laughing storm

With the faltering of the Laughing Storm’s smile and his hiss of pain, Aerion’s mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. His dagger didn’t waver. It was pressed close enough that Aerion could feel the Laughing Storm’s pulse, steady as a war drum. The tent had fallen deathly quiet, with only the sound of the fires burning. “There’s never enough blood to honour the dragon.” Aerion said, his bruised eye throbbing and every breath feeling like a stab in his ribs. The Hedge Knight had hurt him more than Aerion would ever admit, but this was about honour. They’d all heard the whispers. There were those who had whispered that the realm was better with one less dragon in the world. Others celebrated, raising a glass in honour of the Hedge Knight. Celebrating the man who caused all of this.

𝖙𝖍𝖊  𝖉𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖗  𝖇𝖎𝖙𝖊𝖘  𝖆  𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖑𝖊  𝖉𝖊𝖊𝖕𝖊𝖗  as  lyonel  shifts  ever-so-slightly,  features  twitching  with  a  coiled  energy,  barely  restrained.  still,  though,  the  storm  lord  forces  himself  into  stillness  (  an  unnatural  thing,  for  him  ).  a  deliberate  easing  of  his  posture,  shoulders  lowering  as  much  as  they  are  able  to  considering  his  own  injuries,  and  the  twisted  position  aerion  has  pinned  him  in.  amber  hues  flicker  across  the  prince's  face  as  he  leans  closer  —  that  sneering  smile,  that  bruised  and  bloodied  eye  (  serves  him  right,  the  little  cunt,  he  deserves  it  )  —  still,  the  stag  schooled  his  own  expressions  into  something  unnaturally  stoic.  if  aerion  is  trying  to  provoke  him  …  expecting  heat,  fury  and  outrage  …  well,  lyonel  certainly  isn't  going  to  give  him  the  satisfaction  of  it. 

❝  aye.  ❞  the  storm  lord  responds,  voice  low.  no  tremor,  no  challenge,  just  a  simple  solid  truth.  ❝  I  saw  him.❞ he  recalls  the  way  ser  duncan  lay  slumped  against  the  elm  like  a  corpse  already,  while  lyonel's  own  maester  poked  and  prodded  at  his  wounds,  gave  his  grim  diagnosis.  he  will  be  fine,  the  storm  lord  had  resolved  …  he  prays  hopes.  but  aerion  doesn't  need  to  hear  all  that,  instead  he  simply  offers  the  prince  a  steady  tone,  almost  infuriatingly  even; 

❝  the  gods  will  do  as  they  will.❞  he  has  to  resist  the  urge  to  shrug,  lest  he  press  too  close  to  the  blade  still  pointed  at  his  throat.

                      Hands  gather  skirts,  blood  smears  the  delicate  silk  of  her  gown.  Heart  pumps  in  her  chest  so  hard  she  thinks  it  might  burst  out,  leaving  an  even  bloodier  mess  in  her  wake.  Feet  pad  against  the  stone  steps,  nearly  tripping  on  her  way  up.  Chest  rises  as  she  sucks  in  a  breath  and  suddenly  her  corset  feels  too  tight  to  breathe  and  panic  sets  in  as  eyes  search  for  the  only  person  she  thinks  would  even  remotely  care.  Holly  hopes  she's  not  wrong  about  that.

𝖋𝖔𝖗  𝖆  𝖒𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙  𝖙𝖍𝖊  𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒  𝖑𝖔𝖗𝖉  𝖉𝖔𝖊𝖘𝖓’𝖙  𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓  𝖗𝖊𝖌𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗  𝖜𝖍𝖔  𝖍𝖆𝖘  𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊  𝖈𝖗𝖆𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌  𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖔  𝖍𝖎𝖘  𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗𝖘,  only  the  violence  of  the  sudden  interruption  -  the  way  that  the  heavy  door  slams  against  the  wall,  the  shaking  sound  of  someone’s  breath  breaking  apart.  lyonel  is  on  his  feet  in  an  instant,  chair  scraping  sharply  across  the  floor,  every  instinct  snapped  taut  like  a  bowstring.  brows  furrow  tight  in  confusion  as  amber  gaze  flickers  over  her. he  sees  the  blood,  the  ruined  silk  of  her  skirts,  and  the  way  she’s  pressed  herself  back  against  the  door  like  she’s  holding  it  shut  against  wolves.

❝   holly…⁈ ❞  it  comes  out  rough,  startled,  almost  sounding  too  loud  in  the  tense  air  betwixt  them.  the  storm  lord  flies  forward  towards  her,  hands  half-raised  like  he’s  afraid  any  sudden  movement  might  shatter  her  further.

❝   what— ❞  his  voice  breaks,  resets  to  something  immeasurably  softer.  concern  lacing  his  tone.  ❝   what  happened?  are  you  hurt⁇ ❞  he’s  already  scanning  her,  dark  amber  eyes  darting  over  her  arms,  her  throat,  her  hands,  searching  for  the  source  of  the  blood.  his  breath  stutters  for  a  second  when  he  doesn’t  immediately  find  it.  for  a  brief  moment  panic  flickers  across  his  features  —  not  anger  or  accusation,  just  raw  fear  —  that  is  not  her  blood.  the  wild  look  is  gone  almost  as  soon  as  it  appears  on  his  features.  his  jaw  locks,  shoulders  squaring  into  something  steady  as  reason,  training,  and  that  ingrained  instinct  to  protect  first,  panic  later  takes  over,  his  jaw  sets  in  a  firm  line.

❝   look  at  me— ❞  his  tone  soft,  warm  and  steady,  despite  the  way  his  own  pulse  is  hammering  as  he  attempts  to  catch  her  gaze  with  his  own.  he  doesn’t  touch  her  first  —  he  won’t  risk  startling  her  —  but  steady  hands  hover  near  her  elbows,  ready  to  catch  her  if  her  knees  give  out.

 ❝  —whose  blood  is  this? ❞  he  almost  doesn’t  want  to  know  ...

for all the muses out there who like to mess with others!! mainly meant for platonic relationships, but can be used for romantic & antagonistic relationships as well! feel free to modify any pronouns, descriptor words, & objects for your needs!

FROM THE LITTLE SHIT.

words. ❝ how'd you like the fake spider in your room? ❞ ❝ hang on a second, i'm gonna record this — ❞ ❝ i took 20 bucks out of your bag last night. ❞ ❝ alright, that's it, time for the tickle monster treatment! ❞ ❝ oh, yeah? and what are you gonna do about it? ❞ ❝ i think i might have accidentally just hurt myself again. ❞ ❝ what makes you think you can possibly take me? ❞ ❝ outta the way, i was here first! ❞ ❝ sorry, i lost that a little while ago. ❞ ❝ hey, come on! it was just a prank! ❞ ❝ i'm seriously thinking about forcing that secret out of you. ❞ ❝ wait, did YOU say you wanted the last piece of pie in the fridge? 'cause i kinda just ate it ... ❞

actions. [ SING ] — sender starts singing raunchy lyrics around receiver [ WRESTLE ] — sender attempts to start play-fighting with receiver [ FINGER ] — sender flips receiver the bird [ LAUGH ] — sender tries to make receiver laugh [ LEAN ] — sender puts their full weight on receiver [ COLD ] — sender puts their cold fingers under receiver's shirt [ DRIVE ] — sender begins to drive very fast with receiver in the car with them [ FOOD ] — sender steals a bite of receiver's food when they're not looking [ BLANKET ] — sender pulls receiver's blanket off them while they're half-asleep [ PRANK ] — sender pulls a prank on receiver (bonus points if a type of prank is specified!)

FOR THE LITTLE SHIT.

words. ❝ hey, stop that! ❞ ❝ careful, i just got that new furniture. ❞ ❝ okay, okay, i'll do anything, just please stop tickling me ... ! ❞ ❝ god, you're such an asshole! ❞ ❝ i swear, if you do that one more time ... ❞ ❝ i didn't actually think it was that funny. ❞ ❝ aw, dammit, you broke it! ❞ ❝ you can't go 24 hours without having some kind of accident, huh? ❞ ❝ you just cheated! i watched you! ❞ ❝ if you even think about messing with me today, i will end you. ❞ ❝ are you drunk or something? because that was some of the weirdest shit i've ever heard. ❞ ❝ okay, i won't lie, that was actually pretty funny. ❞

𝖆  𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖐  𝖔𝖋  𝖆  𝖑𝖆𝖚𝖌𝖍  𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖊𝖘  𝖙𝖍𝖊  𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒  𝖑𝖔𝖗𝖉  —  a  short,  sharp  sound  rumbling  forth  with  glee.  he  tilts  his  head  back  with  it,  bares  a  flash  of  teeth,  pearlescent  and  white,  as  he  grins  at  the  prince.  it  is  a  fair  observation  ...  the  stag  is  so  often  a  swirling  gale  of  noise,  merriment  and  jest.  a  bold,  bright  soul.  impossible  to  ignore.

❝  aye,  I  do  not  believe  in  living  quietly.❞  the  lord  concedes  with  a  hum  and  a  nod.  he  leans  in,  letting  his  shoulder  knock  playfully  against  maekar’s  own.  a  gesture  entirely  too  friendly,  lacking  all  the  proper  ceremony  one  should  give  to  a  prince  of  the  blood.  lyonel  doesn’t  seem  to  care.  he  is  still  smirking,  a  wild  and  mischievous  glint  in  those  dark  eyes.

❝  my  dear  prince,  the  storm  never  breaks  in  my  company.  I  am  its  roar,  it’s  breath,  its  fury.  I  am  the  storm  itself  ‼  ❞   it’s  a  short  but  indulgent  speech,  offered  with  a  cheeky  wink  and  a  proud  stance.  shoulders  squared,  chest  held  strong  ...  all  posture  and  bravado.  even  when  the  tempest  eases,  what  is  left  in  its  wake  is  a  bold  stag.  sovereign  of  stone  peaks  and  shadowed  forest,  a  regal  creature  in  its  own  right,  bearing  a  crown  of  antlers  with  effortless,  ancestral  authority.