#deathmerit

[mischieflawed]

slurred words (whoever you want)

Send “slurred words” to hear my muse describe yours whilst ridiculously drunk.

Stiles was playing the role of the town drunk tonight, stumbling around all over the place, only stopping when he bumped right into Tywin Lannister. A few blinks as he looked this guy over, before spinning away from him. ❝ You look like you're one strong gust of wind away from falling apart. like damn, I'm getting rough early 70's. .❞

[witchyxwoo]

@deathmerit // continued from HERE

Despite a majority of her younger years spent in The Vale around her Arryn cousins she had noticed the factions that formed in King's Landing. It had been a rather easy decision for Naella to choose which side to support. Her sister had been named their father's heir. An action she supported with her entire being. She knew she'd fight for that cause, even if the factions may have tried to poison her mind in the past. Such fools.

Her father's growing inaction against the micro-quarrels in favor of this so-called peace had caused irritation to grow within her. As much as she still loved him it all still confused her. The more her uncle spoke of the matter the more she found herself in agreement. She believed he was right. Of course Naella may not know how every member of the court operates, but she knew people had taken advantage of the comfort her father had taken.

As soon as Daemon began to address her directly with his idea of travel there was an immediate interest. She is a princess, but she is a spare and unmarried. King's Landing had become her mainstay, her home. However, the ties she felt were more towards the people and not the actual place. The idea to go travel felt an opportunity she'd be crazy to pass on. Once he posed his next question she just shrugged.

"I have stayed put in these castle walls for most of my life or of those in The Vale for too long. I am sure my dragon would appreciate the flight as much as I would," Naella replied back. The idea of having to stay back in her chambers made her scoff. "I would likely protest to staying behind though."

[forgaeven]

we're both exhausted for different reasons. / daemon to rhea.

rhea has blood running down the side of her mouth.

she suspects it is no more than a cut in her cheek, though the pain of the impact when it'd happen had stung. of course, now, the wound has dulled itself into a faded throbbing. she wonders if there will be a bruise come evening. father have always told her that she has the skin of a fruit : one bump, and the colour will show. one might think it might deter her from being on horseback or drawing upon her bow during a hunt, but it does not. at some point, rhea found herself being even a bit appeased by the bruises she's gathered; by the injuries she might accumulate for the day. it feels, more than anything, as though she's done something worthwhile.

something that could be seen as evident of her productivity, of her ability, her commands and her skills.

now, certainly, she would rather not to bleed at all around her lord husband. rhea has certainly never been wounded around him. she isn't sure if her lord husband may take the opportunity to press into the physical bruises as he might the metaphorical ones. if he would squint upon her and dictate that she is weaker for being bruised at all. he certainly has way with words, her targaryen prince. sometimes, in his company, half of it is spent anticipating what else he might say and how she might parry or dully ignore it. of course, these days, they do not say much. when or if he is here, he mostly spent his days in his side of the runestone keep, and she hers.

speaking of — this is not the keep. in fact, this is some way almost near the valleys of house redfort, where rhea and her small group of envoy had been ambushed, it seems, by opportunistic bandits. or perhaps it was someone from the mountain tribe. there had been no reports of robbery among her men so far as they begin to rummage through their things, which is concerning. perhaps it is best after all that her lord husband had flown in the time that he did. one of the men had succeeded in bearing her down, and she know not her chance would be with a makeshift knife by her throat had caraxes not cast his shadow and cry into the air to alert all of them of their presence.

❛⠀might our reasons swap this time, husband ?  ❜

after all, is he not typically the one in fights than her ? rhea could not help from smiling a little. perhaps a bit tickled by her own words.

❛⠀i thank you,  ❜ she says next, as one of her men retrieve her bow, and rhea holds it near, almost reverently, to her chest before she lets it rest in her palms. a comforting hold. ❛⠀for having arrived the way you have, even if i suspect you coming here may not be of your will. are you staying this time ?  ❜

currently accepting: the great divide. batting my lashes at @deathmerit

[collectionofvoices]

@deathmerit from here

That wound looks rough, but it's not hitting anything vital. A stab wound, by the looks of it, is steadily bleeding. For a moment, Will entertains the idea of leaving Hannibal here to bleed out entirely. A second later and he realizes the likelihood of that happening is very low. 

He releases a sigh, eyes narrowing at Hannibal when he mentions ‘watching’. The idea of watching Hannibal bleed out and doing nothing both thrills and pains him. Thrills him to think of the blood seeping and staining the perfect floor crimson, pains him because despite it all, he does not wish to see Hannibal dead. 

“I should leave you here to bleed out on your own.” Will mutters as he crosses the distance between them, swiping up one of Hannibal’s fancy dish towels on the way over that he balls up and very cruelly shoves against the wound without a care for how painful it is. 

It is harsh and unforgiving, but it also helps slow the bleeding with the amount of pressure he is apply, even if that blood soaks through the dish towel and coats Will’s fingers red.  

“Where is your first aid kit?” 

[alyafae]

Not everyone would say that her husband was a beautiful man. Not in the conventional sense anyway. She, too, had once thought his brother to be the more handsome one of the two but that belief had changed. Ned was a true northman and Catelyn had grown to appreciate that. His hair, his body, his face... she could spend hours just looking at him and she would only end up discovering more things to love about him.

@deathmerit : "You're still looking."

His voice pulled her out of her thoughts but instead of feeling embarrassed, she simply smirked at him. She shifted on their bed, watching him more openly now as he moved around their chamber. What a handsome man he was. The furs hung loosely around her, keeping her just warm enough. "And does it bother you, my lord? Perhaps I should find another to look at, someone who appreciates the gaze of a woman." Catelyn loved to tease him, knowing full well that the idea of her doing such a thing was just ridiculous and yet he would hate it anyway.

"Although I must say I believe I will not find another who is as handsome as my lord husband."

[collectionofvoices]

@deathmerit sent

"I didn't make you a monster. I just brought out what was already there." / From Hannibal to Will.

Maybe Hannibal is right, though it is not something he will so readily admit. There has always been this darkness inside of him, kept at bay by removing himself from the job he had before Jack dragged him back in. Perhaps he could have avoided this darkness if he had stayed away, teaching rather than profiling. 

And now? It feels like there is no escape. There’s no going back. Maybe if he had never met Hannibal but the fact is, he’s in deep now. Unbothered by eating the human that Hannibal feeds him on a constant basis. 

And now? After their little stunt and surviving the fall? He has killed. More than once. He knows automatically what kind of killer he has. A justice killer. Like somehow, in his mind that has been wrapped time and time again, that killing those who are horrible criminals somehow makes his crimes less than. 

Other killers, abusers, the scummiest of the scummy. These are the type of kills he goes after and he often lures them back to the place he and Hannibal are at, so that he can kill them and allow Hannibal to turn them into masterpieces of meals. 

What better way to get rid of evidence than to eat it? 

Still, he hates it when Hannibal brings up this. His jaw clenches as his eyes narrow at the man before him, telling him that it was not him who made Will a killer.

“I would argue otherwise.” Will says, “Had I not met you, we would not be here.” It’s a lie, though, isn’t it? Hannibal may have helped mold him into a killer but he has always been drawn to the darkness, able to get into the minds of killers far easier than he should. He takes on their fantasies like it had been his own, and maybe it had. 

[alyafae]

@deathmerit continued from here. ♡

Catelyn arched a brow, listening to her husband’s playful attempt to mess with her. Truthfully, she loved this about him, how he managed to amuse her. Wrapping her furs tighter around herself, she crossed her arms around her chest. She pretended to be offended when he acted like he couldn’t remember. Tyrell, Lannister, a princess from Dorne; oh how she’d be furious if he ever actually considered such options.

She looked up at him then, the faintest hint of a smile on her face but she stayed determined. “A Tully seems about right, my lord.” Lifting one of her hands, she placed it on his chest, right where his heart was. Delicate fingers splayed out, caressing the spot for a moment. Her gaze dropped to his lips. “You enjoy messing with your wife, don’t you? Tell me, do you like it when I am jealous? Do you like knowing that I would claim you as mine?”

Although she was a very dignified and well-behaved woman, she also happened to be a possessive one. And although she tried to keep up the image of a proper lady, she was not above letting others know that Ned belonged to her. That he was her husband.

[valyrianvows]

❛ I knew nothing except the strength of your arms and the scent of your hair. ❜ / From Jorah to Dany

𝒜 𝒟𝐎𝐖𝐑𝐘 𝒪𝐅 𝐵𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 accepting

Daenerys turned her head slowly to look at Jorah as they sat together, her face glowing from the words he spoke.

“I will never know how to repay your kindness and devotion, Jorah,” she said gently, reaching for his hand where it rested on his knee and laced her fingers with his own.

“You stood beside me when others fled. You have protected me, guided me, and believed in me even when I struggled to believe in myself.” Her thumb brushed softly across his knuckles as her eyes locked with his. “I owe you so much more than my life.”