May 23
oh to be a bear rolling around in a beautiful forest glade
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oh to be a bear rolling around in a beautiful forest glade
❝DARK AND DONE❞
YANDERE DRABBLES #2 . . .
☆ ━━ [ yandere! shapeshifter x AMAB! reader ]
TW ; foul language, yandere content, sexual content and language, no pronouns used for the reader, stalking, obsession, toxic relationships, mental / emotional abuse, allusions to noncon behavior, and more.
╳ This is not meant to be romanticized. THIS IS HORROR/THRILLER. If you or any of your loved ones portray behavior such as this, please consult into a professional. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. You have been warned. ╳
Hazel outfit plans
some Thoughts ive had for hazel (he/they) and how their outfit changes throughout major story milestones :3 notes below the cut
THE HOUND AND THE MOUNTAIN - PART 3.
(Art credits are in the ALT texts.)
Hi there!
Here’s the third part of my Mountain-Hound comparison. I’m gonna talk about the similarities now. For there are some, very interesting ones. I’m sorry Sandor fans, for comparing him to that monster Gregor, but don’t worry. I won’t hurt you with this post. :)
PHYSICAL SIMILARITIES
Let’s start with the physical similarities. There’s no need to give citation for these, cause we all know that they’re both big, muscled and strong. Though Gregor is no doubt the highest and strongest man in Westeros, his brother is also probably in the top 10, for there’s only a few, who reaches him in height and strength.
They’re not just strong, but they both seem to bear pain extremely well:
“If Ser Gregor was suffering from wounds, Tyrion could see no sign of it from across the yard. He looks as though he was chiseled out of rock, standing there.” (ASoS, Tyrion X.)
“His arms encircled her; on the left, the burned arm, he'd donned a steel vambrace for protection, but she'd seen him change the dressings, and the flesh beneath was still raw and seeping. If the burns pained him, though, Sandor Clegane gave no hint of it.” (ASoS, Arya IX.)
As for their face, I think only Tyrion gives a description of the Mountain’s face and all he says is: it “might have been hewn from rock”. No one seem to pay attention to Gregor’s face, everyone’s talking about his height and strength. This is interesting, because in the case of his brother, apart from Sansa, who gives a detailed description of the Hound’s face, everyone else seem to focus only on his scars. Their features are simply not emphasised. Only Sandor’s, but in a very indirect way, which I’m gonna talk about later.
PERSONALITY
Well that’s enough of their physical similarities, but what about their personality?
They’re both warrior type of people, for sure, that’s out of question.
They both seem to prefer purity, over the shiny decorations of some knights:
“Sandor Clegane was the first rider to appear. He wore an olive-green cloak over his soot-grey armor. That, and his hound's-head helm, were his only concession to ornament.” (AGoT, Eddard VII.)
„Beneath a long yellow surcoat bearing the three black dogs of Clegane, he wore heavy plate over chainmail, dull grey steel dinted and scarred in battle.” (ASoS, Tyrion X.)
They both seem to bear too much talk or noise badly, though the Hound can handle that, unlike his brother.
"You talk too much," he grumbled. "You make my head hurt." (Gregor to Oberyn in ASoS, Tyrion X.)
"Enough." The Hound's face was tight with anger. "You're making noise.” (Sandor in ASoS, Arya VI.)
Even their way of talking, their style seem to be similar in some cases:
“When the two men were ten yards apart, the Red Viper stopped and called out, "Have they told you who I am?"
Ser Gregor grunted through his breaths. "Some dead man." (ASoS, Tyrion X.)
„If you want me, come get me." (…)
"You think we won't?" said Polliver. "You're drunk."
"Might be," said the Hound, "but you're dead." (ASoS, Arya XIII.)
They’re both bad-tempered, and anger seems to be a major theme for them. But again, as I have pointed out in the previous parts, the Hound handles his emotions way better, than his brother. He may be angry, but he doesn’t lose his mind, he doesn’t turn it into physical violence. Apart from that only one example we see in the books.
And you know what else is similar in them? Well:
"Tyrell had to know the mare was in heat," Littlefinger was saying. "I swear the boy planned the whole thing. Gregor has always favored huge, ill-tempered stallions with more spirit than sense." (AGoT, Eddard VII.)
„Last of all came Ser Gregor Clegane in his grey plate steel, astride a stallion as bad-tempered as his rider.” (ACoK, Arya VIII.)
“The horse was a heavy courser, almost as big as a destrier but much faster. Stranger, the Hound called him. Arya had tried to steal him once, when Clegane was taking a piss against a tree, thinking she could ride off before he could catch her. Stranger had almost bitten her face off. He was gentle as an old gelding with his master, but otherwise he had a temper as black as he was. She had never known a horse so quick to bite or kick.” (ASoS, Arya IX.)
„You may have seen a big black stallion in our stables. That was his warhorse, Stranger. A blasphemous name. We prefer to call him Driftwood, as he was found beside the river. I fear he has his former master's nature." (AFfC, Brienne VI.)
Do you know, what I’m going to say? Well, if you don’t, let me ask you a question: list up those characters in your mind, whose animals behave like them, taking up their master’s personality. What links them together? Yes. All of them are skinchangers. A common trait amongst… Starks.
Stay tuned for my next topic, my next theory. :)
Previous parts:
Part 1.
Part 2.
Happy 4 year Tumblrversary! ❤️ If you’ve got time, would you please write a little something for Beorn using prompt 16? Love you and your work ☺️
Hi, lovey! Thank you so much! Also- thank you for all your help through the years with prompts, ideas, and beta-reading to help me figure out where to go with a fic. I hope you enjoy this:
“Listen to me,” Beorn held your face in his hands, heart melting as you looked up at him with teary eyes. The orcs were so close, the growls of their wargs making you tremble.
“The second I get out there, you run out the back stables, down the hill, and toward the thicket.”
Beorn’s voice was calm despite how nervous he was, practically trembling himself.
“Climb the big oak tree and get up as high as you can, and stay as silent as possible,” He instructed you, looking you in the eyes while stroking your cheekbones with his thumbs in calming circular motions. The wargs were getting closer, and you just began to realize how in danger you two were.
“What about you?” You couldn’t help but ask, wanting to know why he would risk himself in this situation, why he would send you on your own instead of going with you.
Instead of responding to your question, Beorn pressed his lips against yours. His kisses earlier this evening were full of wild passion and love, but now? Now they were laced with fear and pressing ever so gently on your lips, pausing to savor the feeling. Who knew when…Or if, he would ever get to lay eyes on you again, much less feel your lips press against his own.
“I’ll get you as much time as I can,” Beorn said once you two separated, closing his eyes to relish the skin of your face beneath his hands before pulling away from you entirely.
“Do you remember my instructions?” He asked, pausing at the door.
“Yes,” You said, voice wavering as fear coursed through your body.
“Good.” He grunted, turning to look at you.
“Just in case… Remember this.” Beorn gave you a rare smile.
“I love you, my gentle mouse.”
“Bear–” Before you could say anything else, he flung the door open, body rippling as he shifted into his bear form. Tears stinging at the back of your eyes, you fled the house.
You never got to say you loved him back.
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Blood on Snow part 2
Warnings: Gutting a animal
I don't know how long this series will be, but this isn't the last chapter. Also, if anyone has any tips for getting better at typing, please share it :) I write it down physically, and then I type it on my phone. This is a pretty slow process, so I would appreciate any tips. Thank you, and I hope you find some enjoyment in it.
The all-encompassing blackness of night covered your body as the howling winds drowned your grunts and pants for air. The climb down the wall was far easier than the climb up, but that didn't mean it was easy. The woven rope dug into your waist as the icyness of the frozen wall soaked your gloves. You've neared the end now. With both Ygla and Vigyn safely on the ground. Your hand reached for your knife. The rusted blade cut the rope that tied you to Gurnard. You sheathed the blade before letting go of the rope. Pain shot up your feet and settled in your knees as you landed on the frost-covered grass. You ripped the worn gloves from your hand; thick Calluses were spilt angrily, and large Bullous blisters formed on the tips of your fingers. It hurt, but the cold air soothed your sweaty hands. Your hood came down soon after that, and strands of sweat-covered hair stuck out of the tight plaits you had put in your hair.
Ygla and Vigyn played with their axes and swords, respectively. They hit each other with comically loud whines and cries of pain. Anger flooded you; this wasn't some joke. Several members of your group had died, and now they screamed and Hollered like dogs. Anyone could hear you; on the ground, sound travels quickly, especially at night. You quickly marched over to them. Your Calloused hands soon clattered each of them in the back of the head.
"Be quiet," You whispered with a hiss.
"But Grunard said there were no crows here!" Vigyn said it in the whiny tone of a pubescent boy.
"Grunard said that so you wouldn't shit yourselves; we don't know for sure where the crows are." You looked at both of their fear-sticky faces with fury.
"Don't look at me like that; you wanted to come here; you wanted to raid. Don't shirk in fear just because the consequences of your actions have arrived." Your nose flared as your harsh words left your chapped lips. The guilty looks of scolded children came on each of their dates. It did not quell your anger, but they Had been told off enough for one day. More men and women rumped from the grass-woven ropes, Grunard being one of them. With everyone who had survived the wall now on southern ground, you all gathered together.
Grunard spoke with wide hand gestures and a hushed voice. The darkness of night made it hard to see him, but you understood the gist of the plan nonetheless. You would journey to Queenscrown and completely bypass Mole's Town. The crows often visited the women there to break their oh-so-sacred vows. The town was crawling with the black-hearted basterds. As you had a number of young ones, it was better to go straight to Queenscown.
The people were weak and easy to kill. Spending their days tilling the fruitful soil. As a result, the reward was low. There would be no fine silks or exotic spices, but there would be enough swords, axes, and armour to make the journey worth it.
Under the cover of night, everyone moved as one, searching for shelter to hide from the exposed nature of daylight. Luckily, the gods granted you all that mercy in the form of a cave. The other raiders poured into the dark and damp cave. Some slept alone, while others gathered in large piles to sleep. You decided on neither; you were too hungry to sleep. The pain of hunger crawled up your ribcage, sending the familiar growls into the quiet night. With a rake of arrows across your back and a bow in hand, you left the cave. The dark sky began to lighten as the first light came.
The squelch of lush, dew-covered grass and the melodic chirps of risen birds drove home how full of life the south was. Every inch of land is themed with life; back home on the frozen shore, most life existed in the turbulent sea. Here, it was everywhere. The grassy meadows soon turned to thick oak forests, and gentle rays of dawn gently touched the apples of your cheeks as they swept through the woodland. Birds flew through the canopy of leaves as rabbits swiftly leaped into underground burrows. But you were searching for something more filling. A crack of a twig altered your eager ears. Before your eyes found him, you knew what he was. The snap of the twig was heavy—too heavy to be a wolf and too light to be a boar. Your eyes whipped around to the large stag.You lowered your body as a creeping hand gripped one of your arrows. The great white stag didn't notice your soundless breathing and hungry eyes as it chewed on fresh grass. Nor did it notice the flying arrow until it pierced its chest. But by the time he realised it, it was too late. The beast fell to the ground with a thud. In your younger years, you would wait for the blood to drain from the beast, but now that you were more skilled, deer would die on impact. This one is included.
You sauntered over to the now-dead creature; killing had always been easy for you. The North was filled with it. Death surrounded anything that had the fight to survive and took anything that didn't. But here, where life came easy, the fight for survival was nonexistent.
Your Calloused hand ripped the arrow from its punctured heart. Blood gushed from the wound. Flickers of life still brimmed in his eyes, and your rusted blade that was once on your hip sliced the stag's throat in thick jagad cuts. It was a painful way to die, but you still needed to eat, and it was a better way to go than dying slowly with an arrow in your heart. With his life gone with his blood, you began to cut open the stag. Your rusted serrated knife first cut around the anus of the creature and freed its colon, so all its guts would come out in one piece. Your knife ran up along its abdomen, just cutting through its hide, lest you accidentally cut into its bladder and spill piss all over the good meat. You cut off the balls and cock of the stage and discarded it. Then you cut it into the meat of the stag. Down to the bone. Making a gateway for all the guts to come pouring out. With the ridge of the pelvis now exposed, you began to cut through the hide of the sternum to join your work lower down.
As you reached the end of its ribs, you cut slowly so as not to puncture the stomach. The white lining that encased the organ was next. Your blade popped open the next lay, and you dug your fingers into the still-warm stag. You cut the lining in between your fingers, revealing the assortment of grey and brown organs. You took your knife and began to saw through the pelvic bone. Thick clumps of white dust gathered at the sides of your knife. You ripped out the chuck of bone and tossed it into the thick forest. Your knife was set aside in favour of your hands, and with one hand set on each side, you cracked open the pelvis. The weight of your body made the bones crack and splinter beneath you. With your serrated knife in hand, you began cutting through the ribcage of the creature. No longer be careful with your hands, and cut away at anything attaching the guts to the meat. You cut out the heart and set it aside along with the liver and kidneys before you pulled them cleanly from the once great stag. With your gutted stag and your hands bloody, it was time to head back to your fellow raiders.
You packed up the edible organs into your bag before you dragged the creature out of the forest by the antler. Picking up mushrooms, herbs, and anything worth eating along the way. The sun had only risen slightly in the time you were away from camp. Still, the others seemed to wake up at the smell of blood. Several crowded around you as you neared the cave, and soon the stag was taken from you to be cooked. Grunard threw you a water-soaked rag to clean your hands; the semi-dried blood wiped away easily. Though some still cringe under your fingernails.
Soon the stag was cut further down and cooked on an open fire. The smell of seared venison battled the stench of sweat all of you carried. A large wooden bowl of stew was set in front of you, filled to the brim with meat, mushrooms, and barley. All of which you had gathered, and as a result, you got the largest portion. The meat was tender; it fell apart in strings against your teeth. With your belly now filled and furs placed down for you, you laid down and fell into a dreamless sleep.
The unnoticed blackness of sleep was eventually painted with streaks of colour. The pigments merged and separated; shades of green, white, purple, and brown swirled until the colours were pulled into an image. It was the cave you had settled in—the same damp stone walls, the same sprouts of vegetation in every corner. But the fire was out, with only smoke rising from the ashes as a marker of its existence. Your heart began to pump faster as the image became clearer; gone were the other raiders, not even furs or weapons to remember them by. Your eyes turned to look out at the entrance of the cave. The meadows and thick forests of the southern landscape were gone. Instead, the stone walls drifted like smoke into a large candlelit room. High stone ceilings and dark wood floors. Every part of the room was filled with more luxuries and crafted with more expertise than you had ever seen. Even the fanciful homes of Mole's Town didn't compare to this. An obnoxiously large bed sat against the back wall, pillows and blankets practically oozing from the bed. A woman lay on the bed, her white hair reflecting a sliver of light. She sat up slightly, her snow-like hair rising with her, and her purple eyes settled on you. In your skin and in your bones, you knew this was a dream. The hazeness of Everything proved it. Yet she was so clear, so real; this was something else, something strange. The white-haired woman sat fully up amongst her luxuries; more gold adorned her than you had seen in all of the men of the frozen shore combined. To your fellow raiders, you spoke the common tongue, but this was not your native tongue; words in your own ancient language slipped from your tongue like oil. The deep, guttural words brought fear to the hearts of southerners, but that did not hold true for her. Curious, unblinking eyes stayed in a heavy lock with your own.
"Who are you?" She asked, her voice light, airy, and in the strangest accent you had ever heard.
"The hog," You replied as your tongue slithered back into the position for common touch.
"Hog?" She questioned, her erie lavender eyes still locked with your own.
"There is not a name for it in the common tongue. It is like a You paused for a moment, trying to find the right words.
"Outside name. One you tell to strangers, ones outside kin," you said with hesitation, knowing your discomfort was clear. She was the strangest-looking and-sounding person you had ever met. Snow white hair and almost translucent lavender eyes. She was pretty, but her ghostly features and voice did nothing to sooth you. Before she could ask another question, you asked one of your own.
"What are you?" You said slowly that you didn't know if she was some vengeful spirit or a trickster here to trap you.
She seemed to think for a moment, pondering your question, unbridled with the fear you felt.
"A Targaryen, I suppose." Your face scrunched up in confusion at her answer, and words slipped from your lips freely.
"What the fuck is a Targaryen?" You said it in bewilderment. Finally, there was some emotion on her wide-eyed face. Her features scrunched up like yours had done as she thought of an answer.
"My mother says that we are the Royal House; Aemond says we are dragons; and Daeron would say we are conquerors. My father doesn't speak to me much, and when My elder brother Aegon speaks of our house, it is nothing but insults. I don't really know what makes a Targaryen—is it dragon riding, the white hair, or the violet eyes? Aemond always says Targaryens are the blood of Old Valeriya, so I would assume that's what we are."
The words dragon riding sung in your head again and again; you knew what she was. Disgust filled your heart like bile and spilled out onto your face. You had heard tales of the dragon-riding inbreeders that ruled the South. Sisters marrying brothers, uncles marrying nieces—it made you sick. Anger soon mixed with and amplified your disgust.
"I know who you are! Inbreeder!" You shouted as you ripped yourself from your furs and marched towards her. As you got to the edge of your world and the beginning of hers, you went to reach for her, but a force so potent ripped you back.
Your eyelids jumped open as you lunged yourself off the sweat-soaked furs you once slept on. Your eyes darted around the cave; the fire was still lit but had now dimmed, and your fellow raiders were still there. Just pack up to continue your journey. Your breath raged as your eyes bound from one spot to another.
"Bad dream?" Grunard said in a mocking tone.
"No, but it was a fucking strange one." You said you were too busy trying to catch your breath and calm your racing heart to joke with him.
His curiosity seemed to be Peaked as you moved out of the furs and began packing up.
Well, aren't you going to tell me what it was, Hog?" He said it with a wrinkled brow.
You looked at him, and with an unwilling frown, you spoke.
"A Targaryen, you know the inbreeders that rule the south." You said this while stuffing the furs into the woven bag. He paused for a moment as his face became more serious.
"We're in the south now, Hog; the dark magic of Old Valeriya runs rampant here. A skinchanger like you should be careful; it could swallow you whole."
Helaena
Helaena awoke with a jump; sweat poured from her brow, yet goosebumps ran along her skin. Her heart beated out of her chest as her breathing was like that of a panting dog. The setting sun stung her eyes; she had only meant to sleep a little while, but the constant visions that plagued her had drained Helaena. They were getting stronger and more clear. The light of the fire was out from the cold of the woman she saw. Tall, intimidating, and calculating, she is covered in thick fur and has clammy skin tattooed with foreign symbols on her hands and up her arms. She didn't set fear into Helaena's heart at first, but when the woman came for her, well, she couldn't help but shut her eyes and cover her ears at the memory. Yet something in Helaena knew the woman had a right to be so angry; something in her told her she too should be angry. Helaena never really thought much of her family's traditions; they had infected every aspect of her life since birth, so how could she judge the only way of life she knew? But in that moment, lying in bed with the setting sun illuminating the room with streaks of pink and orange, She, too, felt disgusted.
An uneasy feeling settled in Helaena as the sun set and the night began. She never really spoke to her husband or her brother. He had only visited her a few times in the night. He was always drunk beyond belief, and he cried. He always cried when they were forced to lay together. Thankfully for both of them, the visits have now ceased. Aegon rarely spoke to her, instead running off to the streets of silk and drinking anything that would dull his mind. She never understood why he did that, but now she does. It was to drown out the shivers of disgust that ran along his skin. She pulled the duvet from her and walked along the wooden floors towards Aegon's rooms. He would most likely be gone, already trying to escape reality.
As her fingers pushed open Aegon's door with a creak, her eyes Peaked in. He sat hunched over at the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes and groaning. Helaena pushed open the door fully and stepped through. Aegon's tired eyes looked up at her with a grimace.
"What is it?" He said it with annoyance.
"What they did to us was bad, wasn't it?"
Her words caught Aegon off guard, and he looked at her fully and with interest. Helaena paused, her lip twitching.
"It was cruel," She said with a crack in her voice.
Aegon took a moment to speak, and when he did, tears threatened to spill from his eyes.
"It was"
Jon Snow Appreciation Month Day 12 - Magic and lore
What personality traits and characteristics might a skin changer who bonds with a member of the equine family (horse, donkey, zebra, etc) take on, in your opinion?
I think donkey-changers would be stubborn and tough, barely noticing inconveniences, as well as becoming a bit slower-going. Horses, I think would be the opposite, a bit faster, but prone to noticing and complaining about things. Not necessarily fickle, but definitely tend to notice and speak up about things that are bothering them.
Thanks for the question, Anon.
SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King