiling and gliding around the ice, ready for a great game.

As I look out across the ice, a sea of adoring fans presses up against the glass, eager for a chance to get close to their heroes. McClain, ever the showman, casually skates over and bumps fists with a starstruck youngster, posing for a picture with the kid's beaming mom. Not one to be upstaged, Sanchez whips the crowd into a frenzy, waving his stick like a maestro conducting a symphony of cheers. The arena erupts into a thunderous chant as the fans, decked out in their red and black jerseys, stand as one to worship their idols.

Sebastian and Karlsson slice through center ice like greased lightning, buzzing the Pirates with some cheeky close calls before zipping away again. The defensemen swoop back around, circling like hungry sharks eager for the kill.Sebastian's grin says it all - he came to fight. To win.

I'm transfixed, leaning forward, trying to anticipate their next move. Jack notices me watching and flashes a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He goes back to scribbling plays, unperturbed. The easy confidence of it makes me smile too, even as Sebastian and Karlsson continue their dangerous dance, ready to strike.

“Those two are certainly a pair of daredevils, aren't they? Always pushing the limits and getting their thrills. I gotta admit, their bold style is impressive, even if it makes me a bit nervous. They really know how to walk that fine line between crazy and genius!”

With a few slick practice shots, McClain glides out of the net and Sanders swoops in to take his place. The boys fire off some blistering slapshots, testing Sanders' reflexes. Ruffilo starts showboating, swirling the puck in dizzying circles with his stick, playing a little game of keep-away from Karlsson. Sebastian cruises by the bench, bumping fists with dad and Jack as he passes. He drifts past me, brown eyes sizing me up through his mask's shield.

The warmups end and the team hustles off the ice, dad and Jack retreating to the locker room. I'm left sitting alone on the bench, mesmerized as the zamboni glides across the freshly scarred ice, smoothing it over for the game ahead. Jack emerges first, focused intently on the paperwork clutched in his hands, barely noticing me as he takes a seat. Suddenly, the announcer's voice booms through the arena, drawing all eyes upward as he begins introducing the Rooks players one-by-one on the jumbotron.

The crowd roars as Joakim Karlsson takes the ice with a nod to his adoring fans. "Number 18, Jake Sanders!" bellows the announcer. Sanders glides onto the rink, Southern California smile beaming beneath his helmet as he greets the stands. The cheers continue as each player is introduced, building to a fever pitch when the announcer calls, "Number 13, Noah Sebastian!" The arena explodes in shrieks and screams - no doubt from his legions of female fans. The heartthrob glides to center ice, flashing his million dollar grin and eliciting another wave of adulation from the crowd.

The energy in the arena is electric as the opening ceremonies wrap up. The anthem singer belts out a passionate rendition, players scramble back to the bench, jostling past me as I'm wedged tight between their muscular bodies. Sebastian vaults over the boards right in front of me, his rock-hard shoulder slamming me back against the glass. He rips off his helmet, his piercing eyes meeting mine for a split second before he drops down on the bench. I feel my heart race as his raw, aggressive energy radiates through the tight space. This team means business, and I'm caught up in their intense pre-game ritual, pulse pounding with excitement and intimidation.

"Listen up!" barks coach as he strides into the room. All eyes snap to him.

"Sanchez, you've got first line. Sebastian, Karlsson - you're on defense. Willow, Dominick, be ready to sub in."

He scans the bench, gaze hard. "It's time. Bring the heat today and leave it all on the ice. We've got a championship to win. Now let's go out there and crush 'em!"

The team roars, pounding fists and slapping sticks. The starting six spring over the boards, skates carving the fresh ice as they hustle into position. Sanchez glides to the faceoff dot, eyes locked on his rival Hemingway across the red line. Karlsson and Sebastian flex their gloves, sticks poised and shoulders squared, eager for the opening puck drop. The crowd hushes and the tension swells. My pulse thunders in my ears.

This is it.

Noah's POV

My pulse pounds as the puck hits the ice with a crack. Sanchez bodychecks Hemingway, both of their wingmen rushing in. No luck - Hemingway emerges with the puck, barreling towards McClain’s net. I rock back and forth on my skates, poised to strike. Hemingway feints, faking a slide my way instead. I surge forward, stick low, leveling him to the ice as I snatch back the puck. Twirling away from the wingmen, I pass it back to Sanchez with a flick of the wrist. The crowd roars as we regain control, hungering for more bone-crunching hits and lightning-fast plays.

Sanchez charges down the ice like a freight train, barreling towards the Pirates goal. He loses control and is thrown off his skates, the Pirates pounce on the loose puck and race toward our zone, the crowd roaring in anticipation. Sticks clash and skates scrape as the action explodes, both teams desperately fighting for control.. Jolly and I scramble back on defense, sticks flashing, bodies crashing, doing everything in our power to shield McClain. The puck squirts free and the pirates pounce, but Jolly throws himself in front of the shot, taking one for the team. I help clear the rebound as the crowd roars.

The puck is ours once again. Sanchez leads the charge, weaving through defenders like a snake. His wingmen flank out wide, drawing the defensemen with them. Sanchez winds up at the top of the circle, eyes locked on the net. He unleashes a blistering slapshot. The puck screams towards the goalie, too fast to react. Sanchez spins away, not daring to watch. The ref's hand goes up. Goal! The crowd erupts as Sanchez is mobbed by his teammates. Helmets clank together in celebration before it's back to business.

Ruffilo whizzes past, giving my stick a friendly slap as he crosses over. Gotta love that guy. As wingmen go, he's as solid as they come. We're tight, me and Nick - been roomies for a while now. Probably for the best we don't live with Jolly too, that'd be a bit much. Don't get me wrong, Jolly's my right-hand man on the ice, we're a well-oiled machine out there. But off the rink? Me and Nick kick back, bust each other's chops, talk a little smack. That's just how we roll. I've got his back and he's got mine, on and off the ice. We make a pretty good team.

I'm still trying to figure Sanchez out. He's obviously a talented center, and he gets the other guys pumped up, which is good. But I dunno, there's something about his attitude that rubs me the wrong way. Like, he acts like he's the main character out there, and the rest of us are just supporting actors. I don't wanna judge too quickly, he might just be really competitive. But that arrogance could cause problems if he doesn't keep it in check.

The puck rockets across the ice as The Pirates battle to get it to McClain. Jolly and I scramble to guard the net. A winger charges at me and I slide to block, but the guy jams his skates at my feet to trip me up. I spin away from the attack but lose my position, forced to go where he steers me. Hemingway whacks the puck toward McClain, who splits his legs and snags it in his glove. The crowd roars at the clutch save.

I scan the crowd, my eyes darting from the approving cheers of the fans to the nods of my teammates. But my gaze keeps getting drawn back to her. The coach's daughter. She's been here since yesterday, hanging all over her dad. I tried not to notice her at first - I'm here to play hockey, not ogle girls. But I can't seem to look away for long.

The way she moves, the cute little smiles she gives her dad. She's got my head spinning more than taking a hard check into the boards. I've gotta get my focus back if I want to play well tonight.

Coach would slaughter me if he caught me within 100 feet of his daughter. Hell, I didn't even know he had one until just yesterday. Can't blame him for wanting to keep her far away from us hooligans. If I had a girl that looked like her, I'd lock her in a tower. But damn, the second I saw her, something inside me snapped. My inner defenseman kicked in - I wanted to shield her from these animals, keep her safe. She's not mine...yet. But I'll be damned if I let any of these punks lay a finger on her. I'll knock 'em into next week if they even look at her wrong. That angel's gonna be protected at all costs. Coach better keep that beauty off the ice, 'cause she's got this enforcer feeling some type of way.

Sanchez is back on the ice, battling Hemingway for the puck like two bucks locked in a duel - even their wingmen keep their distance. Karlsson slaps his stick on the boards twice, jolting me back into the action. We watch Sanchez twirl and shove Hemingway, fighting for control. Then I see it coming - Hemingway's left winger charges Ruffilo, tripping our man and making him flinch, slashing down toward the dude's skates inches from his own. The ref's whistle pierces the tense air as he calls slashing on Ruffilo, handing him a two-minute penalty. The crowd erupts into a chorus of boos while Ruffilo glides to the box, shaking his head.

Man, I feel for my buddy out there. He didn't mean to. But did the ref see it that way? No chance. Two minutes in the box. Unbelievable. Now the rest of us have to pick up the slack while Ruffilo cools his heels. Me and Jolly slide in, McClain’s head on a swivel now that we’re down a man.

The puck rockets toward me as I skate backwards, eyes locked on it, guarding the goal with everything I've got. Hemingway winds up and fires a blistering slapshot through a seam in our defense. I dive, stretching every inch of my pads to block it, but the puck deflects off McClain's stick and glides into the corner of the net. The ref's whistle pierces the tense air. Hemingway's teammates swarm him as the crowd erupts. We were so close to stopping them. If only McClain had kept his focus. But it's too late now. The damage is done.

My blood is boiling so hot I can feel it flushing my face. I circle the rink to cool off before I explode. Nick's back from the box, his eyes narrowed to slits. He's out for blood.

Sanchez streaks up the ice with the puck, Pierce on his tail. But the Pirates' D shoves Pierce hard into the boards. Now Pierce is seeing red too. He grabs the bastard's jersey, drops his stick and gloves, and drags him along the ice. Pierce is ready to pound him into the ground right here.

We all grind to a halt, transfixed by the scene erupting before us. I charge forward, stick clattering to the ice, ready to drop the gloves as the D wads up Pierce's jersey in his fist. The ref circles like a shark, while Coach's screams echo from the bench. I glance over and see her leaning over the boards, eyes blazing, shouting breathlessly as she watches Pierce and his nemesis tangled together. Man, the intensity in her gaze is electric. Must be the adrenaline and testosterone coursing through my veins, but damn if she doesn't look sexy as hell at this moment.

Pierce and his rival crash together, gloves dropping as the ref struggles to pull them apart. The crowd roars as fists fly, the two tangled in a full-on brawl. Sharp whistles pierce the din as the ref forces them to their corners, both still straining against his grip. They're banished to the sin bin while tensions boil, leaving the ice open for Dominick to vault over the boards. He joins the nameless sub now skating for the Pirates, eager to capitalize on the empty space. The crowd pounds the glass, feeding off the raw intensity as play resumes in the wake of the fight.

We're locked in a never-ending battle on the ice, the clock winding down as overtime drags on. One more blistering slapshot, one more brick wall save, and victory is ours. Firing up my teammates, I skate around them offering as much encouragement as I can.

“Dom, Ruff, Sanchez - skate like your lives depend on it. Harass them, frustrate them, smother them! Don't give their stars an inch to breathe out there.” I skate around turning to our goalie “McClain, my brother - I need you to lay out and block every shot you can. Be our brick wall. We're too close to let it slip away now. One more stop, one more big play. That's all we need. Let's bring this W home in front of our fans! Now let's get out there and take what's ours!”

The boys erupt in a roar, heads bowed as they clench their sticks with white-knuckled intensity under their gloves. The ice shudders under the force of their voices. They're fired up and ready to battle, adrenaline pumping through their veins.

The puck rockets through the air and Sanchez snatches it, a warrior king charging forward as the black disc zips between him, Dom and Ruff. They weave a web of deception, bamboozling the opposing defense just long enough for Sanchez to whip around the net and slam the puck into the gaping goal mouth. The ref's whistle pierces the din and I hurtle my stick away, tear off my helmet and blaze towards my brothers. We collide in a crush of celebration as the rest of the team swarms the ice.

We separate carefully trying not to catch each other's blades. I slide back, regaining my footing before skating to grab my stick and helmet. On the bench, she bounces excitedly, hugging her dad in celebration of our victory. Her cheeks flush red with exhilaration, her smile radiant. She's tied her hair back in a messy ponytail, loose strands perfectly framing her face. I'm mesmerized watching her, knowing if she sticks around much longer, I'll either lose the championship or lose my heart completely.

#bad omens cult #noah sebastian #bad omens #noahsebastian fanfic #bad omens band #hockey player noah #hockey #bad omens au #bad omens smut #hockey romance #hockeyomens

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