* BURN THEIR BANNERS.

ind. pr. multimuse, featuring robb stark, margot verger, & danny torrance. written by salen. currently on hiatus.

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Deprivation had long since passed the mere pain of hunger. It seemed as though the slightest movement could bring stars to his eyes and throw his balance. For the last three nights, he lay on his side next to March, doubled over in agony, listening to the thrumming of the man's blood in his veins. In the throes of a fit like that that very evening, he was collapsed on the floor before the fireplace, seeking comfort in its warmth and numb to the tears that shone on his cheeks.

A cup of tea was untouched on the mantle. Nothing worked anymore. He couldn't wait anymore.

The front door opened and shut. Footsteps rushed across the floor, vibrating through the wood, rattling Cyrus' teeth. A hand on his arm turned him over like a corpse; he'd always been pale, it was in his nature to be pale, but dark circles surrounding blue eyes on the backdrop of pallid skin resembled death itself. Dark hair clung to his forehead, droplets of sweat between haphazard strands.

"What's happened to you?" March demanded. Cyrus' eyes blinked open and struggled to focus, and March shook him gently, chest constricted by fear as he choked out the words a second time. "Gods, what's happened to you?"

"Please," Cyrus whispered, and a hand rose to grasp his lover's sleeve. "I need to eat."

His lips were parted as he was pulled up, cradled in March's arms, each pointed fang unconcealed, unmistakable. March's eyes widened, the flickers of his gaze too minute to be seen as he counted them, and counted them again. One, two, three, four. He recoiled. Met Cyrus' pleading eyes, looked down once more. One, two, three, four.

"You're a monster."

"You knew."

One, two, three, four.

March shook his head. Recoiling further, Cyrus' firm grasp tangled in the fabric of his sleeve helped him sit up, and he leaned forward, closer to that fragile layer of skin separating him from the sweet smell of blood inside.

"You knew," the vampire repeated, fresh tears blurring his vision. "You always knew. You.. you turned away from it. You ignored my cold hands."

"No."

"You never asked when I left in the dead of night and returned before dawn."

"No." March's voice broke.

"You loved me anyway."

"You lied to me!"

He stood then, and Cyrus' hands fell to the floorboards, pushing himself up on his knees. "I did this for you," the creature sobbed. The ache in the pit of his stomach twisted itself into a deep, searing cramp. He clutched at it, balling his shirt up in a tight fist. "I'm starving. What would you have me do?"

Looking down at him, March clenched his jaw and swallowed thickly through the tightness in his throat.

"Go on, then. Go on and starve."

Without the stomach to watch the death he'd wished upon his former love, he turned towards the door, and had made up his mind to inform the church long before he'd reached it. They would believe he was innocent. The devil wore many faces, and whispered only the sweetest words. A whisper from Cyrus' lips at that moment threw forward a burst of overwhelming heat, fire springing up from those old wooden floorboards in a wall that March quickly drew his hand back from, away from the doorknob.

"You can't do this!" Cyrus cried. The flames spread along the wall in each direction. Heat turned March's terrified expression red and danced in the reflections of his eyes as he turned back to him, watched him drag himself to his wavering feet. "You loved me!"

"You're a monster!" March screamed over the roar of the fire. The glass windows shattered behind him. Stumbling forward, Cyrus reached for him, hands grasp finding his shirt once again, already wrinkled by his touch. He could feel the man's frantic heartbeat and the rush of blood in his veins. The smell drove a dagger into his empty stomach.

He opened his mouth, and there were his fangs. One, two, three, four.

The man with whom he'd shared his bed, his cold embrace, and every ounce of affection he held for a species abhorred by his very existence screamed and writhed in Cyrus' hold, weak, but still too strong for March to escape. Hunger and rage tore his throat open, warm blood spattering the vampire's tear-streaked face. He bit and ripped and fed until the body was ashen grey, face contorted by fear and pain, and the home they'd shared was engulfed in flame.

Cyrus was stronger than he'd been in weeks by the time he left the burning tomb, a cloud of smoke risen in the dark sky. But his stomach ached for more.

You're a monster, March's voice rang in his ears over the sound of the crackling fire. Go on and starve. He followed the path into town, toward the sound of men who'd spotted the smoke and were coming to help. If it was such a sin to survive, then there was no point in pretending he was good.

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seong - jin  ‘cyrus’  al.bright  +  modern     ➣   moodboard

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quietly adds cyrus al.bright to this blog 

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Jealous

otherwise known as some pointless cyrus/olberic fluff, because no one else was doing it 

“Do you think of him still?”  Their eyes don’t meet. It isn’t an accusation, isn’t pointed enough to be, but with time, Olberic has learned of Cyrus’ ability — admirable, at times, and irritating at others — to mask himself behind a tone of idle intrigue. He’d overheard Tressa wonder aloud whether or not the professor was capable of anger; he’d not replied, but Olberic knows any man with a tempest at his fingertips must know how it feels to rage as one.  “I have spent many years living in my past,” the warrior answers steadily. “No longer.”  “He’s not in the past anymore,” comes that level remark, and at last, Cyrus’ sharp blue eyes peer at the other man from over the top of his book. To that, Olberic has no reply.  Two full moons have passed since the night they spent lying in the grass beneath the stars, avoiding the noise of the tavern in favour of each other’s company until the small hours of the morning. Two full moons have passed since Olberic spoke of the ghosts of his past that had lived on only in his regrets until then. The nights that have gone by since meeting one of those ghosts in the flesh are far fewer. Erhardt is no longer a question, a figure in the shadows of dreams, a traitor disappeared like the dust he’d helped turn Hornburg into — now he was only a man who’d found a new purpose, not a stone’s throw from the one Olberic had searched for. And his stature, his swordplay, and the ease with which he’d fallen shoulder to shoulder with his old friend again has left Cyrus with an unfamiliar feeling tightening his chest.  “Your story is coming to an end.” There is no curiosity in Cyrus’ voice this time. Only something small and melancholy that makes Olberic settle a hand over one of the scholar’s legs that had come to drape over his lap while he read and gently squeeze. “Will you join him in Wellspring when it’s over?”  The warrior breathes in slow. “No,” he answers on the exhale, and the tightness in Cyrus’ chest drops to the pit of his stomach as he watches the man’s features, the way the muscles in his cheeks stand out when he clenches his jaw so. “There are enough good men on Wellspring’s front lines. And Erhardt..”  The name lingers in the silence that falls between them.  “Erhardt has no use for me now.”  Slender fingers replace the bookmark between the pages before him as Cyrus sets his book aside. He moves into Olberic’s lap, the warrior’s hands settling on his hips with ease, Cyrus’ raised to cup his cheeks. The pad of his thumb brushes affectionately across stubbled skin, and he closes the gap between them with a delicate kiss on the lips.  “Sir Olberic,” the scholar murmurs in the brief moment they part for a breath, “I need you.” 

[daughters-ofwinterfell]

House Stark // Gangsters AU

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so .. what if i were to be ... toying with the idea of a group rp discord server set in a historical / fantasy type world? similar to thrones but not restricted to thrones characters? 

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darysvoljes·:

                   he  harbored  no   TRUE   love  for  winterfell.  and  whilst  it  had  a  lot  to  do  with  the  people,  rather  than  the  place  itself;   DESPITE   him  not  loving  it,  somehow  lannister  soldiers  all  around   felt  as  if  they  were  defacing  that  place  he  grew  up  in.  and  even  if  those  moments  were   RARE,  he  still  felt  an  odd  notion  of  wanting  to  protect  this  land.

                               and   MAYBE   he  will , but  not   HERE.

❛ i  hear  the  dwarf  will  go. ❜     he  speaks,  arrow  falling  back  into  the  pile  of  others.  elbows  resting  on  hi s thighs,  eyes  still  wandering  instead  of  meeting  Robb’s.     ❛ you  think  lady  Stark  would  allow  you  to  travel  with  bastards  and  dwarfs? ❜

         words   STING.  calling  himself  like  that.  but…  what  was  that  that  the  lannister  told  him?  wear  it  proudly?  jon  was  far  away  from  being   ABLE   to,  but  he  knew  there  was  no  escaping  it  if  he  chooses  to  follow  the  path  he’s  taking.     ❛ aye,  it’s  cold.  but  i  suppose  i’ll  be  spending  less  time   SITTING   around  and  more  swinging  a  sword. ❜

                    ‘ lady stark hasn’t as much hold over me as she’d like to argue, these days, ’  he replies, and those icy blues he shares with the lady of the house wander back toward their stronghold, wondering if hers are scanning the trees through the window in bran’s room. no, his parents had raised him loyal, but they’d also raised him strong, and there were little instances in which the present robb stark would listen to anyone who tried to tell him no.                     boyish smile had faded into lips pressed into a tight line. he felt responsible, in part, for the venom infused into that title, bastard. even as he loved his brother, he could never pretend himself to be entirely innocent of using it against him, when petty arguments drove them to throw any punch they could muster. how often had he called the boy by the name snow?                     ‘ and, well, between bastards, dwarfs, and noblemen, there’s at least one i’d take over all the rest. ’                      a lord himself in the north, he’d traveled elsewhere with his father and felt ill - suited to the mannerisms of nobility beyond their borders. wolves are wolves, no matter their status.                      ‘ then we’ll spar next time we meet. see if you can finally best me. ’

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robb slept on jon’s bedroom floor every single night while jon was sick with the pox. catelyn had ned carry him back to his own bed six times before they both had to give in to the fact that no amount of guards or locks at his door could deter him from staying with his brother. 

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[...] but who cares look at my hat 

[robbsource]

The King in the North 

The King of Big Dick Energy

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thisbecoming:

Francis watches the colour drain, the wobbly stance and the quivering hand clutched to a clammy forehead. The orderly had been much more composed before Grandmother’s passing   –   even humourous. But there is no trace of humour, now.

                    “ Does… it drain you?   ”   Having pocketed teeth, and signed off as the next of kin before collecting the paperwork needed to register the death, Francis follows Dan. The two of them headed towards the front office, with Azreel coiling between their ankles along the way, sticking close by Francis all along with yellow eyes set on the pocket containing teeth.

                    When they reach reception, Francis collects the last of the paperwork. No autopsy required, no medical certificate. Dan’s signature and his own are all he cares to collect, no matter how much Grandmother has left behind. Francis had needed many things from her. Money had never been one of them. 

                    the feeling isn’t supposed to follow him out of the room. neither is azreel. the young woman behind the desk at reception glances up from her computer monitor, catches a glimpse of torrance’s sickly pallor, and promptly disappears into the staff kitchen to set a pot of coffee brewing. he leans heavily against the front desk while she’s gone.                      ‘ it does, ’  he answers, though he keeps to himself the addition that it’s never drained him so terribly before. it buzzes like a fly on the inside of his skull. dan isn’t one for prayer, but he’ll utter a please to anyone who will listen if it means francis’ grandmother won’t stay with him, crawling and humming and toothless.                      the tremor in his hands is stifled by his firm grip on the mug his coworker offers him when she returns. he murmurs something about a smoke break, leaves his signature on the last page of francis’ stack of documents, and pushes through rivington’s heavy front doors, azreel following contentedly behind. 

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starliingisms:

"Now, normally I wouldn’t say an honest man wouldn’t beworried about the FBI investigating them, and while it’s mostly true, there’vebeen cases.” That family loyalty should have been ingrained with her, butClarice had been parted for too long and betrayed too many times, “Butthis time I might be tempted.”

She watches the creature slink and slither, the endless loopthat reminds her of Ouroboros; her words are too arrogant, and she knows it.There are politics involved within the FBI and this place, greased with prestigeand money.

Maybe that’s why she turns to the subject so quickly,“I’m planning on getting one, though they’re not my most favorite. Icouldn’t afford my favorite.” A wry smile on her lips, “Maybesomeday.”  

                    honest spoken within a breath of her brother, even in poorly veiled jest, strikes her like she’s been pinched rather hard, and years worth of practising the expression on her face can’t entirely hold back the flicker of a grimace. the anger of living in restraint wants to beg this woman to take him, wants to tell her what he is and make her promise she’ll do something about it. yet her red lips remain pressed together. the eel below their feet knows nothing of slithering out of something’s teeth compared to mason. 

                    ‘ what is it i can help you with, agent? ’                      she’s polite as she can manage to be, but there isn’t enough air for pleasantries in this room, especially not with strangers. 

[mcrtyrdom]

‘did salen really buy the patch that helped inspire the f1 au and sew it onto her house stark sweater?’ you ask. yes, she absolutely did.

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for your consideration:   robb; danny; margot 

[wulfhalls]

game of thrones // winter is coming 

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@bonebaker:

Micha couldn’t help but burst with laughter. While he wasn’t wrong in his observation, the night still seemed young. The bar fight went by rather quick and when it came to solving the issue; that too didn’t seem to last long. She supposed the saying ‘ time flies when you’re having fun ‘ fit well in the situation.

“ ah, yeah. fortunately the blood isn’t mine. some twat tried to snatch my bag and it didn’t end up well for him. LUCKY me. your night seemed pretty tame from the looks of it.. ”

                    ‘ yeah, uh, hard to get into any witching hour trouble when y’ work the night shift .. ’  most would be more hesitant than robb himself to call nocturnal rounds at the zoo tame. a few hours in the warehouse between then and now spent cataloging boxes of high caliber ammunition on top of that, and his night had been .. evidently still less eventful than micha’s.                      ‘ need a washcloth or something? ’

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likcthcbird:

 “ I’m not here for him. ” Clarice shifts, uncertain how her following words may be received, yet ventures to speak them, anyway. “ I came to talk to you. ”

                    she lifts her chin, lips pressed together, carefully and habitually expressionless in spite of the flutter of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. she can only imagine what mason might have to say should one of his many eyes around the estate and beyond carry back to him that his sister dear has spoken with an agent, alone.  ‘ i don’t think i have anything to tell you that you don’t already know. ’  a lie, and a well - practised one.