#riders on the storm */ LIFE IS STRANGE
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*/ @prscttss left a note;
coffee. you look like hell—you press a cup of coffee to the sender's hands.
---☁︎｡⋆｡ It was somewhat late. Late enough she should have been in her room. But not late enough that it was some heinous hour. It was in this sort of purgatory that Chrissy spotted Nathan, which wasn't particularly strange. She felt like he was some sort of spirit. Maybe a butterfly. He flitted about all over but hard to catch. But what seemed strange was the dour expression on his face. Frankly, he looked like hell. Slowly, as not to startle him (As if he was some deer) the blonde approached him, hand held up in a wave. "You look like you could use some coffee," she said, giving a smile. They weren't really friends. They weren't really anything past classmates, but.. It looked like he needed someone to keep him company.
#we're the kids in america */ ANSWER#down below the cars in the city go rushing by */ SEMI#prscttss */#nathan prescott */ VORTEX#riders on the storm */ LIFE IS STRANGE#// sorry it's short. and man idk if I answered right.
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Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (IV): Say Don’t Go.
Imagine you are a peasant who rescues Aemond after he fought his uncle Daemon Targaryen—but in this universe he didn’t die drowned, but suffered a wound that you, with your simple knowledge of medicine, actually manage to heal you. What shall happen then?
Warnings: fluff, violence, drama, angst.
***
• A Dance With Dragons
In between fire and ashes, blood has never been thicker. The one-eyed prince, on behalf of his infamous brother, is ready to take leave. Unbeknownst to him, as he mounts Vhagar, destiny sets a worse fate than the assumption of victory for all parties.
Here he goes, a path of blood behind this man—who tasted frustration and rejection all his life, lusting for what was never his by any right, tied in a very suffocating loyalty to his family.
Here he goes, moved by agony and pain, he who is hated by his enemies and despised by those who support the charismatic Aegon.
Here he goes… mounted in an ancient beast, prompted to finally write his name in the pages of history. Aemond, the kinslayer, the embodiment of fire and blood, flies in roaring skies.
And not too long after he meets his mirror, the one he wanted to be in life—a better version, certainly—, the kin who inspired him despicable sentiments—if perhaps in another occasion he would be this man’s favourite nephew.
This is not the moment for words to be spoken out. Warriors like them feel no need to exchange offenses. War is coming in thunderous storms. Higher than men, above divine heavens, uncommon relatives fight one another.
“DRACARYS, VHAGAR!”
His scream dies unheard, as the wind blows away the anger in his throat. Believing to possess such an ancient dragon, warlord like him, he doesn’t foresee that years and size are not by his side.
Daemon Targaryen and his Caraxes are faster and better equipped for this battle. Experience is also an advantaged tool played by the aforementioned prince towards his rascal nephew.
The skies shake and many are misled to think this is a thunder. But this is hardly a thunderstorm. Later the chroniclers would report it as a dance of the dragons, where this deadly combat between two great warlords and their gigantic beasts collided in such a way that as frightening as it was to watch, it seemed so as the involved were…dancing.
But Vhagar’s flesh and blood provide difficulty to Caraxes. Bites here and there, sounds that roared through the air, producing sparks of electrons and fire all the whilst their riders try to dismount the other.
The heights pose an inevitably invitation for prompt death. It’s only a matter of time until one of them falls, if not both of them do.
Skies grow darker and rain eventually drops. Caraxes, fighting better under this environment, twists the scene to his favor, surprising Vhagar. What happpens next is too fast to describe. Later, peasants would recall how a great beast like Vhagar fell upon the sea… without Lord Aemond on her back.
A question would haunt Aegon’s twilight reign: where has Lord Aemond Targaryen gone to?
To worse Aegon III’s rise to the throne, a shadow is casted. No body was found. Therefore… should it be presumed the rogue prince died? If so, not in his former mistress’s arms.
Where is Aemond Targaryen? What happened to the one-eyed lord, famed for his kinslayer epithet?
• Blue skies, fields painted green•
I’ve known it from the very start. We’re a shot in the darkest dark. Oh, no. I’m unarmed…
By the time you rescue him, you think he’s been dead and gone. But for a long while you, a simple curious being who, however, learned to study thanks to your older brother’s connection with literate beings, suspected not all was like appearances led to.
You managed to carry this strange man, aware he was in his worst conditions, to your household. It’s a very simple, typical peasant house. And this was a man you’ve never seen in these surroundings… especially because of his fancy robes, a positive indicator of his nobility.
Unaware of the details of this civil war, you took care of him. Ignoring his handsomeness, you dedicated day and night until he eventually opens his eyes.
And when he does… it’s a scandal. Most of all because he is still hurting in his chest and to breathe requires some energy. Then comes the revolt upon seeing he’s nowhere he’s familiar with.
Before he starts to rage out his frustration, the prince is prevented from doing so at the sight of you. A peasant, certainly a damsel despite being closer to him in age, shows up.
“L-L-Lord, please”, you know you’ve been bold in keeping him with you, in weaving illusions to escape your life, all of which makes you blush and sink into his feet. “I only tried to help you.”
Something about your smooth voice eases him. When looking better at you, Aemond’s chest hurts for being reminded of his sweet sister Helaena. He knows he could never do any harm to you.
“Rise, creature who saved my life”, and when you do, the silver haired man looks enchanted at your y/c soft skin, the mystery behind your y/c eyes… “I demand to know your name.”
“Y/N Y/LN, lord”, you whisper, still avoiding his gaze.
But it’s for no effort you do so as he looks for yours, holding your chin as he lifts it up. You see danger right before you, posing threat as he stands in front of you. Nevertheless, he is so alluring that to resist is just… pointless.
“Don’t call me lord. I’m Aemond”, he softens to you, his hand slipping to your throat gently before letting go of you, leaving behind a sensation of void and cold where there had been warmth. “It appears that if I fell here, my uncle took the best of me.”
You nod your head partly.
“You need to be careful, lo… Aemond. Your wounds are still fresh”, you bring him to outside for the very first time since you rescued him.
The prince, shirtless and dressing an old pair of pants, follows you, reluctant somewhat as what to find. He is, however, surprised when seeing there is nothing but a careful mix of colors. Deep blue that paints these cloudless skies and a shade of green that colors the hills and the grasses nearby.
The air is clean and the prince finds peace. However, when spotting, from that distance, the sea, this peace is replaced by angst.
“Vhagar”, he remembers painfully. “Where is she?”
When seeing a puzzled look on your face, Aemond has to remember himself you are a peasant, who probably judged dragons as mythical creatures. But he underestimates you.
“Ser, I may be poor and obscure, but I am not illiterate”, you speak impatiently. “I know who Vhagar is. I must say, though, that you were already dismounted by the time I found you. If you fell from such a height, this only means you are lucky that you are still alive.”
Aemond’s good eye transmits such a depth of sadness that you feel remorse for speaking like that to him. The prince doesn’t notice it, though, so he decides to walk outdoors and there sit amidst the high grass as a way to cope with his loss.
At first, all you do is watch him. This tall, paled prince with long silver hair, involved in a bandage around his waist with a skin painted in deep scars, is now the embodiment of melancholy.
Your reason tells you to leave him there, the moon is too high to grasp it, but your feet don’t obey your sense. It doesn’t take too long before you sit next to him.
“I’m sorry for your loss”, you break the silence hesitantly. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
He doesn’t respond you ar first, and you wonder whether he heard you or are ignoring you. But he turns his face at you eventually, still plagued by that shade of sadness few can be gladly dissociated from.
“You’ve done all you could, mistress Y/N. Thank you. You shall be rewarded.”
“My reward is your well being, lor… Aemond”, you offer him an understanding small smile.
These words prove to be the balsam he needs.
“I appreciate it, truly. In due time…” Aemond sighs, not willing to admit how lost he feels. “Do you have any news of what’s going on?”
By the looks of your face, the prince understands that what might come from you are not what he wants to hear. Even so, he must hear it. In this silent communication, though, there is little need to further comprehension.
Therefore you tell him about Lord Daemon’s victory. A short victory, however, as the common folk said that due to the gravity of his wounds eventually culminated in the said prince’s death.
What happened next was confused. You didn’t understand politics very well and you were too busy minding your own business to do so. Nevertheless, it’s common knowledge that the Seven Kingdoms have a new king.
“A new king?”, Aemond exclaims frustrated. “But Jaehaerys is just a boy!”
The embarrassment in your face only worsens his disappointment.
What, in seven hells, has happened in this short time I was unconscious?
“This is not his name, Ser. Our king is Aegon, Third of His Name.”
Aemond pales and for a moment you step back, fearful of his fury. But all the silver prince does is clench his jaw and turn his back on you for a moment. And you let him be all the time he needs.
***
• Healing…
I'm standin' on a tightrope alone. I hold my breath a little bit longer. Halfway out the door, but it won't close. I'm holdin' out hope for you…
A strange process it is to watch events unfold from the support ground. Witnessing from darkness the arrival of the Starks and then all the gathering leading to Aegon III’s ascension next to Rhaenyra, who, apparently, had transmitted her claim to the Iron Throne to her eldest son and heir, was too much for him to bear… especially now aware of the passing of every one he’d known and fought for.
But in due time, his silence and mourning become too much a burden for him to carry alone.
“I’m surprised you are still out here”, you tell him in one of these evenings you come home and find the prince there.
“Where else I’d go?”, Aemond shrugs his shoulders.
His eyes are glued in you, finding new expressions in your introspective features. You are different, a thought occurs him. What had happened outside to bring you more serious today? A question he does not dare to pose.
“To your mistress, perhaps”, a response that, albeit reluctant, transmits some grumpiness on your part.
For the first time in many moons, Aemond Targaryen smiles.
“Mistress?”, he repeats and you miss the amusement out of his voice.
“Mistress Rivers. Perhaps this is a name very familiar to you”, you don’t know why rolling the name of his former paramour sounds poisonous to your ears, inspiring a hearty agony and an inner despair.
As Aemond studies you, every piece comes to make sense when glued together. At first he says nothing, finding adorable how a creature so introspective like you, kept innocent and wild at the same time from mundane’s ill intentions, discovers new sentiments, obscured as jealousy and attachment might sound.
He could take the opportunity to write a new story, but even now… Aemond struggles to disassociate from the past.
“She was once attributed to many meanings, some of which had linkings to my personal affections”, Aemond admits, taking the opportunity to sip his ale. “But once we parted ways, I do not believe we are meant to mend it back.”
You cast him a long distrustful look, opting for the silence, even though there is so much being said in your body language. Aemond rises up and moves to where you stand, gently but firmly taking grip of your arm.
“Y/N, look at me”, he demands you gently. “Why have you brought her name out of the blue?”
You hesitate and Aemond can only be led to think there’s some bad news ahead. You take some breath and then look at him, as if struggling for courage.
“I cannot keep you here any longer, lord. I’ve been selfish, I see that now. But looking after my lord has given me purpose. All of this to say that people have been looking for you.”
“Looking for me”, he repeats. “Do not believe in what people say, my darling. My enemies are in power, the best we can do is hide for the moment. This means I must shave my head to keep the identity in secrecy.”
He surprises you, and even himself, with this new sense of resignation. But this is a wise move, considering no one had found his body, therefore the mystery must remain for his sake.
Nonetheless, he likes this life with you. Aemond smiles before holding you against him.
“I got used to you, dear one. Looks like I’m staying longer this time.”
That being said, he admires how wide you smile. No one had ever made him feel this sentiment before. He realizes now that what you two have is too sacred to let it be profaned.
• Pain & Blood
Why'd you have to lead me on? Why'd you have to twist the knife? Walk away and leave me bleedin', bleedin'? Why'd you whisper in the dark? Just to leave me in the night? Now your silence has me screamin', screamin'…
When he kisses you under moonlight in between the shadowy green fields, your mind goes blank and your heart races loud. When his tongue moves the way to your neck, your legs automatically spread to welcome his strong body; his arms now moving upper your back, caressing you slowly, aching in slow burn as you call out his name in sweet whispers.
“Mine lady”, his lips pursuit yours once more.
It’s past twilight. Silenced by the night, nature welcomes you in this wilderness out of the fancy troubles and the troublesome webs woven by the Black party.
You provide him home and security, the sweet taste of genuine love he’s been looking for. With him, likewise.
It’s free, intense and healing.
“We should better head inside”, he grumbles under his breath, struggling not to give free path for his desires.
You giggle softly, giving him a long look. As you straighten yourself, you hear him say:
“My lady, you bring the best of a beast like me.”
You spin around him, looking like a fairy with your simple white gown and y/c hair loose in your back.
“Is this you accusing me of witchcraft, lord? For I shall not tolerate such an accusation”, you put your hands around his neck.
“Nay. You are too pure for it”, and Aemond knows this must not be the result of bewitching, since the purity of your care and love inspires the same of a man like him.
Beneath the mask of a bad prince, there lies a wounded man who’s known neglect all his life. The concept of love Alys brought to him was more lustful, fleshy attachment than sentimental one.
But when the shadow of those three words comes behind your eyes, mirroring his own, Aemond fears to hear them. Kissing your lips once more, he prays to forget what he saw… for a recent, deep wound has come to open in surface.
As you lead him into your household again, precisely to what you call being your quarters—the result of the inheritance of your father—you give in your heart at every touch, every embrace this man provides you.
When you begin to picture the two of you actually living this life together, when you start to think possible that you could marry and be content in being a simple peasant… every dream dies when a knock on the door is heard urgently.
“Who on earth…”, you sigh impatiently, making him chuckle.
Aemond snakes his arms behind your waist, resting his chin over your shoulder.
“We should better see who’d be this unwanted visitor”, he laughs quietly, admiring the blush painting your cheeks.
As you reluctantly part of his arms, you move to open the door. Aemond leans against the wall, partly hidden under the shadows, waiting to see who’s the one behind the bloody door.
But when you open and see a dark-haired lady with a skin smooth as milk, your heart stops.
“Oh. So here’s the witch who captured my Aemond”, she speaks in a soft accusing voice, though in the lady’s eyes there is nothing but arrogance.
Aemond reluctantly comes to the scene.
“Alys?”
“My prince”, her voice and smile are as sweet as poison, inspiring in you nothing but disgust. “Your son and I have been waiting for you, believing to be dead and gone. But you have been kept a prisoner by this…”, and here comes the despise poorly masked.”…woman.”
You turn your head quickly to stare at Aemond. He sees pain in your y/c eyes, and the sound of heartbreaking reaches his ears when you say:
“You have a child with her, Aemond?”
“It’s Lord Aemond to you”, she corrects you, but is promptly ignored by all parts.
“She was… pregnant when I went to war”, Aemond admits, embarrassed. “I… Considering the recent events, I thought them to be gone like the rest of my family.”
“No. Your son waits for you. I’ve been looking for you”, insists Alys, much to your consternation. “Let me break this spell she’s casted on you, my prince. You shall be free and live with us as it’s your right.”
Part of you waits for his denial, hopes for it even. Despite the evident struggle in having yourself composed before such accusations, you expect he’d take your side.
You hope…
And I'm yours, but you're not mine. Oh no, oh no, you're not there. I'm standin' on the sidewalk alone. I wait for you to drive by. I'm tryna see the cards that you won't show. I'm about to fold unless you…
But Aemond knows not where his strength lies. This cannot be judged simply following his heart desires. When remembering everything his mother sacrificed for… and then he has a child.
A child of his own that should be on the throne. The mere idea awakes the flames of old vengeance.
Much to her annoyance, on the other hand, Alys watches as the events unfold in an impasse. She presses again the matter of their child, aware this is how she’ll take him away from your claws—or so she judges.
“Aemond?”, your voice comes out suffocated.
He sees those words in your eyes, but they fade out of his grasp like a star losing the shine, swallowed in a black hole.
Night comes and steals your bright, much to his atonement. Aemond wishes he could say something more, but no speech is enough to bring you back to life.
Your innocence is now agony and all he can say is:
“I must go. For my child.”
“I understand”, you speak cooly, surprising him for your reasonable behavior. “I pray you forgive me for any mistakes. I am but a peasant who knows nothing of life.”
That being said you curtsy and leave the way open. You watch as Alys smirks deviously at you, like a winner who takes it all. Aemond hesitates, but you don’t look at him.
Why'd you have to (why'd you have to) make me want you (make me want you)? Why'd you have to (why'd you have to) give me nothin' back? Why'd you have to (why'd you have to) make me love you (make me love you)? I said, "I love you" (I said, "I love you"). You say nothin' back.
And there your heart lies in open bleeding…
***
You occupy yourself delivering the rest of planting to the lord you owe fealty after spending months in working with the land. It’s easier to forget about the past when one occupies one’s mind with daily tasks.
This doesn’t mean the nights are easier, though. You are haunted by his face, by scenes where he laughs joyfully with Lady Rivers. She tells you that, as a lowborn woman, you could never be with a highborn man as Lord Aemond.
A truth sharp as knife that wakes you up in the breaking dawn, bleeding you again and again… It hurts and though you swallow salt in your mouth, no other sign is there that you have been in suffering.
In the meantime you carry on with your life, or try to, Aemond is rediscovering his life amongst nobility. The boy his former mistress claimed to be his son is not, by all means, a Targaryen. He could tell she painted his hair and by calculating his age, he was far more likely being a Strong boy than else his. Specially because by the time he took Alys Rivers as his mistress, she was already a Strong’s concubine.
With this disappointment ahead and collecting the testimonies of her witchcraft, Aemond is no fool to realize he’s been stuck in a trap and that he could be sent to the new government’s hand anytime.
I shall not have a death by treason.
The only reasonable solution is escaping. He is no coward, in fact the prince was once too prideful to embrace defeat. However, Aemond’s mind recollects your innocence, your simple ways of living and how you taught him so many good things.
The teachings that promised to make him a rightful man despite his wrongs. Is he too late to be redeemed, though?
Why'd you whisper in the dark just to leave me in the night? Now your silence has me screamin', screamin'…
I should have not let you go, Y/N.
In silence, like always, the prince leaves all that has profaned his soul to search after the only sacred path someone put him in.
And this someone is you.
• ‘I would stay forever if you say don’t go…’
You have cleaned your body in the river and now choose to sit right there over a towel, partly fearful of being seen in your nude state, partly pleased to be able to feel some degree of liberty.
Sun is ready to set and it’s last rays are set on your y/c skin, drying the last drops of the cold water you dived in. As you stand, you are ready to dress yourself when a noise scares you.
Quickly you put your white gown with black strips, unable to tie your long y/c hair when you spot him.
Head shaved still, pained eyes, dressed not like a nobleman but like a random, common peasant lad. So would he look like had he not been blessed with such deep purple eyes that are staring into your y/c ones.
“A-Aemond”, you gasp. Your body begins to tremble and you wish you could run away, but you are frozen.
“Y/Nickname”, he comes after you, hesitantly at first, confidently then. “Apologies are not enough for what I did to you, to us. I humble before my lady and come to ask you not to go.”
He is on his knees before you. He, the prideful prince.
“You are the one who left”, your voice betrays you.
“I had to”, Aemond dares to raise his chin as his hands grip tight your thighs. “I had to. I was misled to think the boy she had was my child.”
“And if he was”, you mutter, the echo of pain rolling out through your words, much like a sharpened blade. “Would you be embarrassed of my station to keep me in ignorance?”
“Fuck, Y/N, no!” He realizes no words are enough to make up for his poor doings. Nevertheless, he tries. Aemond is no quitter. “I am not embarrassed of my lady. I learned to love you out of my heart and soul, despising mundane affairs in order to pursuit the divine one. I was raised from the seven hells to taste the sweet flavor of your divine lips. I want you. Only you can redeem me.”
It’s the way his fingers dig into the cloth of the skirt of your gown that makes you feel fragile. The way he breaks before you, how his words are whispered in despair. Remorse is sincere, pain is evident in the two of you.
Why delaying it?
But then you hear a sound so strange to you. To both of you. When your hearts cry out, you slip, losing your strength.
“You are my weakness”, he says, exposing himself to you.
No sapphire. No embellishment. No pride. The prince the way he is, with his scars. And you expose yours.
Darkness rises by the time you are engulfed in his embrace.
“I’m sorry”, Aemond whispers, fearful of losing you. “I won’t leave you ever again. This I vow over my dead family.”
You are still sobbing when he vows this to you. And when his lips are colliding against yours, every angst dies at long last. And what is cold now is warm, and suddenly the weight of the clothes begins to be unbearable.
With only the moon as witness, vows are exchanged, consumed in one kind of fire that burns each part, prompted to spread in a strange kind of fever so unknown to you.
As tongue dances, bodies intertwine and pain is at long last overcome. The consequence of this redemption is to fruit nine moons later.
In the end, in between wars and peacemakings, two different lives found in each other what they needed. The destiny of Aemond Targaryen became a great “what if” in the history, a name so powerful to haunt crowned men but humbled before the kindest lady of the Seven Kingdoms.
Turned into a love song many years later, bards would give Aemond another name, calling you Jenny of the Oldstones.
Perhaps a truth hints behind it, is it not? But only your descendants would know it and smile often at such beautiful song.
#ewan mitchell#aemond targaryen#house of the dragon#aemond targaryen x female reader#aemond targaryen x y/n#house targaryen#taylor swift#say don’t go#1989 (taylor's version)
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Doomsday
This little ditty had been sitting in my drafts for so long, so I thought I would bless you with a tad bit of Aemond angst.
Aemond x Reader
Word Count: 1k
Warnings: Grief, death, war.
The day was dark; terribly, awfully dark.
You awoke early, the pit in your stomach gnawing you out of your fitful slumber. Your hand reached across the palette bed, the furs soft beneath your fingertips, only to find your human hearth no longer there. You sat up abruptly from the bed, heart squeezing, but soon enough a small sigh of relief left you as you saw Aemond’s bare broad back facing you. Those stunning silver strands kept swaying with each movement he made as you silently crawled from the bed and got to your feet.
Bare feet making indents in the mud beneath the carpet of your shared tent, your hand brushing softly across the expanse of his back as you moved past him to the bowl of water that sat on the small table. The damp cloth across your skin felt soothing, the small rivulets of water sliding down the column of your throat. Aemond took you by the hand and brought you back to him, pulling you to his chest - wanting to feel you near him.
It felt strange, this moment of calmness. It felt as though you were both moments from disaster.
“Help me dress?” he asked, his warm breath fanning out on your skin. You pulled back to look at him.
“Of course, my love,” you replied softly. And so you took your time together, slowly dressing one another, drinking each other in. You tied his armour and he tied your shoes, you braided his hair and whispered soft sweet prayers to yourself.
Bring my love back to me safely, you prayed.
You could hardly fight back the tears as you both stood together, hands roaming over each other. The cold leather and steel of his armour reminded you so much of the coldness of a corpse - of death. You pulled him as close as you could, savouring what could be the last moments you had together. Mud squelched underfoot as you walked with him to Vhagar, and it took everything in you to not beg him to stay, or to not climb the saddle with him.
The closer you both got to the green beast the tighter you gripped his hand, hoping that if you held him more dearly or kissed him more fervently things may have been different. But perhaps you were only supposed to guide him to this, perhaps she never had a choice in the matter. It was the eleventh hour and there was naught to be done but to hang on until the storm had finished lashing.
You stopped a few yards short of Vhagar, the monstrous creature now towering over them both casting an eerie shadow. Aemond leant down and pressed his lips to yours with a soft kiss, as passionate as it was sad. The kind that tastes like a farewell. Tears pricked at your eyes, only to be brushed away by a leather gloved thumb, a sad glint in his mis-matched eyes. Thunder and lightning crackles and shakes the air around them.
“Do not fret for me, my love,” he offered softly as he planted another kiss to your forehead, inhaling at the crown of your head.
“I will always fret when it comes to you. Please return to me safe,” the words sounded hollow as they left you. Aemond nodded, making the short walk to Vhagar and mounting her. You watched on as he tied the chains around his waist and shifted in the saddle.
Sovetes, Vhagar!
The world faded from around you, gone were the shouting orders in the distance, and you stayed rooted to the spot as your eyes remained trained on the sky. The mighty she-dragon carrying the love of your life flew higher and higher, closer to the gods than you were comfortable with, to where the Blood Wyrm and his rider met them in the sky above the Gods Eye. All you could do was watch on in horror as dragons tangled and snapped at each other in a danse macabre, spitting fire and tearing at one another's necks.
Your stomach twisted painfully and your heart hammered in your chest as the dragons screeched and gave chase to one another. You had not realised before how similar Caraxes cry was to a human scream, and now it gave you gooseflesh and made an involuntary shiver run down your spine. Your hands had not ceased trembling since this morning, both fear and anxiety held you in their clawed clutches. You could feel the warmth of clamminess that had begun to form in your hands.
A sudden screeching outcry pulled you from the trance you had placed yourself in, red and green continued to tangle in the sky. It felt as though the world had begun to shift, your hand came to rest over your mouth, your chest shook with worry. It felt as though your ribs were an instrument playing a haphazard and off putting tune that nobody but you could hear.
“Aemond!” you screamed in terror, watching on as Daemon lept from Caraxes, drawing his sword as Vhagar glided into his path. Icy cold calmness washes over you, tense and painful, as deep down you knew that this was the only outcome. A violent end.
You could still feel the warmth of his kiss upon your lips.
You took two wobbly steps back, watching both dragon and rider plummet towards the lake below. You weren’t sure what gave out first, your legs or your heart, mud splattered up the front of your dress as you collapsed on the ground. The mud felt like blood splatter, the air was far too thick and breathing became far too hard. A stinging burn clawed its way up your throat as what little you had in your stomach left you.
You looked from the sky to the ground, your torso folding over itself as your forehead pressed to the mud - a grief stricken wail tearing through you. The feeling was indescribable. The world around you no longer felt as bright, as warm, as it did before. And, deep down, you knew that it never would feel that way again. You brought your palms forcefully down onto the mud again, and again, as if you were knocking on the very door of the Stranger’s realm.
You would not have minded in that moment if the Stranger had ascended to claim your soul as well, as you would do anything to be reunited with the love of your life.
The death of you was quiet.
Please reblog, it helps keep fanficton alive. xx
#aemond targaryen#aemond headcanons#aemond x you#aemond imagine#aemond x reader#aemond one eye#hotd aemond#aemond fanfiction#aemond x fem!reader#aemond stannies#aemond x y/n#prince aemond x reader#aemond targaryen x reader
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All around you, the ocean is dark and wild. Cold, harsh winds howl over Jorvik, whipping flurries of snowflakes around the ocean and tossing foaming waves ever harder onto the shore. You stand untouched in the eye of the storm, where all is eerily still. Face to face with you is the tempest’s catalyst.
An ancient creature towers over you. He does not move closer. Neither do you. You look into his many eyes, and for a moment, you almost feel like the two of you could come to an understanding. In some strange way, you are a pair—parallel lines across time and space, intersecting only at the very beginning and in this very moment. You have trodden the same path, separated only by the line between good and evil, and now you must both destroy the other. For a moment, you almost feel like there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes. Perhaps he loves this island just as much as you. Perhaps there is more to this than you thought.
Except then his eyes harden, and he moves to harm you. You cannot let it happen. Your paths may run parallel, but here, his must end. You cannot let his chaos reign over Jorvik. You cannot let the Dark Riders succeed. It was you, though it may have been a different you, who brought life to this island many, many years ago. He had no part in that creation. He has no part in that joy. He will have no part in the island’s future.
Deep within your soul, something is beginning to slowly buzz and hum. It grows into a quiet ringing in your ears and then a rushing and roaring through your body, no longer a hum but rather loud, garbled noises. You have never felt anything like it before, and yet it feels almost familiar. It is overwhelming; by this point, you feel like it consumes your entire being, and yet it is still growing. It wants to grow far, far beyond anything you have ever done. For a moment, you hesitate, tightening the reins on it and slowing, almost stopping, the flow of magic.
In front of you is an ancient, towering being, lit up by a gentle, golden glow. His many eyes bore into yours. His many limbs reach for you, stretching and curling through the air. The magic strains at the rope that you hold it by.
Let go.
The roaring in your ears grows.
You will know what to do.
You take a deep breath, and then you let go.
There is a great, primitive roar, like that of something ancient and unknowable coming back to life. It is no longer in your ears, but a real, deafening sound. It may be yours. It may be his. It doesn’t truly matter. It grows and grows until you can hear little else. Though you can hardly see it from the eye of your own storm, you know that you glow with something ancient and powerful. The Light Ceremony could never have held a candle to you. What you are doing is something unspoken, unknown, unknowable. Even you hardly know what it is, only that you can and must do it.
You need not even ask your horse to step forward. In this moment, you are as good as one. It moves closer to him, and he recoils, almost as if in pain. The light is so bright that it is almost blinding, and your throat is beginning to grow sore. Your small, fragile human body was not made for this—your hands, your eyes, your heart are beginning to burn and to ache—and yet, this is where you belong. Magic courses from the depths of Jorvik’s roots and through your bloodstream, radiating out from every inch of your being. The dam is broken down and long forgotten, as are the reins and ropes you held around your magic. There are no more reasons to hesitate.
Though you aren’t sure how you know to do it, you raise a hand. Your light shifts. Focuses on him. He begins to recoil, as if in pain. Your roar grows louder and your light brighter until you cannot see or hear anything else. You close your eyes. The island courses through you. Galloping hooves. The moon and stars behind the thick, dark clouds. The raging storm. There is a second roar. It is not yours. It is something deeper. It is desperate. Pained. Garnok’s. Your light is bright even through your closed eyelids. The wind whips around you. Snow lashes into your face. You stand your ground.
His time is up.
There is a sound so loud that you cannot hear it and a light so bright that you cannot see it. Then, it is truly silent. Dark. Peaceful. The storm has stilled. The chorus of roaring has gone quiet. You need not open your eyes to know that he is gone, but you do anyway, so that you may see the world.
He is.
In front of you is a vast expanse of darkness. The ocean, you realise once your senses begin to reaccustom themselves to the world. The moon is bright, almost perfectly half-full, and its light glitters in the water. The waves lap gently against the shore. A gentle wind blows past you, rustling the fabric of your coat before moving further along the coast. You look up at the sky, eyes still adjusting to the low light, and one by one, the stars begin to blink into place.
At long last, there is peace.
#Happy 2 years of jorvikpov! Today!!#This is an INSANE chapter to post on the 2 year anniversary#sso#star stable#star stable online#ssoblr#sso fic#ssofic#jorvikpov
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Just a Kid - Epilogue
@evilwriter37@firerose
Summary: A Httyd Zombie AU set in the modern world. There are dragons.
At 15, Hiccup believes his biggest struggles are teachers who won't stop hounding him for his grades, a father who doesn't quite listen to him, or how unpopular he is at school. Every regular teenager's worst nightmare, right?
But then a new and mysterious illness that's been rapidly spreading amongst the populace takes a surprising turn and the day comes Hiccup wishes his former daily struggles had been the only struggles he would have to deal with.
He is, after all, just a kid.
Warnings: /
Rating: Mature
Words: 1 698
Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon
Characters: Hiccup, Toothless, Astrid, Stormfly, Snotlout, Hookfang, Ruffnut, Tuffnut, Barf and Belch, Fishlegs, Meatlug
Pairing: /
Author's Notes: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH
THREE YEARS OF WORK
IT ENDS TODAY
I posted the prologue in January of 2021! I'm posting the epilogue in January of 2024!
And now on to the sequel! :)
Constructive criticism is appreciated.
Enjoy!
--XOXOX--
Standing in the middle of a classroom, Snotlout can still see where the blood of his fellow students once stained the ground. On the tiled floor amidst all the dust, the dirt and leaves, there are dried brown stains of all sizes. Smears and footprints spread the stains all over the floor. Handprints are on desks, the wall, the blackboard and the door. Time has not washed them away.
School classrooms and hallways here are just big enough for a Monstrous Nightmare to stand in with a hunch, especially with all the tables and chairs pushed to the side. This wasn’t just any room, it’s where a bunch of teenage kids were holed up together and fighting for their lives. They’d been bitten.
Hookfang sniffs around. The air is stale. The reason why Snotlout would want to come here escapes him, but he’s been standing here. Quietly, unmoving. The Nightmare has tried to prod a response out of him, but he didn’t even complain. He hasn’t said anything in minutes and the dragon wonders if his human is broken.
He doesn’t understand the significance of the space they’re in.
“This is…” A girl’s voice. Dragon and rider look towards the door to find Astrid standing there, her hair length still kept above the shoulders.
She doesn’t need to say it out loud, it’s basically the room where it all began for them. It’s where Bjorn and most of everyone else lied sick for two weeks before they turned enmasse, when they realized what they were truly dealing with and the day they were forced to leave the last connection to their old life.
Bjørk school is completely abandoned now. Mrs. Bellum, Mr. Hoover and the infected students aren’t here anymore. They moved on a long time ago to begin their endless journey in search of a warm body to feed on, until their second death inevitably comes. The silence they left behind is chilling.
Astrid walks further into the room, it’s strange to be back home, strange to be in school again. It seems like a lifetime ago. She can’t even recognize it anymore.
Her boots crush pieces of glass on the floor. There was a big summer storm in August and it’s done a number on the building. The courtyard is full of shingles and a part of the roof is gone. A number of windows have been blown out and dirt, leaves, and sometimes entire branches fill classrooms and hallways. Not to mention the months of a lack of upkeep. There’s a significant layer of dust and webs everywhere they look.
“This place has seen better days,” she remarks softly. Their school looks the way they feel after everything they’ve been through since Outbreak Day back in March.
“No kidding,” Snotlout huffs humorlessly, it’s the first thing he’s said in a good couple of minutes. He wipes at his eyes, Hookfang comes closer and sniffs him, nudging him with his snout.
“I’m fine,” he tells his dragon, who shrugs it off like his human tells him to.
Astrid’s hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes. Unlike the dragon, she knows exactly what happened here and who he lost here.
“Come on, Snotlout, let’s go find Hiccup,” she tells him and they leave the room together.
But out in the hallway, Astrid comes across a pretty sight that makes her smile and lifts her heart; a gorgeous blue Deadly Nadder. They ran into her shortly after they were forced out of Forrædersk. Like this, every one of the teenagers have somehow gotten their own best friend in dragon form.
Stormfly is her name. She squawks when Astrid meets her. Her human girl approaches and hugs her horned nose, she’s in need of one. The dragon chirps contentedly.
“Where is everyone else?” Snotlout asks as they walk down the corridor, the occasional dry leaf crunching beneath their feet.
“Last I heard, the twins are goofing off in the gym,” Astrid replies. That’s certainly where she heard a lot of shouting and laughter. Who knows what the four of them are doing there, so long as they stay safe and don’t start a fire like a couple of weeks ago, it doesn’t really matter.
“Psh, of course they are,” Snotlout shakes his head as the two move on.
-XOXOX-
Hiccup and Toothless are in a different part of the school building; they find him in their English class, where they used to be taught by the once cheery and colorful Mrs. Bellum. A familiar bookcase with famous English literature is the first thing they saw when they entered. It’s the very same one, he’s seen entering this very room for every year he had this woman for a teacher. It was strange to see it again.
At first, the Night Fury had no idea what meaning this location had to their humans, but standing inside this room, he can make an educated guess what.
In the back of the classroom, there’s a wall of pictures and they all depict different humans of about his human’s age. Astrid’s picture is among them. But the spot Hiccup stares at is blank.
Toothless nudges his shoulder, clearly having a question.
“What are you looking at?” And he’s not the only one asking. Turning around, they watch Astrid enter. She’s followed closely by Snotlout, but Hookfang and Stormfly stay outside this time. These rooms have their limit and so does Hookfang, who would like to stretch his wings soon.
Hiccup looks back in front of him, back at the blank space.
“Students of the month,” Snotlout reads, then scoffs. “My picture was never on Mrs. Bellum’s wall.”
“Maybe because you made life hard for everybody else in class?” Astrid suggests the first reason that comes to mind, hands on her hips. Her raincoat makes some noise as it moves.
“Nah, that can’t be it,” Snotlout denies it.
Their English teacher had this wall to praise certain students; those that delivered hard work, those whose grades went up, those who needed the encouragement… She could never put just one student per month.
“So what are you staring at?” Astrid repeats the question. She can’t help but notice the way Hiccup shifts his weight off his stump.
Almost half a year since his amputation, he’s still trying to get used to the prosthetic they found him. They couldn’t believe their luck when they came across one that fit him perfectly on the orthopedics floor of the hospital in Forrædersk. It was probably meant for someone.
After a couple of moments of silence, this is what he says; “I think my dad is alive.”
“How do you know?” The girl asks.
“Mrs. Bellum used to have a picture of me right here,” he points the blank space out. “But none of the others have been taken. The only one who would’ve wanted to have my picture is my dad.”
“Then that’s good! Right? You were hoping to find proof that your dad was alive, he is!” Astrid encourages him. Alvin told him a lot of things in the time he was held captive and Heather couldn’t provide any clear answers either.
“And if Hiccup’s dad is alive, maybe my parents are too! Maybe all of our parents are!” The news hypes Snotlout up.
“Yeah… Which means we missed them. By a couple of months,” Hiccup deflates and Toothless purrs, giving him a comforting headbutt. The boy scratches his chin, grateful for his attempt.
It’s not like it was his idea to crush his ankle and then lose a great deal of his leg beneath his knee. He needed a long time to recover, they haven’t been on the road all that long. And as it turns out, traveling by dragon back is a lot faster than by car. Dragons don’t have to stick to a set path. Although it takes a little bit of a change in navigation.
“Hiccup, we now know that they’re alive. This trip home wasn’t a loss,” Astrid tells him and Hiccup forces a small smile.
She’s not wrong, but he still wishes they could’ve gotten here sooner. It’s almost winter, who knows how long their parents stayed in Bjørk hoping to find their kids? Who knows how long his dad and Gobber waited for him? Waited until they had no other choice but to admit that they weren’t here? Was Stoick as disappointed in missing his son as he was? Do they believe he’s dead?
Astrid wants to take Hiccup’s shoulder, but he inhales deeply and turns around to face the three of them.
“Let’s go find the others, the sun is setting and we need to set up camp and make a fire before we lose too much light,” he decides and off they go, in search of Fishlegs, Meatlug, Ruffnut, Tuffnut and Barf and Belch.
-XOXOX-
The sun is setting and the beach is getting chillier. By now, his friends have retreated for the night, dinner must be almost ready. The only one still with him is Toothless, who lies curled up around him. He doesn’t appear to mind the sand as much as his human does and still comfortably snoozes away.
Hiccup realizes he’s done telling their story. And just in time, too, he’s run out of pages to tell it.
Ah well, a new chapter in life, a new book right?
Closing his very worn notebook, he turns to his dragon, who must’ve sensed a change as he places his head on his lap.
“What do you say, Bud? Ready to leave? Find the others?” He asks, a relaxed smile on his face. It really was a good idea to write about everything that’s happened. If anything, it helped him put his thoughts in order, give everything a place.
Toothless warbles an agreement and stands, stretching his back and each of his limbs. Hiccup pulls out a plastic bag to put his notebook in, he’s been using it to keep it safe.
The dragon helps him to his feet and they turn only to realize that they’re not as alone as they once thought. Toothless begins to growl.
Up on top of the dunes, stands a pair of brothers.
#httyd fics#httyd movies#httyd#how to train your dragon#rob#riders of berk#dob#defenders of berk#au#alternate universe#modern au#zombie au#apocalypse au#zombie apocalypse au#hiccup haddock#toothless#hicctooth#astrid hofferson#stormfly#stormstrid#snotlout jorgenson#hookfang#ruffnut thorston#tuffnut thorston#barf and belch#fishlegs ingerman#meatlug#my fanfics#jak#just a kid
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I can't believe I'm doing this
I got some Soapghost x Undead Reader content for yall
So you died. Don't worry you died a hero's death in the heat of battle and the mission got completed, but you're dead.
Too many bullet wounds and too much blood loss before you could be saved. Your friends and family grieved for you but no one grieved more than Simon 'Ghost' Riley and John 'Soap' MacTavish. They were your lovers, and they still are.
It's been 5 years since you've died, and the world was brought into a weird and strange era where everyone who was once human were now monstrous.
YES I'M BRINGING IN THE MONSTER AU ONE OF US WAS WORKING ON.
Ghost became a part-time grim reaper while keeping his humanity, Soap became a headless rider and so on (I'm sure you've seen the post). Although you've been gone for that long, it never stopped you from coming back.
It was raining and storming when you found your way to the base, piecing together your bones and limbs again. In the span of 5 years some things have changed, but not too much. Some recruits were ranked up, new folks joined the 141 and some parts of the base were remodeled. Fortunately your old friends were still there, and Price was the first you had to see.
The look on his face was priceless, as he examined you and welcomed you back with a fatherly hug. Konig and Horangi were ecstatic to see you again, both of them being new creatures and such. Luckily they knew you so well that they told you where Soap and Ghost were.
As you hobbled your way to their shared room, you heard a shriek coming from the other side of the hallway to see Gaz barely containing his excitement as he transformed into a rabbit and bounced into your arms. You missed him dearly from beyond the grave and were surprised to find him being able to turn into any animal. Then you two got to planning a surprise for Ghost and Soap respectively.
A few moments later and you're inside a giant present box in the lounge, labeled with a tag that says 'For Soap and Ghost, my two lovely lads.' Clearly the two were curious but not a minute went by before you burst out of the box with a loud 'SURPRISE!!' and felt your jaw fall off and land on the floor. Embarrassed, you quickly pick it up and reattach it before getting out of the box and smiling towards the two.
They both were in shock to see you again, and Soap began to cry almost instantly as he tackled you into a hug. Ghost only stood and stare but you knew him better, he was close to feeling an emotion which resulted in him joining the hug and burying his face in your hair. How much these two missed you is indescribable.
That night the 141 had a welcome back party for you, Gaz and Soap making jokes about you coming back from the dead relentlessly while Ghost stayed close to you. Life was sad when you were gone but at least now, you're back and able to pick up where you left off. After the party, the three of you cuddled and slept together like you used to 5 years ago.
Yee!
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above us only sky / Aemond Targaryen x Allyria Dayne (OFC)
Part 1 Part 2
A/N: Hi there - this is the first fanfic I’m posting anywhere online since a break that lasted roughly three years. English isn’t my first language. Also, in this chapter Aemond and the OFC don’t even meet yet. Idk, I have a good feeling about this. Maybe you would still like to give it a read?
Summary: A historian stumbles over a lost record of the ‘Dance of Dragons’, aka the Targaryen civil war. He excitedly tells his boss about it. We get to see the first part of those records, set in 128 AC, a few months prior to Viserys’s death and the events of episode 8 of HotD. Aemond attends a family meeting.
Warnings: Slight fat phobia at one point, mention of NSFW themes, canon-typical violence later on.
Words: 2,8k
I have a lot more to say, but I promised myself I will keep it short. So I will leave you to it, and keep my comments till the end.
To the honored Archmaester of the Citadel,
And my good friend and fellow scholar –
Dear Perestan,
Often have we discussed the history of house Targaryen, and the three colorful and turbulent centuries spent under their reign.
You know me to be a true scholar, determined to pass on the most accurate version of events, and therefore always cautious not to rely too much on any biased source, be it an overly piteous septon, a certain court fool who could have done with a bit more piety in his life, or an old and withered bearer of the maesters’ chain, much like ourselves. I am a scholar, and I do my best to only tell of what is true – I must plead with you to keep this in mind while you study the transcripts of my most recent source, for otherwise it must sound all too much like hogwash and old women’s tales.
But from all I know, this is the most truthful retelling regarding the fates of Aemond Targaryen and one of the women – no, I cannot say it otherwise; the woman in his life. It holds little bearing for the overall history of Westeros, but it shall be answering some questions we have long asked ourselves. Inconsequential as it may be, since stumbling across this little booklet in the dusty depths of the Starfall library, I find myself returning to my research with renewed vigor every morning.
I ask you, dear friend; if even we, as life-long students of the Dance, could be so blind, what other tales and truths may rest in other libraries strewn across the continent?Mayhaps another maester in another time will unearth those. For now, the both of us have to be content with some new knowledge regarding the tale of Aemond One Eye and Allyria, the Sunken Star of Dayne.
Your good friend,
Yandel
From The Diary of Allyria Dayne:
Today I saw my first dragon. We had finished our morning meal and were about to depart, when we all heard it – a strange noise in the distance, at first like the cry of a rooster, a piercing, solitary note, before it developed into a full roar.
I have never heard anything like it – no wounded boar or stag, not even a cornered mountain lion can scream like that.
It died down again after some moments, and we all were silent.
Servants and guards alike stopped in their steps for a breath of time, just like the horses and birds and beasts of the forest.
It was a bit like we were all children, each waiting to be coddled and told this was nothing to worry about.
Though of course, no words like those were said.
The animals seemed to shake off their stupor a moment earlier than us – horses neighing and thrashing around, and suddenly the sky was dark with swarms of birds, each sounding their own alarm as they made their exit.
I was looking up at that storm of wings and fathers, so I was among those who actually saw the dragon.
Our tross is composed of many riders, wheelhouses and even city guards at this point, and yet wherever they stood today, they all were touched by the shadow of the giant beast's wings.
For just a moment I saw it in its entirety; a dark outline against the bright morning sky, terrible and mighty. I wish I could describe it more closely, but the next moment it was already gone, like a bad dream in the morning sun, so neither I nor anyone else got a good look at it.
But the chaos in the camp remained – and weirdly enough everybody immediately got to work to set things straight again, without even losing a word about the dragon.
Chests had spilled their precious cargo over the rotting leaves, along with fallen crates full of provisions. One of Lady Fowler’s court dresses is stained with mead now, and it smells like it, too. One of my nephews cut his hand on some broken pottery while he fell, and there was plenty of crying, snot and blood and dirt all mixing on little reddened face.
He was the one who asked it, too:
“What was that, mother?”
And just like that, the spell of silence over the whole company seemed suddenly broken.
CIty guards were cursing the dragon, and so we learned its name – her name.
Vhagar.
“My old nan used to tell tales of Balerion, the black dread, but I can’t think he could have been much worse than that bronze beast”, I heard one of them say, and another told one of our guards:
“They used to fly out only over Blackwater Bay, where they would disturb no one but the fishes. Out to Dragonstone and back, and it only took one ring of the bell, or maybe two,”
His eyes were shining when he said it, as if what he really wished to say was:
‘They terrorize us small folk, us ground-dwellers, but I would not find it all that bad, if only I was one of them.’
I asked him ‘why do they come here now?’, and for a moment he looked at me all gruff under the rim of his helmet and over his beard.
“Fought with each other, m’lady. Or so they say. So one half stay on Dragonstone now, and the other here, and avoid each other like the plague, that they do.”
He snorted and spit out while I was still trying to make sense of this.
“The dragons?”, one of our guardsmen asked him, and he looked confused.
“The dragons were the one who fought?”
The city guard laughed. “Aye, you could say so. Dragons they do call ‘em… Nah, lad, I’m talking about the Targaryens. Rhaenyra and her black lot on the ‘Stone, and in King’s Landing we have our Greens.”
He probably could tell he was not making much sense to us and fell silent. Lady Fowler called for me then, and I bid them goodbye, and as I left I only heard some more talk of princes and dragons and that we were lucky to have none of that down in Dorne.
I’m not much of a believer, but in terms of bad omens it does not get much worse than that, I suppose.
Vaghar, the scourge of Starfall, they call her at home, – though I assume a beast like that , nearly 200 years old, gets called ‘scourge of’ in a hundred and one places.
And this very same dragon is the first I see of King’s Landing. This morning, we were 5 days from the city, and this evening as I write this it’s five days, still.
An axis on the Fawnton’s wheelhouse broke, and by the time it was fixed it was nearly turning dark.
I must admit, at least to me there is something good to it, too; Soren wants to ride ahead with some men, maybe to hunt, maybe to stock up on provisions, and Lady Fowler has allowed me to come with.
I think I’m a bit of a disappointment to her – not another daughter to adorn her happy, pretty family, but a thorn in her side.
She disagreed when I found the courage to ask her about it last week.
“You come after your mother, Allyria. Maybe not in looks, but your spirit is all the same. And that is just fine with me. I must confess, more than once I have almost called you by her name, too.”
I don’t remember my mother as well as I wish I could, but tonight I miss her terribly. I miss home, and grandfather, and my little brother. But above all, both those living and dead, I miss Raydan.
And that is what drives me forward. I still believe that the only way to get justice for my big brother’s death leads through King’s Landing.
Aemond
“You stink of dragon shit”, prince Aegon greeted his younger brother, before grabbing a maid that had tried to sneak past him unnoticed.
“What are you waiting for, girl? Get my brother a cup as well.” Then he let go and she hastened away, lips pressed shut and eyes blank.
Aemond stepped aside to let her through, looking after her as he pulled off his gloves.
“Watered down”, he reminded her, and the servant girl turned again, eyes widening a bit as she stared at his eyepatch and the scar, before she hastily curtsied and fled the room.
“You know I don’t”- “You don’t drink wine during the day, yes”, Aegon interrupted. “But I also know you usually crack during these nice family gatherings, and then you can even be fun to be around”.
He grinned, and Aemond found himself grinning back. He and Aegon had not much in common – but they were family. The blood of the dragon. The True Blood, as their mother had hammered in, time and time again, from the moment she deemed them old enough.
For Aemond, that time had come a bit earlier. On dragon wings, and with a blade and searing pain.
There was that phantom itch under his eyepatch again, and he balled his hand shut to keep himself from scratching at it.
He had told them, back then, that he deemed it a fair trade – an eye for the biggest dragon alive.
Nowadays he thought it more than fair – what was an eye lost, for the insight he had gained?
Otherwise he might have grown up as spoilt and unfocused as Aegon.
The doors opened again and their mother Alicent entered, along with their sister Helaena and their grandfather Otto Hightower, followed by Sir Criston of the Kingsguard.
“You may leave”, his mother told the other two guards who had been waiting in the shadows like pale silver ghosts.
They left, and a moment before the doors closed, the servant girl entered, carrying the cup of wine for Aemond, keeping her gaze on his shoes and fleeing from the room the second he had taken it from her.
He was not much of a gambler, but he was willing to bet his eye – or maybe one of his brother’s eyes – she had waited for the queen to arrive.
In his mother’s presence Aegon would not dare to touch them, the servant girls all knew that.
They all sat down at the table, and Aemond did his best to follow along as his mother and grandfather recollected the events at court this week; Which ones of their highborn sheeps, always flocking to the throne had died, had given birth, would soon marry. Who came and went, and what had happened elsewhere in the realm.
Aemond paid little mind to it – there was only one family in this realm he cared about, only one that really mattered.
The rest of them were just sheep, no matter if they called themselves nameless peasant, son of a long line of nameless peasants, or Lannisters or Tully or Baratheon.
His family had dragons, and dragons ate sheep, whether they walked on four feet or two.
Alicent maybe was a Targaryen in name, but in name only. She would never understand, for she had never seen King’s Landing and all of Westeros shrink beneath as you rose up into the sky, until even the mightiest stronghold looked like you could squash it with your thumb.
And so she chose to bore him and his siblings with the fates of their people.
“Then there is the arrival of Lord and Lady Fowler later this week. They bring some other Dornish nobles with them – a son of the Yronwoods, and a lady of the Daynes” – “Sweetstar Dayne?”, Aegon interrupted.
Alicent frowned, looking down at the raven message in her hands again.
“Sweetstar?”, Haelena asked. “Do they call her that because she is nice?”
Aegon grinned. “No, because she’s fat.”
Aemond choked on his wine.
“Aegon!” Alicent's voice cracked sharp as a dragon whip.
Helaena flinched at the loud noise, as she usually did.
Otto cleared his throat.
“It’s not Lysa Dayne, and not one of her daughters, either. Just a girl from a minor family branch they want to marry off. Ellyn, Alana, something like that.”
“Why?” Aegon asked.
Aemond began to wonder if he was dragging this out on purpose, to taunt their mother or simply to steal everybody’s time.
Maybe his brother had nothing to do but drink and whore himself into an early grave, but Aemond himself had other plans – for this afternoon, and life in general.
“Family died of Spring Fever. Or was it Dornish Cold? I’m not sure, though Lysa and Aspin Dayne sent a letter to inform us – something her surviving relatives always neglect, even though the Crown has an interest and a right to know what is going on in any keep in the realm, even if it’s just an inconsequential sheep shack with a wooden palisade and a handful men to it’s banner.”
Aemond had closed his eye and had barely listened, but that seemed like a good time to interrupt his grandfather.
“Shall we discuss something that actually matters instead? Is it true Rhaenyra is pregnant? Again?”
Otto and Alicent shared a glance.
“We have not had a raven carrying such news yet”, Alicent then stiffly replied.
“Strange. It is all the keep seems to talk about these days.”
Aemond leaned forwards in his chair. “Should the crown wish I could ride to Dragonstone, find out if there is any truth to these rumors.”
“The crown wants you and Vhagar to stay here. To serve. By your brother’s side.”
“And father’s”, Haelena added. No one paid her any mind, except Aegon who rolled his eyes about his sister-wife.
Aemond was not ready to back down.
He would follow his mother’s and grandfather’s wishes, but it could not hurt to remind them once in a while he could do more than fight on the training grounds, and Vaghar could do more than shit and feed and sleep.
“We might actually be of better use elsewhere. I don’t know if you noticed, mother, but neither I nor Vhagar particularly care for council meetings or dances.”
Aegon snickered.
“Imagine, though. Take mother’s seat in the council, and have Vhagar look on through the window, and maybe then all those little lordlings would learn to hold their tongues.”
Alicent looked at Aemond, as if she had not even heard her other son’s words. Then, suddenly she reached out and grabbed his hand.
“Your time will come, and once it does, you might wish for slow times like these to return. Use this time to prepare. Do not squander it-“ Finally, she took her eyes off him, Hightower-brown eyes meeting two Targaryen-lilac ones instead.
Aegon lowered his head in faux-acceptance, though Aemond was sure his brother had probably not been listening and certainly did not care.
Mother turned back to him again, and Aemond evenly met her gaze.
“And you, Aemond… do not squander it by forgetting to live. There is a whole world outside the dragons pit and training grounds, and in time you shall find something you enjoy in it.”
Aemond felt his lips stretch into a sour, ironic smile.
Dear mother. How could she understand that the rest of the world only saw a missing eye and the rider of Vaghar, death-bringer and city-burner, where she saw her darling son?
The eyepatch meant the high-born ladies did not scream or faint when they saw him, but none of them could stand to even look at him for long.
That did not mean he didn’t know what the world had to offer – if you had the coin to pay for it, and as a son of the crown, his pockets were deep. Music and booze and women, pretty girls in the houses along the streets of silk, who would try not to wince when they looked at him, who always preferred if he took them from behind.
“Go to dragonstone. If you must.”
For a moment, he was speechless as he looked first at her, then at his grandfather and brother, before he slowly rose off his seat.
“But know that I ask you not to. You have mended yourself into this family’s sword and shield over the years. But even the sharpest blade can fail when used in the wrong way.”
So she would let him go, and grandfather too, judging from the lack of protest. He considered it for a few moments, before he slowly sat down again. His mother had said it, and in his heart of hearts he knew it to be true: Now was not the time. Not yet.
Aemond sat down again.
“No, mother. I shall stay and listen.”
Alicent returned to her notes about taxes and Tyrells and the king’s name-day tournament, and Aemond did his best to listen, though soon he found himself wondering if that afternoon, he should try to fight not one, but two men of the Kingsguard during practice.
End of Part one
A/N: Hm. Would honestly be kind of surprised if anybody makes it till here. Well, just in case you did: Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! While you read it, it probably became clear WHY this thing needed some sort of prologue - I spent way too much time on the ‘a song of ice and fire’ wiki and set myself the goal to write a story that is mostly canon-compliant. The great thing about Westeros is that it is huge. There are hundreds of noble families where for entire centuries we don’t know what they were up to. The terrible thing about Westeros is that it is awfully detailed, and you first have to fine a corner where your story can bloom. Is it entirely canon-compliant? Definitely not. You would probably have to be a hardcore fan to point out most of the discrepancies.
The other reason I formatted the story like this is, that this story lives somewhere on the middle ground between the TV show and the book, and the comments from the historians were some of my favorite parts about the book.
Last but not least: Please hit me up if you like Aemond, or just HotD in general, and you want to talk about it! Let me know if you like my writing, or if there is something you would like me to write about Aemond (or some of the other characters on the show, this is very much not a one way street!). I’m honestly just excited about being able to return to Westeros again, and I’m excited to share my excitement with other people - and because I am very excited, I will overuse the tagging system a bit, to get this baby *slaps roof of this fic* out there. Is this considered very rude? Idk. Let me know?
#prince aemond#aemond targaryen#HotD#hotd fic#aemond x oc#aemond fic#aemond x reader#aemond imagine#house of the dragon#aemond one shot#hotd one shot
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Suddenly thinking of the Guardians in a human mad max setting.
Peter grew up in a group of Rock Riders. Gamora and Nebula are the daughters/executioners of Thanos, the ruler of The Black Order with his children. Rocket used to be a slave/universal blood donor, Groot came from the Green Place, and Drax's family got killed while trying to escape.
Mantis is stuck in a cult where people see Ego as a God.
Peter wants to split from Yondu but can't out of self-preservation. He resents Yondu for taking him away from his mother but also knows that he survived this long thanks to him.
Gamora yearns to be out of Thanos' rule, tired of being used as his weapon to cut down the Wretches and anyone that opposes him. She finally finds the chance to escape when Thanos orders Ronan on a mission. Gamora escapes in a vehicle, but Nebula hitches a ride, ready to deliver punishment for her betrayal. Then things happen, and let's just say they have a truce.
Rocket fixes cars and makes weapons from parts from people he steals from. He travels with Groot and is always paranoid. The tattoo on his back marks him as a universal donor, and he'll raise hell before he lets anyone take his blood again.
Groot comes from the Green Place and carries around a bag of seeds. He travels with Rocket after saving him from death and tending to his injuries. He only says I, Am, and Groot in the specific order.
Drax's family was murderer by Ronan during a raid. Now Drax travels in search of his family's killer and hopefully reunites with his wife and daughter once he completes his revenge.
When not playing the role Ego sets her to play, Mantis reads forgotten books in the library. Eagerly escaping the world through stories and history. There's also an unfinished map hidden in a drawer, but she doesn't touch that. She has a strange knack in knowing how someone is feeling. Probably from handling her father's worshipers.
When word is out that Ego is looking for his child, various people come in hopes they'll be let into his kingdom. One by one, they do, but they never come back out.
Peter’s the key to finding a place with water and flourishing life. Upon finding it, Ego would be able to expand his power.
Meredith had half a map on her back, and Peter has the other half on his. Peter doesn't know the significance of the marking on his back, tho, only thinking it as one of the gifts his mother left behind.
Yondu knows what it's like to be a slave. He likes to forget, but he never does. But that's in the past, and he has his group of Riders to look after. But Ego requests to bring kids in from the west. Orphans specifically. In exchange for food and water. Who was Yondu to refuse? Especially when a father is desperately looking for his kid. His own parents sold him for resources.
So Yondu does the job, and he never sees the kids he delivers. One day, Ego lets him up as a reward. There was only Mantis and Ego. No kids. Ego doesn't give him a straight answer when he asks about them. Instead, Ego offers him another exchange for another child.
Yondu leaves, and he finds a kid curled next to a dying woman. He takes one look and knows the kid is Ego's son. While his green eyes are from his mother, the boy looks like the splitting image of his father.
The boy snarls as Yondu approaches his mother, and the woman uses her dying breath to utter a single plea.
"Take my hand, Peter."
The boy doesn't take her hand, and her hand falls. The boy screams as Yondu yanks him away. The boy thrashes and curses up a storm, impassive for the little tyke.
Then he feels a stab of pain and looks to see the boy stabbed his shoulder with a tiny knife.
He thinks about his parents, about Ego, about the children he never saw agai. About the woman and her plea.
Yondu grins and announces that instead of eating the boy as he planned, he's make a Road Rider out of Peter. Just he wait.
#gotg#mad max au#I got carried away with brainstorming#i got carried away with Yondu's part#peter quill#gamora#nebula#rocket raccoon#Groot#Drax#Mantis#ego the living planet#yondu udonta
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who: @bloodfcrblood
where: kings landing, shortly following the abdication of queen daenaerys targaryen and the return of the dragon prince...now king jaehaerys, second of his name.
the gladiators of the crownlands had been an ancient tradition, dating back to their roots across the narrow sea within the dizzying heights of valyria itself; they were figures of mighty worth, fame and strength whose sole purpose it was to entertain. as steel slashed through flesh, as crimson blood flowed endlessly and as they watched men hack one another to death as though they were beasts, it were the purest form of entertainment. the crowds cheered, gasped, clapped; they rose from their seats in an attempt to watch humans attempt to escape the clutches of one another, or at some points, even wild beasts.
he wondered how long it would be until they were forced to attempt to survive dragonfire itself.
and they had a specific use for house celtigar of the crownlands: the menacing lords of the entirety of crackclaw point, whose famous riders in black hoods were as much sign of doom as the sun rising in the east. those silent servants that remained within the shadowy halls of claw isle, isolated from the mainland in the ways they were consistently supervised: and some that were used for their strength, were injured gladiators that had won their battles but ended up too crippled to ever fight again.
and so, coin was historically passed between house celtigar and house qoherys - those who oversaw the training of the gladiators, oversaw the finances of the entirety of the game system.
"how many in this half?" the lord of crackclaw point asked, as they sat within the bustling hall of kings landing; it were not strange to see houses of old valyria conversing with one another, as seen in their light hair and their amethyst coloured eyes. they worked in halves of a year: sales made every six months. the practice was entirely public and known: as abhorrent as it was the those of the winds and storms. the selling of humans, that had been forced to play a game to win their own life. only, the reality of life within claw isle, was that their life had shortened considerably merely by taking up a role within the household.
he were overseeing the parchment that was sat between them, overlooking details of their purchases: how damaged the items were.
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SDC's Tales from the SanSan Crypt
Looking for some spooky SanSan reads this Halloween?
Below are some selections from my crypt of SanSan delights sure to get your blood pumping and send those goosebumps prickling across your skin.
Happy Halloween! 🖤
Badlands Howl (Complete)
On a gray Halloween day, Sansa travels alone across South Dakota and finds herself inexplicably drawn to the Badlands for what was supposed to be a brief stop. A park ranger tells her a tale befitting All Hallows’ Eve about the Badlands rider—a restless spirit who haunts the land astride his black horse, his face half-burned from hellfire and his unearthly howl famed for the misfortune it brings.
Despite the frightening tale, Sansa finds herself enchanted and, amongst the Badlands’s haunting austerity and bewitching wonder, she encounters the Badlands rider and far more than she ever could have bargained for.
Spooky, sexy, sad, sweet, and spiritual.
Ride (Complete)
Sansa and Sandor each have their reason for buying a one-way ticket out of town. As an early autumn storm brews, they find themselves alone together on an abandoned train platform with more in common than one might think.
But there's something strange about the train that rolls into the station and their journey comes with a dire warning--if they get on the train, they won't be getting off, at least not in this life. Then again, sometimes you have to get on to get off...
Midnight (Complete)
Into every generation a slayer is born, a chosen one.
That’s what the legend said. Sansa had heard it all before. What did the legend say about watchers then? Not much because it didn’t have to be spoken. Everyone just knew.
A slayer should never get involved with her watcher and certainly never fall for him.
A SanSan/Buffy The Vampire Slayer AU.
Origins (Complete)
No one asks to be chosen. No one seeks it out.
Home from war, Sandor Clegane wants nothing to do with the horrors he faced, least of all the black-eyed monsters that nearly took his life. He calls them demons. Others call them vampires. It doesn’t matter because he’s haunted by dreams he just can’t shake. In them, a red-haired girl fights the fiends alone.
Now letters are showing up at his door from a mysterious entity called the Watchers Council. They have a message for him—he has a calling and so does the girl in his dreams. Neither knows it, but they’ll soon find out…
…the origins of a slayer and her watcher.
A continuation of Slay—a Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU SanSan series.
Spellbound (Ongoing)
Brooklyn born and bred, NYPD homicide detective Sandor Clegane often joked that the only way he’d ever leave New York was in a body bag. His chief calls his bluff and details Sandor to some no-name town in Vermont. They need his no-bullshit approach to detective work. The real reason? He’s burnt-out, jaded, and surly.
His chief said the change of pace would do him good, but forgot to mention this sleepy town has a strange vibe. It also has Sansa Stark—hometown sweetheart and psychic who owns the metaphysical shop. Sandor doesn’t believe in that shit. What he does believe in—she has legs for days and an ass to match.
Only problem? She’s enlisted to help on a cold case. His cold case. Sandor doesn’t work well with others, least of all psychics and certainly not the most gorgeous girl in town who surely bewitched him because why else is it suddenly so hard to focus?
Opposites attract with a heavy dose of sexual tension, small town shenanigans, dirty-talking Sandor, witchy woman Sansa, sassy but well-meaning Arya, and mystical matriarch Catelyn who really thinks Sansa should go easy on the new guy in town.
Sexy. Funny. Sweet. Smutty. Hot-and-bothered SanSan pine away.
Devil Inside (Ongoing)
Orphaned at a young age, Sansa has lived a quiet life as the High Priestess in her northern village, but peace is shattered when legions of marauders led by warlord Sandor Clegane raid her village.
Sandor’s brutal reputation precedes him—a warrior who some say is the devil himself—but Sansa is known to him too. Lore has spread through the Seven Kingdoms about the beautiful High Priestess of the North, a maiden ripe for the taking.
Sandor’s plan is simple—kidnap Sansa and offer her to the highest bidder—but he didn’t account for how wickedly he wants her for himself.
While the best laid plans of men often go awry, Sandor is no ordinary man. He may not even be mortal at all and Sansa is about to learn the cost of making a deal with the devil isn’t just her soul but her heart too.
A dark Faustian romance.
#sansan#sansan fanfiction#sansa stark#sandor clegane#SDC's Tales from the SanSan Crypt#Halloween SanSan
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Yeehawgust Day What
Prompts: Warning Shot, Hold Your Horses, Stampede, Wide Open Spaces, Tall Handsome Stranger (because I fell drastically behind, don't look at me)
[This is not an excerpt from my western novel. It is completely its own little piece. I could have made the prompts fit an excerpt but this was more fun. Featuring characters that did not exist before today. I do not know what horrible tragedy befell Avery's family but maybe we'll find out later this month? Also featuring my terrible attempts to mimic something of the wonderfully descriptive prose of a Zane Grey novel.]
"Stranger on the Cliffs"
“What is that, on that rise?” Avery asked, pointing with straight, outstretched arm.
“Where?” Blue McGinnis, whose eyesight was more practiced if not more keen than Avery’s, sidled nearer on his horse and followed Avery’s gesture toward the chalk cliffs rising up from the plains in front of them, where dark clouds were building behind the cliffs. The cliffs stood out in stark relief from the storm coming up over them as the eastern sun behind them turned the cliffs to shining colors of yellow, gold, and white. And yet, it did appear to Blue that there was something darker standing on the edge of them. It might have been a strange dark stone, or even a lonely tree, but neither man nor boy remembered glimpsing it the night before, when the cliffs were first in sight. The oncoming clouds shifted and the dark thing, if it was a thing, seemed to move or vanish, like a trick of the light.
“Did you see it?” Avery asked, urgent.
“I’m not sure,” came the careful answer.
“It’s not Fleet or Flax,” Avery said. “They would be shining in that sun, just like the stone is.” The pair of palominos were the reason for that band of riders picking their way across the Colorado plain, vanished in the night.
None of the others riding with them had seen the shadow or shape ahead of them, but Blue kept his attention fixed on that cliff and Avery sat uneasy in his saddle. “Do you think it might have been a man?” Avery asked after a while.
“No reason for a man to be out there,” Blue reasoned. “Of course, it could have been an Arapaho or some other tribe, a scout maybe.” He hesitated, considering his young partner and weighing his counsel before giving it, but decided in the end that keeping silence would be worse if his premonition came to pass. “It could be rustlers though, or thieves. Could be your two stallions didn’t run off on their own accord.”
At this, Avery’s uneasiness deepened, and his face turned to such pallor that Blue regretted his words and was quick to offer reassurance.
“Still, I don’t think it likely, and we’re as safe a bunch as any, with a dozen riders, and plenty of rifles between us and fast horses. No, I don’t think we’ll meet any trouble.” Blue had seen more than his fair share of trouble from more than one tribe as well as from rustlers and bandits and had, mostly through personal error and providential grace, learned how to interact peaceably with most.
Avery, but fourteen years of age and newly master of all his inheritance, looked grave, but nodded to Blue and nudged his horse on.
With them rode all the men previously in the employee of Avery’s father. Blue had been an occasional business partner, but the others were permanent hires and had come westward with the Hutchinsons from South Carolina. They were honest, loyal men, and those who had first taught a toddling child how to behave around horses and dogs and cattle had then stood beside him at his family’s graves and now went with him in all he did. Partially, this was on account of the elder Hutchinson, but each man had developed his own fondness for the curly-haired, blue-eyed boy. For the sake of the memory of the father and the life of the son, any of them felt he would give his life for Avery. It was a loyalty Avery did not yet understand the magnitude of but he trusted them entirely and for the time, that was enough.
The purple clouds rolled forward to cover the cliffs in shadow, erasing any memory of a shape that may or may not have been there moments before, and the band of horsemen, eyes searching for the flash of light or rise of dust that would lead to their escaped quarry, moved on.
In another five minutes, the clouds were upon them, the near edge twisting up in roiling waves against the sky. As the first shade fell across Avery at the lead of the riders, the clouds released a heavy burden they had borne for miles from the mountain passes filled with mists and streams where they originated in the west.
Rain fell from the sky hard as stones, pelting the grassland and the small band of riders making their weary way across it, and raising a low cloud of dust in the first moments of that abrupt downpour striking the broad, arid plain. The rain was too harsh and fast to be refreshing, and since none in the party was prepared for such an onslaught of weather in that near-weatherless land, they endured it miserably without gear or shelter and were soon drenched, water running off their hats and shoulders and the toes of their boots. The horses were only a little better off, for all their hardiness, and they blinked their eyes against the sudden dust and rain, and shook their heads, flinching at the sting of that storm.
Fierce wind blew up behind the storm, chasing it quickly across the plain, and the rain stopped as unexpectedly as it began, though the low grey clouds remained behind it, casting the area in an even more vague outlook. There was now no sunbeam to highlight the occasional distant buttes and chalk cliffs, and no shadow to outline the dips and curves of dormant creeks, awash with sudden muddy streams that abated to brown trickles again in mere minutes.
Avery shook water from his hair, wiping it away from his eyes with a damp sleeve. He froze mid-movement, his gaze transfixed on a point up ahead where he saw the same shadow he had glimpsed before, only now he was sure it was not a trick of the landscape, for it had moved. Though still a good distance away, he could tell at once that it had moved a good thirty yards under the cover of the storm.
“Blue!” he exclaimed. “It’s there again.”
The party slowed up and now each of the riders saw what Blue and Avery had, a tall dark shape standing as sentinel at the northern edge of the chalk cliff, nearer to where the land rose up to meet it and swept from that place down to where they rode, the far northern part of the horizon walled off by a collection of buttes.
To Avery’s eyes, the figure looked most like the black bears he was familiar with from home, standing perhaps on its hindlegs so as to get its bearings. Yet even he knew that no bear would be out on these desolate fields of western wheat, cacti, sedge, and buffalo grass, away from the trees and rivers that were its natural habitation. Blue, who had seen more of the world than his young partner, never thought of the bear, but he did think of hunters and other dangerous men, wrapped in pelts or in buffalo skins.
A thin man in the party with a very long, narrow, red beard, placed his horse alongside Blue and Avery. His name was Dart, and his eyes flickered from place to place, never resting on one thing. “If he means us ill, we ought to discourage him now and save ourselves the trouble later. He has to know we have seen him, but maybe he can’t decide whether or not to make trouble.” He drew his pistol, a dull, heavy thing under that clouded heaven. “We should help him make that decision.”
“Dart, wait,” Blue cautioned, but he was too late.
Dart, aiming the pistol up and tilted away from them, fired a warning shot.
Several things began to happen at once, so that Avery was aware of all of them separately but could not at first understand any of them. The sound of the shot was loud and quick and then seemed to echo like thunder after the storm. The shape on the cliff moved and seemed to grow flatter and wider all at once, as if the stranger were lying down, and then disappeared altogether. Dart gave a nod of satisfaction that at once changed to a frown of puzzlement and concern. The retort of the pistol shot was echoing endlessly, or else it had begun to thunder for real, or else… Blue swore and the horses began to dance unevenly. The very ground began to shake. Ahead of them, just on the invisible rear incline of the chalk cliffs, a new cloud of dust rose into the air.
Blue swore. “Buffalo!”
And now, of course, all of them knew what the solitary shape had been on the cliff – a lead bull buffalo, either unconscious of their presence below it, or else careless of them, but which had turned and fled at the sound of Dart’s shot. The herd it belonged to, unsettled by the sudden storm and easily panicked by some new unknown predator, moved in the only direction that must have been available to it: down the northern end of the cliffs and into the plains valley where Avery and the men rode.
Recovering himself, Blue saw that he and the riders were all in the path of the stampede now roiling over that lowermost sandstone ledge and that it would be upon them in minutes. Once the herd exited the narrow entrance to the plain, it could fan out in any or in all directions. The horses they rode were tired and Blue did not like to gamble on them outrunning the stampeding beasts.
“The buttes!” he bellowed to the men, pointing to the right of where the buffalo appeared. It was their best chance.
Avery, motionless and wide-eyed in the face of that black fury swinging around the cliff toward them, held his horse’s reins slack in his hands. Blue seized Avery’s arm and shook the reins, breaking Avery’s trance and setting the horse in uncertain motion. “Run!” he shouted to Avery.
Awakened to his peril, Avery sent his horse into a gallop.
It was a mad, blinding race of man and beast across that rocky field. The horses ran full out, eyes wild as their training won them over to listen to the commands of their riders even while they saw the great seething mass of black flooding toward them.
The herd was at a true full stampede but they did not run, perhaps, quite as hard as the riders drove their mounts, and the first of the charging lead bulls were just coming even with the last butte as the horses crashed past them over the uneven clay at the base of the butte. A single cow buffalo careened between the butte and the last two riders, and then they were out of reach of the thousands of hooves and horns and massive heaving black and brown bodies flying by them.
Every man, as soon as he saw that he was safe, turned at once to seek out Avery.
Avery’s horse was furthest up along the low slope of the largest butte, and the boy was uncertain how his horse had scrambled quite that far, and equally astounded to see that he and all his men had escaped the stampede without harm.
The horses, wild with fear at the air filled with dust and with the horrific noise of bellowing beasts, reared and side-stepped, suddenly aware that they were trapped between the rising stone and earth and the terrifying stampede.
“Hold them now!” Blue yelled over the din, choking on the gritty air. “Hold them steady!”
The men controlled and soothed their mounts, and Avery coaxed his to awkwardly sidestep down the angle of the butte until he was level with the other riders, but still on the inside of them, shielded from the river of beasts that ran past them.
In another few seconds, the stampede was beyond them, leaving only hoofprints and the swirling clouds of yellow dust and the frightened horses and relieved riders behind.
The rumble of hooves faded and far away, but still within sight to the southeast, the stampede slowed, circled, and trailed away more slowly as the herd lost its fright and momentum. At the back of the herd, Avery could just make out a single, tall bull lingering as if to look back at them with reproof. It was a magnificent animal, even at this distance, and a powerfully built, handsome specimen of its kind if ever Avery had seen or judged one. He fancied it was the same bull that had watched them from the cliffs. Despite his fear, he found himself wishing the old bull well – a stranger he would never know.
A long silence followed, broken only by the cough of man or horse, and a few nervous chuckles and oaths.
“Dart,” Avery called at last. Every eye of that band of riders turned to him. He sat very still on his horse.
The red-bearded man faced his young master, and no one could say whether it was the nervous habit of his eyes which gave him his name, or else his consternation at having caused such a melee, that made him unable to hold Avery’s gaze.
“Next time,” Avery continued with level tone. “You will ask my permission before you draw your gun.”
“Yes, sir.”
A laugh broke from Blue. He was grinning and shaking his head, mud and dust dislodging from him as he moved. They were all a sight to behold, covered in layers of grime. “Well said, young Hutchinson,” Blue said with respect and the humor of one who has just escaped with his life. “Well said.”
fin (for now)
(p.s. I also don't know if Avery finds his missing horses, don't @ me.)
#oi#my writing#yeehawgust 2023#that was fun but i am so sleepy now#and i have to be up for work in six hours good niiiiiight#i'm quite happy with my choice of tall handsome stranger though
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Week two is over!
We are happy to see that we have four entries this week. Please check out the fics here:
The Funeral - Yalex, G, 780 words
A young man is observing a funeral, his sombre thoughts a harsh contrast to the bright day.
The Storm - Yalex, E, 3.9k
Alex is on a mission when everything seems to be going wrong. He can’t find what he needs, Yassen captures him and the weather outside seems to be getting worse…
Someone To Call - Ben Daniels & Alex Rider, G, 1k
When a snowstorm hits London in March, Brookland school are quick to be sent home however due to the conditions no one is allowed to leave alone putting Alex in a less than favourable position. With no other option he ends up having to call some old friends, however maybe that isn't such a bad thing.
or, there's a blizzard and K-Unit come to pick Alex up from school.
Clouds of Witnesses - Alex & Yassen, T, 5.1k
Alex's life only gets more difficult after his uncle Ian's body is found outside the village and he gets hauled off to a strange, underground prison.
Don't forget to vote for your favourite fic before the 12th of August!
#spyfest after dark#alex rider spyfest after dark#alex rider#week two#yalex#Ben Daniels & Alex Rider#Alex & Yassen
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Prairie Thunder
Another unbearably hot evening had come to the Floyd ranch, rendering everyone and everything miserable, including the critters. God, even the rooster wouldn’t crow in the morning nor would the cattle want to come away from the ponds. Everybody had been a disgusting, sweaty mess that reeked of b.o and horses, something that clung to them as though its life depended on it.
Bob let out a deep breath he had been holding in as he rubbed himself down with a rag that had been soaked in freezing cold water just a few minutes before. The cold shower had felt like heaven, washing away all that grime and grit that was just an everyday part of life.
He had ventured downstairs, everyone deep asleep, save for the eerie sound of an old slide guitar being played outside. Bob smiled and shook his head. Well, guess we all know who’s up at this ungodly hour.....he thought.
Out to the porch he went, his skin blasted by the lingering heat of the day as the cold of the house flew away from him. Sue enough, there was Joe, his fingers picking away at the old slide guitar that had been passed down from his great-grandfather.
“Still playin along to Elvis, Dad?”
Joe laughed a little and looked up at his son. “Heartbreak Hotel,” he said. “Remember when Grandpa Jack used to play that for you?”
Bob could hardly forget. “Like it was yesterday.”
Joe soon went back to picking away yet the tune was interrupted suddenly by the unnerving roll of thunder in the distance. A chill ran down Bob’s back, his arms and his neck. It wasn’t often that he felt unnerved by thunderstorms, in fact as a child he loved them. But there was something about tonight that was chilling.....even spooky.
Joe picked away at the guitar as Bob watched the black skies rolling in from the east, the music reminding him oddly enough of a story his grandfather had told him as a child. Joe’s voice melded together with the music and the thunder, deep, eerie and almost otherworldly.
“ An old cowboy went riding out
One dark and windy day
Upon a ridge he rested
As he went along his way
When all at once a mighty herd
Of red eyed cows he saw
Plowin' through the ragged skies
And up the cloudy draw
Their brands were still on fire
And their hooves were made of steel
Their horns were black and shiny
And their hot breath he could feel
A bolt of fear went through him
As they thundered through the sky
For he saw the riders coming hard
And he heard their mournful cry
Yippie-yi-o
Yippie-yi-yay
Ghost riders in the sky....”
Bob leaned against the porch post and seated himself with one leg hanging over the edge and the other drawn towards his chest. It wasn’t long before another crack of thunder was heard and Bob had begun to join his father, their voices becoming one with the music.
“ Their faces gaunt
Their eyes were blurred
Their shirts all soaked with sweat
He's riding hard to catch that herd
But he ain't caught 'em yet'
Cause they've got to ride forever
On that range up in the sky
On horses snorting fire
As they ride on, hear their cry
As the riders loped on by him
He heard one call his name
'If you wanna save your soul
From hell a-riding on our range
Then, cowboy, change your ways today
Or with us you will ride
Trying to catch the devil's herd
Across these endless skies
Yippie-yi-o
Yippie-yi-yay
Ghost riders in the sky
Ghost riders in the sky
Ghost riders in the sky”
The storm kept rolling in, the two men totally unafraid of its presence or power. Bob began to wonder if the thunder was really what it was, believing for a moment that the ghosts of every cowboy and Indian in history were riding across the dark skies, unseen by the naked eye. He wouldn’t doubt it. After all, the plains had a strange way of speaking to the soul.
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At the height of the biggest WAAAGHH!!! of all time, Grimgor invaded Cathay, crushing it under his boot. One of the many trophies the Git took was Miao Ying, the Storm Dragon, as his personal sex slave.
TW: rape
With a cruel laugh, Grimgor slammed Gitsnik into the last Cathayan in his way and watched as the man was cleaved nearly in two by this single strike, the soldier's body collapsing in seconds. The halberd fell to the floor in a clang, completely useless. Somewhere behind him, his Immortulz were in the process of butchering the last defenders as well. Nan-Gau was burning, scores of orcs running around, looting and killing, which was right entertaining.
The greatest threat of Cathays had not been the forces of Chaos held at bay by the Great Bastion, nor the Ogres of the Mountains of Mourn. No, the threat had come from further west, from something that none of Cathay's Astromancer had ever foreseen. Grimgor had formed the biggest WAAAGHH!!! he had ever seen and with him at its head, they had reduced Zharr-Naggrund to little more than rubble and piles of scrap metal, to be picked apart by the Greenskins for shiny loot, or good armour and choppas amidst the corpses of the hated big-hatted stunties. After the demise of the Chaos Dwarfs, the WAAGHH had turned east. Grimgor had fought in the Old World, and had killed countless normal dwarfs, Imperials, Border Princes, Savages Orcs... He had killed so many of that that he had turned his gaze east instead, towards places he had never rampaged through before. Towards something new and more interesting.
And so the WAAGHH had turned east, rampaging and pillaging through the Mountains of Mourn. Fighting off the huge ogres and their beasts, killing their Tyrants, gutting them, pillaging their loot hauls, eating them, sometimes. And the WAAGHH had made the Mountains green, before moving on. They had spilt out of the mountains into the Warpstone Desert where the Skaven dwelled, but the desert hadn't been fun. So instead they continued through the mountains and had eventually fallen into Cathay like a green, angry, mean and brutal avalanche.
The Cathayan had been a new foe, one that Grimgor had never fought before. They favoured crossbows and bows, and their warriors had spears and halberds for the most part. But fighting this new kind of warrior had been exciting to Grimgor. Really, really damn fun, even. Enough to keep him entertained during the weeks the war against Cathay had gone. Village after village, hundreds of peasants had died at Gitsnik's edge. Or bashed with the flat of its blade. Or had their brains crushed, bashed or punched by Grimgor's ists while he retried his axe from one of the war machines that had opposed Grimgor's army.
And after destroying so many villages and had moved on to bigger towns. More heavily defended forts, cities with warriors wearing actual good armour, that actually knew how to fight. From simple canons to weird magic chariots, strange flying horses, and even huge statues that came to life to murder the Orcs. Those moving statues had been very fun to fight. and there had been no bigger city, nor ones as heavily defended, as the fortress-factory of Nan-Gau. It had required him to actually think of a plan of attack beyond "order giants to smash the walls". But the greentide had prevailled. Orcs (and a handful of Goblins that Grimgor had to tolerate for their usefulness, as much as he smashed any that actually came within his sights) and some giant... the Greentide had breached the defense of Nan-gau, and had fought its army, killing hundreds, thousands even, of soldiers on the fields before the walls, on the walls themselves, and in the city. Each human refusing to give ground as the Orcs massacred them, but the ones that fled were not spared either, the boar or wolf riders making a sport out of hunting those defensless civilians. Grimgor himself had led the charge with his favourite Orcs, his "Immortulz" right behind him as they killed the most elite guards, the best armed soldiers, butchered the Longma riders that swooped in from the sky, until the entire city was engulfed in flames and chaos. The city had fallen, its factories ransoacked by enterprising Goblins, Orcs and trolls roaming the streets, defacing statues, killing civilians...
It didn't matter much to Grimgor now; the fighting was done, let the boyz have their fun and grab what they wanted, Grimgor would take the best prize for himself. Grinning, Grimgor approached the last enemy to be defeated, although this one he wouldn't kill.
"You dare, you filthy, disgusting, savage..." The Matriarch of Nan-Gau, Miao Ying, daughter of the Dragon Emperor, stood before him, body cackling with energy and electricity. "You will burn for you affront to the Emperor, and I will destroy you!"
Her regal and proud face was marred with rage as she gazed at Grimgor. Her body cackled with even more energy as she started floating above the ground, ready to transform into her awe-inspiring dragon form. She was going to destroy that Greenskin. She was going to smite him, to destroy his very soul, to...
Energy fizzled out as she felt something around her neck. She had been quick, but Grimgor had been quicker. The enormous Orc had ran to her and clasped a collar around her neck, tackling her to the ground in the same move, pinning her under him as his ugly face snarled at her.
The collar was an ugly, dark thing. One of obsidian incrusted with warpstone. A trinket plundered from Zharr-Naggrund, used by the chaos dwarfs to bind demons to the material world and enslave them. Grimgor had picked it up, remembering the rumours about "huge dragon-lizards" in Cathay, and had slapped it around Miao Ying's neck just in time.
It was made to bind powerful demons. Greater Demons, even, to make them compliant and non-dangerous, and the Storm Dragon was no different. She tried to grab the collar, to shatter it with her magic, with her strength. But the collar held on. Hands that had enough strength to bend swords in halves, coursing with magic powerful enough to explode the head of a Norscan warrior, did nothing to the collar of dark obsidian around her neck. Worse, the magic was absorbed by the warpstone embedded in the dark metal.
For the first time in centuries, panic, terror even, invaded Miao Ying's mind. She was apparently robbed of her power, in her weak human form, and face to face with an ugly, filthy, angry brute that outweighted her, was taller than her, and stronger than her. She weakly reached out, to try to push him away, to scamper away to her feet as her eyes darted around for help...
There was no help. This plaza was empty of anyone living, only Miao Ying, the cropses of massacrd cathayan, and Grimgor.
Grimgor Ironhide, who now had something other than pure anger and violence in his gaze as his eyes ran up and down the woman's body. Something that she had seen plenty of times before and found disgusting, especially now that it was coming from an ugly beast like him : Lust.
"You cannot be thinking..." Her voice was haughty and shocked, but there was a hint of fear within. He was a strong orc, and thanks to that collar, she was nearly as mighty as a normal human woman.
But he was. He absolutely was thinking about her beautiful body in such a lustful way. His knee, nearly as huge as her entire head was, pinned her thigh to the stone floor, making her unable to move as his brutish hands darted. Clothing that had been made by the finest tailors of Wei-Jin to be as gorgeous as comfortable, the fruit of years of labour by the greatest craftsmen, was unceremoniously ripped to shred by the orc brute in an instant. Miao Ying was powerless to stop him, her hands being barely more than annoyances to the towering Greenskin.
That damn collar made her weak, his wieght on her made escape impossible, and no help would be coming.
She became acutely aware that Grimgor was fumbling with his own armour as well, especially the lower half, as his enormous hands let go of her for a moment. She could have used that opportunity to make another attempt at escape, at kicking him, at pushing him... but she didn't. Instead, her entire body was frozen in fear as she watched the tall Orc deftly remove the armour plates protecting his groin. Not with any gentleness, but with rroe care than he had put destroyign miao Ying's own garnments. In a matter of seconds, the dark plate was thrown a short distance away, and there was nothing (of course there wouldn't be anything, were Greenskins even civilized enough for loincloths?). Nothing beyond the heavy mass that smacked against the dragon lady with a meaty "thump" and almost knocked the wind out of her: Grimgor's ccok and balls.
The only word that came to Miao ying's mind as she stared at them was: bigger.
Grimgor's cock was bigger than any she had taken in her life. Not a single one of the hundreds of human subjects that had had the honour of pleasuring her through the millenia had packed a cock that was even a fourth as long as the monstruous member that had slammed against her torso, nearly knocking the wind out of her. None had been even a fifth as thick, the gargantuan Greenskin cock easily as large as her thigh. As for his balls... each of Grimgor's testicle was nearly the size of Miao Ying's head, and even as they simply rested against her thighs, she could feel them rumbling, producing endless virile cum. And the smell! The sheer stench of grimgor's cock made the daughter of the Dragon Emperor want to vomit.
"G...get away from me, you filthy beast!" she weakly spat. The collar had done its job, and not only did she not have any actual strength to fight back anymore, but even her words were uncertain, empty of the haughty pride she usually carried herself with.
The only reply Grimgor gave her was a brutish, cruel laugh, followed by a simple sentence, one that Miao ying somehow understood even spoken in the barbaric tongue of the Greenskins:
"Got myself a nice trophy slave 'ere."
Before she could speak further, he had drawn his hips back. miao Ying felt his thick monstercock slide off her stomach, leaving a disgusting trail of rank... something. Pre-cum, mixed in with disgusting sweat, smegma, and who knew what else, the stench of which burned at her nostrils.
With a terrified shudder, she felt and saw his huge cocktip rub against her cunt, trying to force an entrance that wasn't possible, to stretch her outer lips, to open her more than was possible. With an annoyed grunt, Grimgor grabbed her waist, and slammed his cock inside her, shoving his inhumanely huge dick inside her cunt. In an instant, Miao Ying was in more pain than she had ever felt before, Grimgor's cock so huge it felt like she would tear in half. And yet, her body held on as she howled in pain, as her face took an expression of shock and suffering no one had ever seen from her before. Grimgor's only reaction was another brutish laugh, and to start actually fucking her.
The pain did not diminish in the slightest as the cock that was rapign her literally reshaped her guts, shook her to her very soul. Her eyes, now fearful and swelling with tears, dared look down, and she immediately regretted it. There, stretched more than it had any right to, her stomach was... moving. She could see the shape of the orc's cock moving below her skin as clearly as if her body wasn't there. She could see it move through her, violate her very womb, so thick and huge it left no inch of her pussy untouched, unmolested. Her entire insides were now just a toy for Grimgor Ironhide.
And the orc grunted in pleasure, clearly enjoying himself, finding her semi-divine pussy to his liking at he raped her, as he thrust, her body treated as nothing more than a fleshlight for that hyper cock. For the dick of the biggest and meanest orc ever. Miao Ying's pain did not subside, even as the minutes piled on and Grimgor enjoyed himself more and more. Even when his free hand grabbed at her breasts, it was without any regards for her pleasure, or even for her well-being at all, and only for Grimgor's enjoyment as he grunted in pleasure.
When he finally came, it was with a loud, triumphant roar, as he shot his cum with enough force to bruise her, leaving another mark of her defeat on her womb, as she was flooded with gallons of disgusting orc semen.
But at least it was over. Grimgor had used her, had defiled her, and now he would finally end her. Even if she felt even more pain as he removed his cock, leaving her gaping. Even if her last vision would be of the orc's digusting green cock, dripping with his own cum and her juices he had forced out of her. at least now her suffering would end. Miao Ying closed her eyes, the thought that had made that brutal rape somewhat bearable fully blooming in her mind: it's done, it's over now. She closed her eyes, eager for Grimgor's axe to finally end it.
Instead, his hand closed around her throat and he effortlessly lifted her.
"Gonna keep her for a bit, still fun to use." he declared.
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Standing on her hand she felt her balancing on the top of the tower as she watched the bedraggled procession below. On Grove 1, the Human Shop, a suit wearing man with a bubbled helmet and turnip shaped hair wandered below. Among him wandered a blowfish-man and a woman. Both wore thick iron collars around their necks with chains leading to the mans hand. His ridiculous suit and hair declared him one of the World Nobles. A guttural growl erupted from her throat as she felt the fur erupt all over her skin. Light white fur covered in black dappling. And it required all of her strength to not unleash her Devil Fruit.
---
Hey guys, to fight away my depression I decided to delve back into One Piece, and Holy Shit, I finally made it through Saobody! So clarify unlike before I will not be doing a Saga wide plot review, instead I'm going to write out my thoughts on the arcs I watch as I recharge further from this past summers assortment of shows. Yes, I will be doing Andor, but it will be a bit for me to work up to it!
Now, going straight into Saobody the reappearance of Hatchin was a nice touch. Camie while kind of ditzy was such a damn lovable character! Papagu as a sort of foolish rasta hat wearing sartfish only took the cake. This series is all about the high level absurdism that is in this series. We go from just a wandering lost Mermaid to flying motorcycle fish.
But I digress.
As the team leaves Thriller Bark they find themselves right at the wall of rock that is the Redline. A massive line of mountains (as best as we can describe it) that encircle the entirety of the world. It is the Redline and the strange Grand Line Ocean which split the One Piece world into the Four Blues. So seeing it in person outside of Reverse Mountain is pretty amazing. Now switching back to Camie, her lead up with the Macro Gang and the Flying Fish Riders was more slapstick than actual fight. Learning that a lowly shitty gangster had his life ruined by a bad art piece of Sanji is pretty hilarious in a way.
But what took the cake of this mini-arc was Luffy defeating Duval with just a glance. A great lead in to Haki (which was see earlier in the series with Skypeia and the meet up between Shanks and Whitebeard). We get an idea of how these folks wanted to kidnap Camie as a get-rich-quick scheme. But as we pop in Saobody we get a really taste of the horror of the World Nobles. A man, Devil Dias, escapes only to die as his collar explodes. Later said World Nobles appear and shoot the man because dared to run away and demand to see his family again. What is truly horrific about this scene is how no one moves to heavily Dias. They all ignore him and shudder in terror knowing that the Nobles can enslave them on the spot without question.
In this world, the World Government, treats its ultra-rich bubble helmet suit wearing Nobles as "Gods". They're even called "Celestial Dragons", a pretty apt allegory for the uber rich. Any billionaire in this day and age could easily be any one of the Rosewards. When Camie is kidnapped I was horrified as the auction scene became the next focus. Even with Handsome Duval (yes I'm using this title sarcastically) and his crew offering some light humor, there's nothing light about it.
So, we get everyone but the Monster Trio in to save Camie and as the slaves are sold she finally almost has a chance to be saved. Nami has a plan! Using every single ounce of treasure from their last big score they'll save her. Too bad that one of the fucking Dragons decides to just bid on her with 500 million! This scene raises the despair of this particular arc, and as all hell breaks lose Luffy and the rest of his top fighters storm the hall only to raise the stakes. Hatchin jumps in and ends up getting shot in only what can be described as a blatant racist show of the terrible humans of One Piece!
Seeing Luffy punch Charlos Roseward into the ground was damn satisfying just as it was for someone to land on his shitty father. And when all seems lost a literal fucking legend pops up to save them all! Yeah, this Arc really just as dramatic as any other. Back on topic, what we see here is a pretty lengthy combat scene where the Strawhats are driven to the brink. It's only a matter of time before they break! In this island archipelago of wondrous bubbles and massive mangroves, the very amusement park is just a trap for traffickers.
Now, almost immediately after Rayleigh dismisses everyone in a singular moment we get just a singular reprieve. With an episode Admiral Kizaru appears along with the Pacifista. As the Strawhats try to run they are picked off one by one. Each of the Kuma cyborg clones easily takes out members of the Worst Generation as they wield the light of the Pika Pika no Mi. This sudden change from quiet to the increasing despair of the end of this arc was bone chilling.
Watching Kizaru stand over both Zoro and later Sanji ready to kill them as, damn. We almost get a sense of triumph just before the Pacifistas are told to step aside by the real Kuma. As he uses his Paw Paw powers to sent the Strawhats away we see Luffy losing it bit by bit. Every bit of safety and support he's built for years is being carved away. No matter how good the Strawhats think they are, they cannot defeat a fucking admiral.
Conclusion
This Arc is a start up for the Summit War, a story about how you can't always win. That the Bad Guys can and will outthink the hero and that yes, you an't save everyone. I know the end of this story, but I want to experience first hand so I wrote this as a separate piece for my thoughts on the Saga. I plan on doing Amazon Lily and Impel Down soon, but for now this is all the energy I have in me!
Hottakes:
The Rosey Riders sans Flying FIsh Riders are a ridiculous crew. I adore them.
Kizaru is a fucking genocidal asshole only matched by Akainu
I like how they really pushed how dangerous Haki is in this especially with Sentomarou using it to hurt Luffy.
Elon Musk is a fucking Celestial Dragon.
This Arc makes me hate the World Government More.
I hardcore ship Sanji and Zoro now for some damn reason, probably because I read a Trans Sanji story!
Nami is amazing, I loved how she's mastering her weather powers.
Sanji firing away in futile attempts against Kizaru just made me want to sob as he wanted to defend his friends.
The scene where Luffy recalled his hardest memories with his crew made me cry so damn hard.
#mugiwraa#strawhat pirates#strawhat crew#one piece#one piece anime#monkey d. luffy#luffy#boa hancock#kuja#amazon lily arc#anime#animanga#manga#lgbt#lgbtqia#lesbian#gay#bisexual#transgender#queer#intersex#ace#asexual#trans
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RULES: Post the first lines of your last 10 fics posted to AO3. (Sort by date posted.) If you have less than 10 fics posted, post what you have.
Hah, thanks for tagging me, sweetie! @12romy 💜
Mockingbird
Lewis/Charles, F1
Lewis is behaving strangely, Charles thinks, barely meets him at the 2022 pre-season tests. Charles doesn't know what's going on and is afraid to find out.
2. Portuguese Sun
Pecco/Fabio, Luca/Alex Marquez, Aleix/Pol, MotoGP
tiny drabbles inspired by the Portuguese Grand Prix
3. Tenth Symphony
Pierre/Lewis, Kimi/Seb, Valtteri/Guanyu
AU: Lewis is a mafia boss, and Pierre is a musician.
Drabble collection.
4. Write sins
Pecco/Fabio, Marc/Valentino, MotoGP
A collection of small works in demonic-au, where Fabio is a demon, Valentino is Satan, and Pecco is his son.
5. Tell me about the future
Lewis/Charles, F1
They live in a really strange world, in which every child comes with a prediction of their own fate. A small message, a promise of the future, usually appears in early childhood, the first or second year of life, and for everyone it is very special and individual. The prediction can be long, some have convinced that their prophecy is like a poem, or maybe in a few words, but it necessarily has a deep meaning.
Lewis gets his prediction in a year and a half, and for the first time he sees about five years and at first he can't believe it himself. Lewis's prediction consists of one tiny ink squiggle and says: "1".
6. this year I wanna be with you
Lewis/Pierre, F1
Lewis was here by accident. Stuck with thousands of other people two days before the new year at airports, while the entire Cote d'Azur is shackled by storms and storms. Lewis didn't feel much stress from the delay of his flight, although it wasn't pleasant. He had already celebrated Christmas with his family and spent the whole week before the new year on trips around Europe, finishing the remaining cases, without any haste thinking that he could have time to fly to his family at the ski resort by the 31st.
OR: Lewis and Pierre were stuck together at Monaco airport on New Year's Eve. Lots of flirting.
7. Trust me with your secret
Marc/Vale, MotoGP
For racing, they all wear special clothes, ironically nicknamed cases, which covered their wings, tightly pressing them to the body. The rest of the riders took off these cases, barely got off their motorcycles. But Marc never took off the clothes hiding his wings, it seems, and Vale was seriously wondering if this would change when Mark arrived at the ranch.
Just a drabble where people have wings. Marc and Valentino are still racers
8. For good luck
Yassine Bounou/Dominik Livacovic, Football
Unexpected night meeting of two goalkeepers in the same hotel, talk about semifinals and luck
9. Death's on my doorstep (I won't open the door)
F1
A collection of drabbles about survival in the zombie apocalypse.
A zombie-hostel is trying to arrange life in a new world. Characters and parts will be added :)
10. I bet my life
Lewis/Max, F1
It's a terrible cliché that Max would hate, if he had the chance, but the last he remembers before the impact is the pungent smell of burnt tires and gasoline. And then only pain.
He’s waiting for the familiar darkness that saves him from acute unbearable pain, waiting for his body to give up and his consciousness to slip away, but for some reason the darkness doesn’t come. Instead, he feels through the pain a soft touch on his shoulder and gentle hands carefully lifting him out of the cockpit with such ease as if he weighed nothing, as if his body was not wrapped in safety belts and tightly clamped by twisted metal.
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