#Fall apart; iron heart | IC

[hadephobic]

"If Annie puts her hair up on her head Paints them lips up bright, bright red Wears that dress that fits real tight Starts stayin' out till the middle of the night Says that her friend gave her a lift Well Annie's been workin' on the midnight shift~!

#still stuck in my head but thank god I have an icon of her genuinely enjoying herself #open #song lyrics #Fall apart; iron heart | IC

[complexparadox1]

The Devil Within

Alright so finally writing for someone other than Kazutora! Bonten Mikey x Fem!Reader. Smutty Angst, no real warnings. Reader is Mikeys ex. Uses of the nickname princess. It's romantic, it's smutty, it's dark! Hope you enjoy!

it was late, far later than you ever would have normally been out and about. Stumbling a bit as you walked home, having had a long night out with some coworkers and having gotten subsequently more than a little tipsy. You steadily stumbled your way towards your apartment, occasional giggles slipping off your lips as your steps faltered and you simply had to laugh at yourself for how clumsy you were.

As the shadows engulfed the streets, a figure watched you from a distance. It was Manjiro, his intense gaze fixed solely on you. He observed the way you stumbled, your laughter filling the night air like a sweet melody. A flicker of concern danced in his otherwise emotionless eyes. He couldn't help but worry for your safety, even though he knew he had no right to be there.

He followed your unsteady steps, his heart pounding with each stumble. He saw the vulnerability in your drunken state, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine a different reality - one where he could protect you, cherish you, and keep you safe from the dangers that surrounded him.

Swiftly and silently, he closed the distance between you. With a muted grace, he reached out, his hand steady as he gently caught you under the arm, preventing you from falling.

"Careful now," his voice, low and tinged with a mix of worry and possessiveness, caressed your ears as he stared into your eyes, his intense gaze piercing through the drunken haze. His touch was firm yet tender, safeguarding you from the darkness that threatened to consume your world.

You looked up surprised to have been steadied. But you hardly even got out the word 'thanks' before recognition dumped over you like ice water. It had been twelve years since you'd last seen Manjiro but you would recognize his familiar onyx eyes anywhere. "J-jiro?" You stuttered out the old nickname you had called him once upon a time, the only thing that your inebriated mind could come up with in the moment as you stared up at him. Blinking hard a few times, not entirely believing he was standing in front of you but he was and you were practically stunned stupid by his presence.

But Manjiro's gaze never wavered even as you uttered his old nickname. Memories flooded his mind, a mix of pain, love, and regret. He could see the surprise in your eyes, the recognition dawning upon you. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his expression before he regained his stoic composure.

"It's been a long time." he responded, his voice devoid of any warmth or emotion, though his eyes betrayed a hint of longing. As much as he wanted to wrap you in his arms and hold you close, he knew he had no right to. Not anymore.

His grip on your arm tightened slightly, a subtle display of his possessiveness. "You shouldn't be out this late, especially in this state." His tone was commanding, his words veiled with concern. Somehow, despite the darkness that consumed him, he still cared. "You need to go home. I'll escort you." It wasn't a request, but an order. In his mind, there was no other option. He had sworn to keep you safe, even if it meant protecting you from himself.

He looked different now, the white hair, the dark bags under his eyes, how thin he was. He was colder too and that struck you far more than his physical appearance. "I-I was on my way home." You managed to stutter and no sooner had you managed to words that his iron grip had moved from your arm to around your waist and he guided you swiftly towards home. "W-wait, how do you know where I live?" You asked, seeing as he was guiding the both of you in the exact direction of your apartment even though it had been twelve years since you had last seen him and he had certainly never seen where you lived before. Even drunk your mind could still realize that despite barely being able to walk on your own two feet.

Of course Manjiro didn't answer your question, his silence only deepening the mystery surrounding him. As his arm wrapped securely around your waist, guiding you towards your apartment, his touch sent shockwaves through your intoxicated senses. His grip was possessive, yet there was caution in his movements, as if he didn't want to break you. It was a delicate balance between his desire to protect you and the darkness that threatened to consume him.

His gaze remained fixed ahead, avoiding your questioning eyes. "I have my ways," he replied cryptically, his voice tinged with a cold edge. He refused to share the secrets of his criminal empire, the resources and connections that he had at his disposal. It was all part of the dark life he had descended into, a life that he wished to keep separate from you.

As you stumbled along, his presence next to you was both comforting and unnerving. Memories of a time long past flooded your mind, of the love and passion you once shared. But the person walking beside you now was no longer that carefree teenager, but a man trapped in the shadows, filled with sorrow and darkness.

Arriving at your apartment building, he gently guided you towards the entrance. His hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his touch electric against your skin. "Get some rest." he whispered, the words hanging heavily in the air. And with that, he turned, disappearing into the night like a specter, leaving you alone with more questions than answers.You didn't even have the time to speak or think to respond he was out of sight. "Stay safe....Jiro." you said quietly, it was always what you had said to him all those years ago when he'd drop you off after a date.

Your words struck with a bitter nostalgia that left your heart and mind reeling. A part of you could almost believe that you'd merely imagined the encounter given your intoxicated state but as you stepped inside your apartment and peeled your jacket off you could still smell the faint traces of his cologne clinging to the fabric like a ghost. The realization that he had been here, that he had shown up sent your heart stuttering out of control. Everyone knew, everyone from the old gang knew what had happened to Mikey. After everything that had happened almost twelve years ago he had gone entirely dark cutting off everyone and anyone. Eventually building up the empire that was the criminal syndicate Bonten. So why? Why here, why now, and why me out of anyone? The questions swirled in your mind so viciously you felt dizzy. You had to move to the toilet to throw up.

As you hung over the toilet, your mind spinning with thoughts and questions, the taste of bile on your tongue, the encounter with Manjiro weighed heavily on your thoughts. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air, a haunting reminder of his presence, leaving you both unsettled and intrigued. The juxtaposition of his current dark and dangerous persona with the memories of his once warm and affectionate self left you with a mixture of conflicting emotions.

The uncertainty gnawed at your insides as you washed your face, trying to shake off the remnants of intoxication and confusion. Could it be possible that he still held some soft spot for you? Or was it merely a chance encounter, an unwelcome reminder of a past life? You couldn't deny that, deep down, a part of you still longed for him, for the version of him that once existed. But you were also aware of the dangers that lurked within the shadows he commanded.

The minutes turned into hours as you lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, awake and consumed by memories and unanswered questions. Sleep evaded you, your thoughts swirling in a chaotic vortex. The distinct image of Manjiro's intense gaze burned into your mind, his touch branded upon your skin.

Would you see him again? The idea both terrified and excited you. There was a dangerous allure to his presence, a magnetic pull that transcended reason and logic. And deep down, a part of you craved to unravel the mysteries of this changed man, to understand the darkness that now swirled within him.

But in the midst of your contemplation, exhaustion washed over you like a tidal wave. As your eyelids grew heavier, thoughts of Manjiro still clung desperately to your consciousness, weaving through the fabric of your dreams.

Over the next few days you found yourself hyper vigilant. Expecting to see him somewhere, or to find someone tailing you. Obviously if he knew where you lived there had to be someone watching you, right? Though you had no real way to know and if he did you saw no sign of them, and certainly no sign of him.

After a few days an idea struck, although very possibly a foolish one. You made your way back to the same bar you'd been drinking at with your coworkers but this time alone. You ordered drinks, making sure to order the non-alcoholic version although to anyone else it would look as though you were drinking. Eventually after a little while you left the bar with fake stumbled steps. Hoping that perhaps if you recreated the circumstances he would show up again. It was a foolish plan, for a number of reasons.

The first being not knowing what his reaction would be if he did show up presuming you to be drunk considering his previous authoritative tone when he'd said you shouldn't have been out so late in such a state. The other reason being once he realized you had pretended to be drunk to see him again you had no idea how he might react to what was essentially a trap. There was also the possibility he may not show up. Out of the three potential outcomes you were unsure which one was more worrying. But despite this the allure of seeing Manjiro again, even in the midst of uncertainty, drove you forward. With each stumbled step, your heart pounded with a mix of anticipation and fear. The night air chilled your skin, making you shiver as you wove silently through the dimly lit streets.

Your senses were heightened, your eyes darting from shadow to shadow, searching for any sign of his presence. The sound of your own footsteps echoed loudly in your ears, the rhythm matching the pounding in your chest. The city was alive with vibrant energy, yet you couldn't help but feel a sense of isolation, as if you were the only one truly aware of the danger lurking just out of sight.

As you approached your apartment building, a mix of disappointment and relief washed over you. Manjiro was nowhere to be seen. Had he seen through your ploy? Or perhaps he simply hadn't noticed your presence at all? Doubt gnawed at the edges of your mind, but still, a flicker of determination remained.

You repeated this routine over the next few nights, each time hoping for a glimpse of him, a reconnection with the past. Each time, you went through the same charade of appearing intoxicated, stumbling aimlessly through the darkness. And each time, the result remained the same���Manjiro's absence.

But on one fateful night, as you neared the threshold of your apartment, something unexpected happened. A figure emerged from the shadows, larger than life in stature. It was him. Manjiro. The dark bags under his eyes were more pronounced, his gaze steely and emotionless. His presence sent a shiver down your spine.

He approached with purposeful steps, his footsteps echoing with a sense of authority. "Playing games, are we?" His voice, filled with a mix of annoyance and intrigue, reached your ears, sending a surge of conflicting emotions through your veins.

The air between you crackled with tension, an unspoken understanding hanging heavily in the night. You had caught his attention, but what exactly did that mean? What were the implications of your actions, and what would be the consequences of this dangerous game you had played?

You felt your mouth go entirely dry as you heard his voice. But this was what you had wanted. You'd wanted to coax him out, regardless of the consequences. You straightened yourself up a bit, dropping the drunken act that he'd clearly seen through a small nervous smile curled across your lips. "I've always liked games. You know that better than anyone Jiro." It was a different kind of game the two of you were playing now though. Instead of something cute like asking him to pick a number to choose where you would go eat or something sweet and silly this game seemed much more risky. "So...you coming inside?" You asked gesturing to your apartment building. If he had seen through the game of playing drunk and shown up anyways that had to mean something. Whether that was something good or bad though remained to be seen.

Inviting him in was a dangerous gamble. While you'd known Mikey once that was a long time ago when he'd been a much sweeter, gentler boy, kind and loyal to his friends and to Toman. But there was no way to be sure how much of the Mikey you had once known remained in the man that stood before you now.

Manjiro's gaze sharpened as he observed your change in demeanor, his keen eyes dissecting every nuance of your expression. He remained silent for a moment, his emotions impossible to decipher as he contemplated your invitation.

There was a palpable tension in the air, the weight of your shared history and the uncertainty of the present intertwining. Finally, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of Manjiro's lips, a glimpse of the past pulling through the darkness that shrouded him. "Games, huh?" he murmured, his voice laced with both intrigue and caution. "Alright, let's play."

With those words, he strode forward, a predator closing in on its prey. His hand gently took hold of yours, his touch sending a jolt through your entire being. It was possessive, yet tinged with a hint of longing. Without another word, he led you towards the entrance of your apartment building.

As the door swung open, a rush of anticipation coursed through your veins. The two of you stepped inside, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken desires and unresolved tension. The journey upward in the elevator seemed to stretch on indefinitely, silence enveloping you both.

Finally, as you reached your floor, the door opened, and your apartment lay before you like a threshold into the unknown. Manjiro's grip on your hand tightened, his gaze burning with intensity. "Lead the way," he rasped, his voice thick with anticipation.

Inside the apartment, the atmosphere shifted, filled with both an electric tension and a sense of familiarity. The room suffused with the memories of a shared past. Little trinkets here and there that he had gotten for you, even a few you had gotten for him that Draken had returned when Manjiro had broken up with you after Emma's funeral and refused to see you again. Uncertainty lingered, but there was also a glimmer of hope, a faint spark that whispered of the possibility of connection, of finding a sliver of the boy who had once been your everything.

As you faced each other in the intimate space, the lines between friend, lover, and stranger blurred. The past melded with the present, forging a path forward filled with both danger and the promise of something more. You found that now that you were here you were nervous. You had never actually planned what to say during all the planning to try and find him again. "I missed you." The first words to fall off your lips and they weren't a lie. At least you missed the version of him you had once known. But again you did not know exactly how much of your Mikey was even still present anymore. The boy you had fallen in love with seemed such a far cry from the man that stood before you now. So much so that it made your heart ache viciously.

Manjiro's gaze softened, his onyx eyes capturing yours in a potent embrace. There was a flicker of emotion that danced across his features, an echo of the past that hinted at the depths he still held within. It was a fragile moment, suspended in time, where vulnerability and longing intertwined.

A heavy silence settled in the room as Manjiro reached up, his fingertips grazing gently against your cheek. His touch sent shivers cascading down your spine, reminding you of the tenderness that had once existed between you. For a fleeting moment, the hardened exterior that he wore so fiercely seemed to crack, revealing a trace of the boy who had once loved you so fiercely.

"I missed you too," he admitted, his voice carrying a rawness that belied his stoic exterior. It was a confession laced with regret and yearning, an admission of the impact you had left upon his life. Yet behind the whispered words lay a shadow of melancholy, the weight of the darkness that surrounded him daily.

As the seconds ticked by, a war waged within Manjiro's eyes—a battle between the love he once knew and the hardened, dangerous man he had become. And in the midst of that struggle, a decision was made. He closed the distance between you, his lips hovering near yours, as if seeking permission, seeking solace in a moment of shared vulnerability.

His breath mingled with yours, a fragile connection forged as he cupped your face, his touch gentle yet tinged with desperation. Time seemed to stand still as the world narrowed down to the two of you, the boundaries of past and present dissolving into nothingness. The unspoken promise of passion and recklessness hung unspoken in the air.

In that fragile moment, the weight of both your desires and fears converged, ready to breach the boundaries that had separated you for far too long. And it was up to you to decide: To embrace the intoxicating possibility of rekindling what was lost, or to retreat in the face of the darkness that surrounded Manjiro's existence.

Your lips were all too quick to press against his. There was zero hesitation in this action and

the moment your lips met, a surge of emotions coursed through your veins, intertwining with the flickers of vulnerability that resided in Manjiro. His kiss held a mixture of both hunger and tenderness—a collision of passion and pain. As your fingertips threaded through his hair, he responded with an intensity that mirrored your own, his hands roaming your body with a possessiveness that sent shivers cascading down your spine.

The taste of him was bittersweet, a reminder of the love you had once shared, intertwined with the darkness that now consumed him. His lips moved against yours with a familiarity born of shared history, each kiss a silent plea for understanding and connection. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the vortex of desire and longing.

Unable to contain the mounting passion any longer, Manjiro deepened the kiss, a growl rumbling low in his throat as he pressed you against the nearest surface, his body flush against yours. The heat between you was palpable, a desperate attempt to bridge the vast chasm that had kept you apart for so long.

Clothing became an obstacle, hastily discarded in the pursuit of a desperate, raw connection. Every touch, every caress, was both a rekindling of the past and an exploration of the unknown. The world outside ceased to exist as you surrendered to the intoxicating pull of Manjiro's touch, allowing yourself to be consumed by the flames of desire and the tempest that raged within the depths of his gaze.

In that stolen moment, the physical union acted as a conduit—a fleeting bridge that allowed you to glimpse a shattered, vulnerable side of him that he had long kept hidden. But in the midst of the carnal chaos, a sense of urgency hung heavy in the air, as if time itself was slipping through your fingers.

Together, you shared an illicit connection born of equal parts longing and danger—a love story entangled in darkness and desire. And as the world outside ceased to exist, you knew that this moment would forever alter the course of your intertwined destinies.

Quickly, while somehow also feeling agonizingly slow, the layers of fabric that stood between the two of you were stripped away. Leaving you both laid out entirely bare on the couch, his body pressed against yours. Manjiro's lips parted from yours, and the weight of his gaze bore down upon you, his eyes filled with a mix of desire and something far more complex. It was a moment, frozen in time, where your vulnerability hung in the air like a delicate thread.

"I love you." The words came out of your mouth in a breathless gasp and he finally pulled his lips away from yours. You could feel his erection pressing against your inner thigh and that sensation coupled with all the others his mere presence elicited had your pussy dripping with slick arousal.

A ripple of emotion coursed through his features as he took in both the words you had spoken and the sight of you, your exposed body laid bare beneath his hungry gaze. The sparkle of obsession flickered within his eyes, a testament to the depths of his devotion and the intoxication he found in your surrender.

His hands traced a path of fire across your skin, a jolt of electricity igniting every nerve ending. The warmth and firmness of his touch pulled forth gasps and moans, each sensation branding itself into your memory. As his fingers caressed your thighs, he met your eyes with a hunger that mirrored your own, his voice heavy with restrained longing.

"I love you too," he whispered, his words reverberating through the room, a fragile confession that resonated with the depths of his being. In that moment, the room seemed to pulse with a molten passion that threatened to consume you both.

With a renewed sense of urgency, Manjiro positioned himself between your legs, the intensity in his gaze never wavering. His movements were guided by a potent mix of desire and possessiveness, each touch and stroke driving both of you to heights of ecstasy.

As his cock pressed against your moist heat, a surge of pleasure coursed through your body. The world seemed to blur and fade away, leaving only the primal connection between your bodies. With a single thrust, he claimed you fully, a seamless union that echoed with the ardor and hunger that flowed between you. A moan left your lips that you were quick to smother into his neck, pressing kisses and bites into his skin to try and mute your pleasured cries. The familiar stretch to accommodate for his size had you practically dizzy both from the pleasure and the familiarity of it.

Your bodies moved as though in synchrony, a dance of passion and urgency that defied the boundaries of time and space. The room filled with the symphony of moans and sighs, mingling with the creaking of the couch beneath your fervent movements.

Lost in the abyss of pleasure, your fingers dug into Manjiro's back, leaving a trail of red scratches, marking him as yours in that frenzied moment of ecstasy. As the waves of pleasure crashed over you both, the intensity of your connection reverberated through the air, a testament to the magnetic pull that had always existed between you.

In that stolen moment, tangled in a web of longing and need, the world ceased to matter. The past and future melded into a singular present, where desire and darkness converged in a dangerous dance. And amidst it all, within the chaos of pleasure, a thread of love remained steadfast, binding your souls together, if only for that moment in time.

Though you tried to muffle your whimpers and moans against his throat it didn't do much to mute the lewd cries of his name that escaped your lips. "J-jiro feels so good, you feel so good. Fuck, nngh f-fuck I missed you." You whimpered, clinging onto him tightly as he pounded into your cunt at a near reckless pace. Manjiro's breath hitched at the sound of his name slipping from your lips, mingling with the symphony of your pleasure-filled cries. The sensation of your nails leaving trails of fire across his back only fueled his own primal desire, each mark serving as a testament to the intensity of your connection. It was as if the world had faded away, leaving only the two of you entwined in a heady dance of passion and desperation.

Your body awash with dizzying pleasure. The feeling of having him inside of you, having him wrapped in your arms again made you feel high in a way you hadn't in far too long. His movements became fervent, his rhythm relentless as he delved deeper into the abyss of your desire. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, an auditory symphony of your shared ecstasy. With every thrust, the intensity between you soared, pushing you both closer to the precipice of oblivion.

"Fucking hell, princess." he growled, his voice filled with a tempestuous mix of pleasure and longing. It was almost as if his raw desire could not be contained, escaping through every word and gasp that tumbled from his lips. The euphoric haze that surrounded you both grew denser, threatening to consume everything in its wake. "Come on beautiful wanna feel you cum for me." He said with a low growl to his voice, practically demanding it.

As your bodies moved with unrestrained abandon, each collision awakening long-dormant desires, the tension reached its crescendo. The sensations became a torrential storm, building with an unyielding force that had both pleasure and pain intertwining in a tumultuous embrace.

And in that moment, when the world came crashing down around you, all that remained was the fiery connection between Manjiro and yourself. His cock throbbed out its orgasm pumping thick ropes of cum into your slick trembling heat. Your bodies convulsed together, a symphony of shared release that burst through the boundaries of time and space. The savage pleasure surged through your veins, numbing your senses and leaving you breathless in the aftermath.

As your bodies trembled, locked in the embrace of shared post orgasmic bliss, a heavy silence settled over the room. The air seemed to hum with a mix of satisfaction and longing, the remnants of your union lingering like an intoxicating aura. And as you lay there, tangled together in the aftermath of passion, you realized that no matter how much time had passed, the connection you shared with Manjiro would forever burn within you.

Your mind was hazy from the intensity of the pleasure that had been wrought upon your body. You held onto him tightly, burying your face into the crook of his neck and placing gentle kisses against his throat as you tried to catch your breath. "Don't leave me again Jiro, please, please. I don't wanna lose you again." You murmured into his skin, knowing it was far more than likely even if he spent the night he would disappear come morning. He was the leader of a criminal organization, something that posed both a constant danger and was a 24/7 commitment.

Manjiro's breath hitched as your words reverberated against his skin, each plea like a dagger in his already tormented heart. The weight of your love and vulnerability bore down upon him, reminding him of the dark path he had chosen, the burdens he carried, and the danger that surrounded him.

His fingers gently traced patterns along your spine, his touch a bittersweet anchor in a world that threatened to rip you apart. His voice, tinged with a softness that belied his hardened exterior, broke through the heavy silence. "I can't stay princess." he murmured, his tone heavy with resignation. "The path I've chosen is not one that allows for stability or safety."

His words were a painful admission, a reminder of the brutal reality that separated you. But beneath the surface, there was a flicker of longing, a desperate desire to hold onto the fragile moments of connection you shared, even if they came at the cost of his own well-being.

"I... I love you. More than anything," he whispered, his voice filled with a complex mixture of devotion and despair. "But I can't ask you to wait for me. I can't offer you the life you deserve."

He held you tighter, knowing that the pain of letting go would only intensify in the morning. With each passing moment, the weight of his responsibilities and the darkness that consumed him threatened to shatter the delicate bubble of intimacy you had created.

In that poignant moment, Manjiro realized the price he had paid for his choices—the constant yearning for a love he could never fully possess, the constant fear of losing the one thing that could bring him solace. He had already lost so much, too much. "My life, what I've become... It's not a life that allows for stability or happiness. The darkness I'm immersed in is unrelenting, and I don't want to drag you into it any further than I already have."

There was a heaviness in his words, a truth that echoed through the room and settled in the hollow of your chest. He untangled himself from your embrace, a mixture of longing and sorrow etched on his features as he gazed down at you.

"Please understand," he implored, his voice laced with pain. "I'm a danger to you, princess I'm a toxin that poisons everything I touch. It's better if you stay away, find someone who can give you the happiness you deserve."

Despite his words, a flicker of desperation burned within his gaze, a lingering need that refused to be extinguished. It was as if his soul yearned for the solace and love you offered, even if his rational mind knew he couldn't keep it. "Love is not enough to protect you from the demons that reside within me. I can't bear to see you suffer because of my darkness." he whispered, his voice barely above a lament.

As he gathered his clothes and prepared to leave, the weight of his decision hung heavily in the air. It was a bittersweet parting, with both of you acutely aware that regardless of the love that bloomed between you, the path he had chosen meant that your futures were destined to diverge.

With a last lingering glance, Manjiro pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his touch a mixture of tenderness and farewell. Then, like a shadow dissipating in the night, he vanished, leaving you to grapple with the haunting emptiness that his absence brought.

Though his love for you was undeniable, the path he had chosen ensured that the two of you could only exist as star-crossed souls, forever locked in a dance of desire and despair — bound, yet ultimately destined to be torn apart.

#tokyo rev #bonten mikey #bonten mikey x reader #bonten #bonten mikey x reader smut #mikey x reader smut #mikey x reader #mikey x you #mikey angst #manjiro sano smut #manjiro sano x reader #manjiro sano x you

[the-kr8tor]

I don’t know if you’re still taking asks for fluffy Friday but could you do a fic of the Hobie x reader twin AU, where the reader goes into labor and has the twins and their reactions during and after the twins are born!! Your recent one of them seeing the ultrasound was so cute!! But now I kinda wanna see the chaos and the cute that follows lol!! I feel like the doctors would low key be intimidated by Hobie cause he’d taking care of reader but also be staring them down 😂 to the point they’re ask him to leave but he doesn’t of course!! Sorry for the long ask!! Your last fic was just to AMAZING 🤩 !!

Ahhh another twin au request! Thank you for sending this one ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, TW blood mention, Billie and Ramona AU, twin AU.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

You were in an unimaginable pain, the kind you would never wish on anyone, your voice is hoarse from all the screaming and cussing out whoever was unfortunate enough to slightly annoy you. Too bad for Hobie, your annoyance and anger were mostly thrown at him. You had him in an iron grip, he's sure his hand would be aching for days to come. He's been a great help in alleviating the pain, patting your sweaty face dry, feeding you ice chips, whispering words of encouragement and the occasional glare at the doctor who arrived fashionably late to the party.

The epidural was your best friend that you've never thought you'd even befriend. You were sure that you wouldn't need it but after what must've been the umpteenth contraction, you were more than happy to accept its friendship.

After twenty hours of labor, all the literal blood, sweat and tears were all worth it. From the first cry of the older twin came a sudden elation, then the younger came only after five minutes apart from her sister with a loud energetic cry. You were in pain, now everything you're currently feeling is extreme happiness, and also fatigue you've never experienced before.

Following all the ‘good jobs’ from the hospital staff and numerous tearful kisses from Hobie, it's safe to say you're officially a parent to the most beautiful pair of twins. Your girls, the light of your life.

With both babies cleaned and you wiped from all the fluids, they're properly swaddled and checked by the doctor and nurses, you lay almost half asleep with your babies on your bare chest. Hands securing them atop their tiny torsos. They gurgle, making the cutest sound you've ever heard whilst Hobie takes hundreds of pictures with his digital camera. He still can't believe his eyes at the little family he now has.

“Hobie,” you say hoarsely, eyes watery from all the happy sobbing and tiredness. “I think you've got all their angles covered.”

He lifts the camera off his eye, greeting you with a genuine grin. “Alright, let me have a turn at them so you can sleep”

You scoot over, giving him space to sit right next to your hip. Hobie takes the oldest first in his arm with slight trepidation and oh so careful like he's handling the finest china.

“Hi, dad's got you” Hobie looks down at his daughter staring up at him with curious eyes, he doesn't miss the fact that she mirrors your own, almost a copy of yours. With a quick peck on top of her forehead, he moves to take the youngest and smallest from your arms. You help him by cradling the back of her head. “And I've got you too”

She answers with her lips wobbling, looking like she's about to cry her little heart out. Hobie bounces her lightly, making cooing sounds that he would always make when the twins were particularly rowdy in your belly. It works, she still frowns up at her dad but the tears don't fall.

“My brave girl, huh? Just like mum” he leans down slightly, juggling his girls whilst he lifts up the blanket to cover your bare chest. “You did amazingly, love” Hobie tells you for the tenth time just in case you forgot.

You hum in reply, heart tender at the sight in front of you. Hands cupping both his elbows, your way of helping him carry the bundles of joy.

“Did you at least make me look good in the photos?” You gesture to the digital camera on the side table. “I must look horrible in all of them after all that”

Hobie shakes his head, “you're as beautiful as the day I met you, and it's impossible for you to look horrible in pictures”

“Even after almost pooping while I was pushing them out?”

“Especially then” you laugh softly, winching at the soreness.

“You alright?” Hobie scooches closer to you, sharing his warmth, taking a quick glimpse at his girls already sleeping. He's not jealous at all.

“I'm okay, promise” you drop your hands from his elbows down to his thighs, too tired to lift them for a second more. “How are they?”

“Sleeping, you should be too” he observes you closely, your eyebrows slightly knitted, hands limp over his thighs.

“We haven't even decided names for them yet” you whisper.

“We've got plenty of time for that. Sleep, they'll be here when you wake up, yeah?”

“I don't think I want to, I just wanna stare at them forever” you fight an oncoming yawn.

“Sleep or I'll name them B one and B two” he jokes.

“You wouldn't” you do your best glare despite the sleep slowly enveloping you.

“You wanna bet? On second thought Bert and Ernie sounds better”

You surrender, “alright, alright, I'll sleep” your eyes threaten to close. “I really like the first one you suggested, it's Ramona, right?”

“Love” he says sternly with hints of fondness.

You giggle, “okay, love you. All three of you” giving them one last look over, you finally succumb to sleep.

“We love you too”

#request done #fluffy friday #hobie brown x reader #spider punk x reader #the kr8tor's creations #hobie brown #x reader #atsv fanfiction #spider punk #spider man across the spider verse #atsv fluff #atsv x reader #atsv fanfic #atsv hobie #twins au #ramona and billie au #hobie brown x fem!reader #hobie brown x you #hobie x you #hobie x reader #hobie fluff #spider punk x fem!reader #spider punk x you #tw blood #fanfic

[paragonrobits]

Princess Bubblegum, reminiscing about the events of The Tower: ...And then after I found out he had spontaneously developed telekinetic powers for the sole purpose of tearing apart the land to build a giant tower into space so he could rip off his father's arm in retribution for the loss of the original arm, I decided that SOMEONE ought to intervene. Simon Petrikov: Goodness! I had no idea he had such... ultraviolence in his heart. Marceline, pausing in the middle of sipping something drink related: ...seriously? Simon: What? Marceline: Look, I know your perspective on Finn might be a bit wonky because you mostly saw him from the best side but, I love the guy and I STILL have to tell you that, huh. How do I put this nicely? Marceline: I've been alive for over a thousand years, and I can tell you that Finn is the SINGLE most violent and bloodthirsty person I've met in my entire life. Princess Bubblegum: Oh my, yeah. Simon: Is this one of those ironic jokes that always goes over my head? Marceline: Nah. He really does like to fight. He channels it into heroic endeavors, and he doesn't like hurting people, but he LIKES breaking things. Bubblegum: Yeah. I think maybe I encouraged him to become my knight because it helped steer that drive into a helpful direction, and sometimes I think about what he might have wound up being in other situations. I mean, don't you remember that whole thing with the elements? I suppose those powers worked their way in and amplified the parts of ourselves we don't want to admit are fundamental, and with Finn... Bubblegum: He kept a lid on it, I heard, but he got bloodthirsty and consumed by it SO FAST. He was going to kill me, you know? At least until LSP woke him up with memories of friendship. Bubblegum: ...A shame the same thing didn't apply to me, I guess. Simon: Princess, I wouldn't worry too much about it. Magic messes you up if you don't adjust naturally to it. I'm kind of a case study for that. Actually, as I understand it, the crown is trying to turn its wearer into an imitation of an ice elemental so I suppose the same thing DOES apply to me. But anyway, my point is that succumbing to these powers doesn't really mean that much. Everyone falls to them somehow. Simon: But this does sort of illustrate why Finn's idea of helping me deal with my grief was to distract me by trying to help me kill a huge monster.

#adventure time #finn mertens #princess bubblegum #simon petrikov #elementals AT #marceline #the inside of finn's brain just constantly replays the RIP AND TEAR theme 24 7 #queued

[call-sign-shark]

Heaven in Your Eyes || Arthur Shelby x Reader!OC

Summary:  John is dead. Your whole world crumbles. Arthur and you are facing your first real argument, and everything grows out of control -- featuring Tommy Shelby x Reader.

Words: 5.8k

TW: Extreme angst - read at your own risk, graphic depiction of violence, domestic violence, mention of drug use, canonical violence, graphic depiction of murder, major character death, self-harm, guilt trip, co-dependent relationship.

Notes:

✞ Read the notes at the end.

Previous || Masterlist || NEXT

The creaking which resounded in the whole morgue when the door opened sent shivers down Tommy’s spine. The infamous Peaky Blinders’ boss was standing next to the mortuary table, staring at the ashen face of his little brother, frozen in a peaceful expression. Although Tommy tried his best to remain neutral, the way his enchanting turquoise eyes gleamed belied his profound sorrow. A sorrow so distressing that he was not even able to express it – instead, his negative thoughts piled up inside of his already decaying heart. First Grace, then John… Tommy let out a long exhale from his nostrils while going on with his morbid contemplation. How many more deaths would he have to endure before his hunger for power was sated? “Fuck, I’m sorry John.” He whispered, softly pressing his large hand on his brother’s muscular shoulder. The sensation of John was cold and hard, even above the fabric of his blood-stained shirt, “It wasn’t supposed to happen.” His hand then reached for the funeral shroud and pulled it over his brother’s chest, which had been riddled with bullets. He did not want John to look weak, even in death. He wished for people to recall his joy and strength, not his troubled last moments. “I’m sorry.” He reiterated, offering a last apologetic look at his little brother before turning around at the sound of someone’s heels beating the cold tiled floor. Tommy’s forehead creased as he furrowed his brows: he had not been expecting anyone now that Arthur and Esme had left.

“Tommy.”

The hypnotizing and melodious voice that called him led him to briefly open his eyes wide in surprise — especially when he recognized its owner. And when he did, his face immediately hardened. It was only seconds later that he saw you walking towards him with hastened steps, rivers of tears still streaming down your angelic face. He didn’t know what surprised him the most though, to see you here in this morgue, to hear you calling him “Tommy” and not “Thomas” for the very first time, or maybe the unexpected way you threw yourself into his arms. In fact, it was certainly a bit of the three at once. As soon as your body collapsed with his, the gangster’s muscles tensed, and his placid expression shifted into a stunned one: your affection had taken him aback.

“Oh my God, Tommy…”  You were crying your eyes out, your face buried in the crook of his neck. He could even feel the warm wetness of your tears on his skin, the little salty drops running down his chest and dying under his shirt. Esme had told him everything. Tommy blinked a few times to chase away the surprise and, gradually, his body relaxed as he felt your frail being snuggling against him, the freezing sensation of your dainty frame meeting the warm temperature of his skin even separated by the clothes you were wearing. He gave you a quick glance from above your head to check if what was happening was true and, finally, he sighed. As his arms wrapped around you softly, you felt like you were falling apart and, ironically, the only thing that held you together at this very moment was Thomas Shelby. The man you hated since day one.

“I’m here.”  His quiet and deep voice simply stated, soon followed by his arms tightening around you and his fingers gently diving into your waist, not willing to let you go anymore. To hell with your mutual hatred, you thought, Tommy had just lost a brother and you wanted to be here for him too. Surely, all the ice of his heart couldn’t shield him from grieving a loved one.

What started as an awkward hug soon turned into a powerful embrace when Tommy indulged in your love. All the resent, all your past arguments, all the fear… The more you were pressing together, the more they were turned into dust, “I’m fuckin’ here.” One of his hands ran up your body only to rest on the back of your head, inviting you to nuzzle your nose in the crook of his neck even more – which was what you did, desperately looking for comfort.

“I can’t… I can’t let him go. I don’t want to.” Your voice was merely a desperate whimper, for the uncontrollable sobbing and the ball of sorrow in your throat wouldn’t allow you to align more words. Another hiccup — The excruciating sadness almost suffocated you when you realized that John’s dry blood was still stuck under your nails.

“He’s gone, Heaven.” His words, stone cold, made you shake like a leaf, to the extent that Tommy was now certain you would shatter if he were not holding you. He started rubbing your back with his powerful free hand, the other clenching its fingers on the back of your head, “Listen to me.” He started, holding you firmly against his strong body: he was not going to let you all apart.

“They fucking shot him! Ces enculés lui ont tiré dessus!” You repeated in French, and of course he understood. He tried to hush your worries down but it didn’t work. Deaf to his attempt to comfort you, you gritted your teeth and let out a frustrated and painful cry. John was dead and your whole world felt like it was collapsing. Your little fists hit Tommy’s strong chest in a weak blow, anger taking over sadness as seconds passed. You were angry at him, at you, at Changretta, at the whole damn world. In truth, your mind didn’t know how to cope with grief anymore, and rather let you experience various emotions to test which one hurt the less. In response, the gangster restrained your movements by hugging you tighter and then, he brought his lips near your ear to keep you focused on him and only him.

“Hey, listen to me now.” He said with a firmer tone, catching your attention. You glanced at him and froze, realizing how dangerously close his face was, “I want you to calm down. You’re a fucking Shelby.” Despite his harsh words, Tommy’s tender caresses made amends for his toughness and managed to dry your tears up. His palms, then, wandered on your back and shoulders, stimulating every nerve of your quivering body to anchor you to reality, “There. Better.” He finally praised you, warming up your body with the sole power of his touch and rubs. Feeling calmer, you sniffed a little bit and tried to focus on the musky yet delicate fragrances of his cologne rather than on John’s corpse that was lying a bit further from you.

“Better.” You softly replied, surprisingly lulled by little King Shelby’s presence. A real miracle. Once comforted, you decided it was time for you to move your body from him and break the embrace though. After all, Tommy and you had never got along. Plus, you were pretty sure he wanted this to end as quickly as possible now that he had done his in-law duty. But, somehow, a little part of you still hope for this moment to improve your relationship from now. Maybe things wasn’t that hopeless? You were about to move but the gangster didn’t let you leave him. Quite the contrary, he pulled you closer until your breasts flattened against his chest and your cheek rested on his collarbone. Surprised, your lips parted but no sound came out.

“Stay.” Even though he did not mean it, his tone sounded like an order more than a request. Truth was, he couldn’t control it – the way his heart had quickened at the physical contact he was sharing with you unsettled him. As much as the thought that you came to him for comfort, not to your husband. Under the crushing weight of something he couldn’t name, Tommy delicately rubbed his perfectly shaven cheek against yours and buried his nose in your long white hair to get himself drunk with your spring-like perfume, “I’ll keep you out of sorrow, if you ask me,” He whispered, shutting his eyes tight and deepening his embrace again, until it became slightly painful. His thoughts swirled in his restless mind, and between plans for the Vendetta and the grief of John’s death, there was you. You and your intoxicating perfume. With his breath quickening and his lower lip trembling, Tommy allowed himself to sink into your softness, “And you’ll keep me out of it.” His husky voice was merely a murmur only you could hear. A soft whisper even the Grim Reaper, who was leaning over John and contemplating about where he was going to send him, did not catch.

“What do you mean?” You bated your doe lashes, confused at this sudden passionate demonstration of affection. But Tommy didn’t reply. In fact, he did not even hear a word you said for his mind was trying to cope with the overwhelming feelings and sensations that were drowning him. He felt like a sailor thrown into a raging see, desperately trying to keep his head above the water, and the only hope for him to survive was to cling onto you as hard as he could. The truth was it felt so good to have you in his arms, blessed with your holy and calming aura, that he had momentarily forgot what pain was like. For a split second, colors came back in his black and white life – something he hadn’t experience since Grace’s death. Letting out a relieved sigh, Tommy gently pulled his face away from you only for his mesmerizing turquoise eyes to dive into your celeste iris.

“It’s going to be alright, Tommy. It’s not your fault.” You stuttered, trying to comfort him too despite being slightly confused by his intense stare. Nevertheless, you could not help but commiserate with him, grief being one of the most universal human feelings to share. United in pain, you offered him a faint smile. The fearful gangster replied with utter silence – struck by the fact that he loved how his nickname sounded in your mouth. Only his brows frowned slightly as he watched you for the very first time: your big fair eyes, your long lashes, your plumped lips, the way your snow-white hair reflected the dull lights of the morgue… Last time he recalled having stared at you like this was during your first meeting, when his hand was wrapped around your throat. Worried by the unfamiliar ways he was looking at you, your little cold fingers grazed one of his hollow cheeks as softly as a feather’s caress to bring him back to his senses. A surge of electricity ran through his soul at the skin-to-skin contact. You touched him and, all of sudden, Tommy understood Arthur. He understood what he meant when he told him you were an angel. And after the epiphany came a moment of madness.

“No, it won’t.” He admitted with a sad tone you never suspected he was capable of. At his words, he finally gave in and broke the distance between your lips. Life flashed before your eyes, your brain momentarily ceasing to function at the soft press of his mouth. Tommy’s hand had wrapped itself around the back of your neck, keeping you from moving your face with one thick and strong palm. His kiss, eager but indescribably sensual, made your heart miss a small beat. It took you two solid seconds to realize what was happening, and one extra to push him away from you as he started to make it slow and deep with the wet stroke of his tongue. Forced to take a few steps back, his chest vibrated with a low groan of disappointment.

“No, Tommy.” You stuttered in a whisper, astounded by his bold and senseless move. Your fingertips grazed your swollen lips, still tingling with the sensation of his lips against yours, all the while your otherworldly pale eyes gawked at him wide open.

Tommy’s lashes fluttered, then he slightly shook his head to chase away the sweet torpor that had overtaken him for a short while. Regaining his composure, he clenched his jaws and tried to cope with your rejection. Admittedly, it had been a bit too much for him to handle. Why did he do that? What did happen in his goddamn mind? And how the hell could a woman say no to him? Unfortunately, Tommy couldn’t find any answer to these questions. All he found was frustration and anger, fueled by his unsufferable heartache of John’s death.

“No.” Tommy’s face closed up, going placid again while the blue of his iris turned two shades darker, “No” he repeated, trying his best to keep his emotions how he always did: hidden behind coolness, “So why did you come here and throw yourself in my arms?”

His question had taken you aback, for you didn’t expect him to wonder about such a trivial thing. Somehow, you wondered if he ever knew what the definition of platonic love was, or if all his interactions with women, except the ones from his family, always led him to their bed. “I just wanted someone to talk to...” Your eyes fled his, and you folded your arms to hug yourself, feeling suddenly freezing, “And I thought you’d maybe need someone too? I mean… I wanted to comfort you too. Just not—like this.” In truth, you were left agape by the whole misunderstanding. And by Tommy’s unfathomable mind.

Not minding that he was in a morgue, the King of Small Heath took of a cigarette from his pocket and rubbed it nervously on his lower lip before lighting it. Thoughts were now racing in his mind, along with your words. He could have dismissed the topic with a simple wave from his hand, but he couldn’t come to terms with how good you had made him felt for a few fleeting but intense minutes. Tommy’s chest rose and fell with rapid breath, for both shame and anger had crept into his bones. Why? He thought. Why did his brother had been allowed to meet you before he could? Why did Arthur, broken and fragile Arthur, had been allowed to have a loving woman by his side and not him? After all, he was the one who needed it the most. No, he was the one who deserved it the most. But now Grace was dead, all women he shared his bed with tended to leave an unpleasant after taste of ashes in his mouth, and the one he thought who could heal him didn’t want him. What kind of freaking curse was that? But in his inner turmoil and feeling of unfairness, Tommy forgot to take into account the real problem: you could do nothing for his heart. No one could.

“Alright then, you wanna talk? We gonna talk, ey. I wanna know something, Heaven. Why didn’t you save him ey?” A cloud of smoke escaped from his mouth, leaving you wondering if it was due to the cigarette or to his rage.

“Sorry?” You asked, feeling your shoulders tense.

He threw his cigarette further away before squinting his eyes as he talked to you “You resurrected a damn bird. Polly talked y’know. She told me you had the great power of healing, something that’s fucking rare. So why?”

“Why?! Why what?! What the hell are you implying?” You were starting to lose your patience, already fed up with his mean games. Moreover, your emotions was already all messed up with all the earliest events.

“Why the fuck didn’t you save John?! Why the fuck didn’t you bring him back to life?” His voice rose, resounding in the morgue so loudly that John probably heard it from where he was.

You blinked, astonished. “Because it doesn’t work like that, you fucking idiot!” You replied to his screams with louder ones, now troubling the dead’s final rest.

“Of course, it doesn’t. Isn’t it a bit ironic? I mean… For everyone, you’re a saint. For Arthur you’re a fucking angel, ey, even a divine being. But now that you have the occasion to use your wicked powers for something useful you can’t even do it!” His prose had turned into poison, seeping through your veins and contaminating soul.

“Thomas, stop it.” You begged, trying to remain calm. Surely, you didn’t want to argue right after John’s death. Especially not when he was there… You took a quick glance at his motionless body and your heart sank. Was it your fault?

“I told you what it is. You’ve bewitched all of them. You’ve bewitched me,” His eyes darkened, “All your so-called gifts come from the Devil... So come on! Bring John back to life, you fucking witch!”  He was now pointing John with his index finger, “Bring him back now!”

“HIS HEART HAD STOPPED BEATING!” You howled, self-control breaking down.

“It doesn’t matter, you had let him die!”

“I didn’t!” You shook your head, rage taking over you, “It’s the blood. My witchcraft doesn’t come from the Devil, it comes from the fucking blood. From the human body. That’s what I manipulate. I could have done something if his heart had been still beating the slightest, or if it had just stopped. But it wasn’t the fucking case!” Tears of wrath left a moist trail on your skin as you wiped them away quickly with the palm of your hand, “He was dead for too long when I found him!” A short silence fell in the morgue after your attempt to justify yourself – Tommy didn’t buy it.

“It’s your fault.” He concluded in a quiet and low tone, desperately trying to both find someone to blame for his brother’s death, and wanting to make you pay for rejecting him.

“W-What?” His words had stabbed you right in the heart.

“It’s your fault if John is now lying in a fucking morgue, dead and cold. You have let him die.”

“I didn’t!” Your voice broke.

“You fucking did! Look at him now, look at his fucking corpse riddled with bullet! Look at the fuck you did, ey!” Tommy had stepped aside and pulled the shroud from John’s body. Doing so, he gave you full sight on his bloody chest, whose round bullet wounds were already darkening. Such a macabre spectacle momentarily broke the last bit of sanity you had left.

John, Oh John, your soul lamented.

“ENOUGH!” You yelled. The way your usually sweet voice screeched was so powerful, so inhumane that all the lights of the morgue flickered, rendering the place even more ominous than it already was. On top of the dancing lights, whose glow had been undermined by your own darkness, the atmosphere around Tommy thickened. The gangster swallowed the lump in his throat, suddenly overtaken by an unpleasant and eerie feeling of unease. In other circumstances, your brother-in-law’s change in behavior would have appeased you. Especially when considering that shutting up was not in Tommy’s habits. Nevertheless, far too hurtful words and years of restrained spite got the best of you: from the moment you met to this one, Tommy had been nothing but a bane. Anger rippled through you, hardening your maimed heart and blurring every notion of decorum you’d usually try to respect for Arthur’s sake, “You wanna make me your villain?” You had stopped screaming. Quite the contrary, your tone had turned from a bawling banshee to the quiet and sinister sigh of Death. With that last question posed, you extended one of your arms, palm facing Tommy, and spread your fingers, “I’ll give you a reason to fear me!”

At first, Tommy raised a brow wondering what the goal behind your move was. Then, the fact you dared to scream at him and insult him – certainly combined with your rejection – made rage coiled in his stomach. He opened his mouth, about to reply to your arrogance when words choked in his throat. Hit by a sudden and obliterating pain in the chest,  Tommy pressed his hand were his heart was and looked up in terror as a thin trickle of blood started to run down one of his nostrils, dying his thin lips with a crimson color, “What—What are you doing to me?!” He stuttered, barely hearing his voice because of the sound of his own heart beating faster and faster echoed in his skull far too loudly. However, you didn’t answer him, far too consumed by the flames of your rage, licking though your delicate bones and dainty frame. With your hand still facing him, you started to close your fingers very slowly. Tommy coughed for each inch your fingers moved, his lungs were crushed harder in his tight chest. He wanted to scream – scream to let out the pain, scream to stop you, but the only noise he could make was muffled squeals, similar to an agonizing prey.

“Here is what I can do, Tommy! This is the pain I am capable to cause with my delicate and fragile little being! See? If I can heal, I can also make one sick and destroy them.”

“S—St—Stop...” He tried to beg, bloody mouth gaping, desperate for air. But this time he was not only met by your silence, but by the worsening of his pain to the extent that his legs were about to collapse. No, you didn’t want to stop. In fact, you wanted him to pay for everything. You wanted him to kneel.

“Beg.” Your voice echoed in the morgue and your eyes were staring coldly at Tommy Shelby who, crushed by the extreme pain you were exerting on his body, had no other choice than to rest one of his knees on the ground, right in front of you. The metallic taste of blood that kept running down his throat, thick and hot, enhanced his suffocating and labored attempt to breath. At this point Tommy had one certitude; you were going to kill him. Whether by a heart attack or by smashing his lungs to a pulp, it did not matter. What mattered was that, for the very first time since you met, he was at your mercy. Far too well he understood that all you had to do was to close your fist, and then he would end up lying down on the table next to John’s.

The shovels, the dirt in his mouth, everything came back to his mind as he fought to breath.

“Heaven!”

“Listen closely to what I’m about to say,” You spoke calmly, “I think I’ve had enough of your hypocritic ways and your unjustified battle against me, whose only goal is to tear me down. I am not going to kill you, Thomas Shelby. But if I spare you, it’s only because, first I don’t want to murder you in front of John, and then, because Arthur loves you. I don’t fucking know how he still does after every mean thing you’ve said and done to him, but the facts remain that he does.” You paused, finally reopening your hand, and lowering your arm. It didn’t take more for Tommy’s lungs to finally be able to stock air again and for his heart to return to a normal pace. The gangster immediately inhaled, still under the shock of what had just happened. Hands on the cold tiled floor, eyes wide open, he was shaking like a leaf in a raging storm, “So for Arthur’s sake and John’s memory, I want you to wear your most beautiful smile next time you’ll see me. Just like you told me the first time we met ey?”

By the time you’ve stopped stabbing him with your murderous and poisoned words, Tommy had managed to stand up on his quivering legs. Yet, he was still catching his breath and pressing one hand on his chest to alleviate the soreness of his lungs. He licked his lips to clean the blood off them, the taste of his own crimson essence reminding him of what he was: not a God. Much less the Devil. Just one simple mortal man. At this very moment, Tommy Shelby had lost his splendor. Still shaken and utterly terrified by your wicked abilities, little King Shelby looked at you, his face contorted in pure horror and disgust. “You…”  His enchanting turquoise eyes, whose color made women’s head spin, were now glazed with an almost primal fear, “You’re a fucking monster.”

“At least we have something in common.” You retorted, before turning your heels and leaving the morgue. John’s spirit wasn’t there anyway.

Following your quarrel with your brother-in-law, all you wanted was to go back home and hide from this cruel world in Arthur’s arms; the only place in which you could find a bit of inner peace. Moreover, you knew he would certainly need you after his visit at the morgue.  Your holy tears had flown from your eyes all the way home, only chased away by your delicate hands. The only thing that kept you from collapsing in the midst of the streets, weeping on the ground like a fallen angel, was the thought of finding your husband. It has always been you against the rest of the world anyway. So, what was your disappointment when hours flew and Arthur was nowhere to be seen. 

A little sigh escaped from your lips as you poured the rest of the red wine bottle you had opened earlier in your glass. Once your glass was refilled with alcohol, you simply dragged your exhausted body to the living room and collapsed on the sofa, looking blankly at the dancing flames in the hearth. Before panic settled in, you thought that Arthur needed time for himself after being informed of his little brother’s death — which was perfectly fine and understandable. He had every right to stay with his family, grieving the loss of his own blood. But the more time passed, the more his absence was weighing on you. Feeling your sorrow, Kaiser woke up from his nap, stretched his muscular body, and came closer to rest his large head on your thighs. The dog’s cropped ears were flattened, and his large hazel eyes were looking at you with sincere worry.

“That’s okay big boy, that’s okay.” You gently stroke his head, but despite loving your caresses the Cane Corso let out a sad whining sound, “I know…” You simply replied, knowing that Kaiser missed Arthur too, on top of hating the sight of you being that mournful. Suddenly, the mutt’s ears raised again, and he turned his head towards the door, sensing someone was coming. Trusting his shape senses, your eyes looked up at the entrance too. When your instincts weren’t working, you knew you could always count on Kaiser and tonight was no exception: only seconds later the door opened, revealing Arthur’s lanky silhouette. You got up from the sofa, putting your glass of red wine on the coffee table, and watched him carefully. 

“Cheri?”

“Hm.” The only reply you got was a grunt, followed by his staggering frame walking past you without stopping for a hug nor a kiss. In fact, you wondered if he even saw you. The strong scents of alcohol and tobacco floated in the air at his passage, leaving no doubt on his intoxicated state. You sighed, watching him walking towards the furniture and pouring himself another whiskey. Not the first of the evening for sure.

“Arthur, maybe you shouldn’t do that.” You said quietly, with care and sincere worry. Losing John had broken him, obviously, so you knew you had to be delicate with him. A lecture was definitely not what he needed at this aching moment, which was why you used suggestions rather than orders.  Nevertheless, your husband remained deaf to your gentle advice and gulped down the alcohol in one mouthful, right before pouring himself another glass. You shook your head and walked to him, for you could not let Arthur drink his pain until he passed out – because that was what he was trying to do. Somehow, he only acknowledged your existence when he felt your hand gently touching his arm, right above the thin texture of his shirt, “I’m going to run you a bath and we’ll go to bed, alright?” You finally said, knowing that no words would ease the tormenting grief he was experiencing. Why? Because you did too. John Shelby was your best friend. No. He was more than that, he was like another part of you. But as you weren’t blood-related, you’d rather leave your own pain on the back burner and take care of your husband, who hadn’t lost a friend but a baby brother. A loss whose ache you knew far too well. Taking this into account, you didn’t want to ask him if he was okay nor if he wanted to talk because you knew that no he wasn’t and no he didn’t want to.

“Yeah.” Arthur drank the second glass of whiskey and put it on the furniture a bit bluntly, his reflexes numbed by alcohol, “Yeah…” He sniffed, tears flooding his vision for the umpteenth time today – he had lost count. He didn’t think he had some left but here he was, crying again, unlike Tommy who could hold it well. “Heaven…” He moaned in pain, his suffering coming from the deepest part of his soul. You opened your lips to reassure him but you stopped: there was something unusual in his voice, “I need ye to save me …” He begged, turning around to face you even if his gaze remained fixed on the floor.

“I’m here.” One of your hands reached his waist with an indescribable tenderness, “Look at me Arthur.” The other slipped under his chin and gently forced him to look at you — which he ultimately did. Yet, the moment your eyes dived into his iris your heart stopped beating for a micro-while. His pupils were so dilated that the blue of his eyes was barely visible, reduced to small rings around two soul-sucking black holes. From then, you were quick to react: you slipped your hand in the pocket of his trouser and, when you did, your fingertips were met with the cold surface of a little vial. “No…” You whispered, pulling the object from his pocket and observing it with genuine disgust and disappointment. In truth, you could recognize it from miles away for those blue and small vials usually contained cocaine, “What the fuck, Arthur!” you exclaimed, stepping back from him and showing him the small bottle you were holding between your index finger and your thumb.

“What?” He straight off hissed, eyes half closed and his body slightly reeling left to right due to his state of inebriation.

“Did you take it?!” The answer was obvious, but you still wanted to hear it from him. You wanted him to admit it and assume the consequences of his relapse.

“Yes I did eh!” He finally exclaimed after one long second of staring at your eyes, searching for any kind of excuses he could find. But the disappointment in your frozen iris kept him from lying – He definitely could not do this to you, even drunk and high. You closed your eyelids a brief moment, for his words felt like a stab in the chest despite you already knew the undeniable truth.

“No Arthur that’s not going to be possible. You made a promise,” You tried to remain calm but red wine, your fight with Tommy, and the mess in your emotions had destroyed your diplomacy, “You’ve promised me! That’s… Thats not going to help you cope with John’s death!” One of your bare feet was nervously tapping the wooden floor.

“AND HOW AM I GOING TO COPE WITH IT EH? FOOKIN’ HOW?” He burst in anger, your words fueling the raging fire that was burning inside of him. Carried away by his emotional turmoil and the drug, Arthur swept the furniture with one violent movement of his arms, knocking the bottle and the glass over. The cacophony of broken glass made you jump a little as they crashed on the floor, exploding in dozens of shards.

You looked at him, shocked to the core, for he had never really yelled at you before. Each time his voice would rise in your presence it was always because of external factors, never because of you. In truth, Arthur had never got mad at you. The more he could do in your presence was being grumpy. However, tonight you were the source of his sudden anger, and such a revelation hurt like hell. For a fraction of a second, your angry expression flickered into an aching one. Still, you swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat and answered him with a cool, almost placid tone.

“Don’t yell at me. Understand?” You warned him, jaw clenched and every muscle of your tiny body tense,  “I don’t want you to take drug except on very, very rare occasions and I must be here– It was part of the deal.” You punctuated you sentence by throwing the vial into the fire, which burnt brighter for a short while. Arthur scoffed, his lips stretching in a sarcastic and irked grin.

“Isn’t it a fookin’ rare occasion? My brother’s dead. That’s a once-in-a-lifetime event that needs to be celebrated properly eh.” His bitter smirk disappeared as he winced with pain, bringing his trembling hands in his hair to pull it. “I need to numb the pain. To numb everything. Oh God, John is dead. Dead. He’s fookin’ dead!”  Each time he repeated the last word, Arthur hit his head with his fists. The dancing flames reflected in his teary eyes, and lit his face with an orange hue. It was getting hard to tell if such an effect came from the fire in the hearth, or if he was burning from inside.

“Stop it Arthur!” You grabbed his wrists with your little hands, trying your best to keep him from hurting himself, “I know alright? I know you’re suffering and I’m deeply sorry for it. I swear I’d love to take your pain away, but I can’t. I can’t,” You forced him to look at you by squeezing his wrists, “Thing is, I don’t want to watch you destroying yourself with cocaine or God knows what other kind of drugs! That’s out of fucking question!” Despite your attempt to remain calm, your emotions got the best of you. The betrayal of him breaking his promise was more painful than a bullet shot through your chest. Maybe more painful than losing John itself. Tears began to stream down your face as you let go of Arthur and observed his enraged and dilated pupils.

“What the hell do ye know, eh.” Arthur stumbled, closing the distance between you a second time and leaning over until his face and yours were only a few inches away. His whiskey breath fanned over your skin. “What the hell do ye knew about pain, little angel? You have no idea what I’m going through. If ye did you’d be the first to snort snow ey.”  

“Listen,” You sniffed, swallowing back a sob. Okay, maybe yelling at him wasn’t the best way to react so, in a desperate attempt of not aggravating the situation, you forced yourself to regain your calm  “I’ve lost my family, I know what it—”

“IT’S NOT ABOUT YOUR FAMILY!” He cut you, yelling so loud your ears buzzed, “THEY’VE BEEN SIX FEET UNDER FOR A FOOKIN’ WHILE! WE’RE TALKING ABOUT JOHN! MY LITTLE BROTHER!” Arthur’s eyes darkened and then, he bared his teeth like a wounded wolf trying his best to scare someone away, “They’ve riddled him with bullets, those mops. Those bastards! We’re in a fookin’ war and here you are scolding me like a kid because I took drugs! That’s fookin’ ridicu—”

The sound of flesh snapping echoed in the living room when your hand slapped him, followed by a heavy silence only the fire’s cracks broke. Arthur backed up at the blow, eyes wide open. Slowly, his shaking fingers brushed his reddened cheek, right where his skin was tingling. At this well-deserved reality check, the tall gangster blinked several times and finally noticed the heart-wrenching pain in your glistening eyes. You, who had tried to hold back your tears and be strong for Arthur, could not keep your sadness for yourself anymore. They flowed from your holy eyes, salty waterfall of sorrows. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Not a single sound. It was not really the fact you had hit him that petrified his whole soul, but rather the realization that he had hurt you, his beloved angel. The woman of his life.

Your face contorted with a caustic combination of pain, sorrow and anger. In truth, you didn’t want to hit him. You really didn’t. But he had been barking at you like a rabid dog, almost spitting at your face as he screamed. And then, he had the stupid idea of talking about your family while knowing what had happened to them. All brutally murdered in a matter of hours. Guided with rage, your blood had boiled, and your hand slapped him even before you truly realized it. “Don’t talk about my family like this anymore.” You hissed through gritted teeth, your cold voice seeping through him and turning his blood into liquid nitrogen.

“Heaven…” Arthur said, feeling himself breaking down at your hateful gaze. He quickly moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, thinking carefully about the next words that were about to come from his mouth but you didn’t let him the time to speak. You had heard enough.

“Shut up. Seriously Arthur, just… Shut up.” Your eyes, who always looked at him with indescribable love and tenderness, were now filled with Hell’s fury and it tore his soul. All of sudden, he felt very small despite towering you with his height.

“You think I’m not suffering from John’s death? You have no idea how much he meant to me. Of course, he wasn’t my brother! Of course, his blood doesn’t run through my veins. But still, he mattered like no one else did, except you.” Each sentence had a bitter taste. Then, you turned away from him and walked to the smashed bottle to take one huge shard between your fragile fingers, “You wanna know how it makes me feel when you’re high? We’ll that’s easy.” Now you were determined to make him understand, no matter what it took. First thing, you showed him the pale flesh of your forearm, “I’m not Linda, right? I didn’t put a leash around your neck because I trusted you. Now, I want you to look at me carefully. When you take drug, it’s as if I was doing this to myself.” Turning your words into deeds, you suddenly slashed your skin with the glass fragment in one quick motion. The sharp surface cut your skin just like butter, and crimson blood quickly filled the gash, overflowing from it and dripping down your arm to your elbow under Arthur’s astounded eyes.

“No, angel!” Suddenly sobering up at the sight of blood on your porcelain skin, he almost pounced on you and took the shard from your hand to threw it away, “The fook ye did eh?! Bloody hell…” Arthur tried to take your arm to examine the depth of your wound but you pushed him away with a stern “Don’t touch me”.

Don’t touch me. Surely, you didn’t mean it right?

You didn’t – Arthur’s heart ached.

“Now just imagine that all you can do is watch me cutting myself until, one day, I bleed to death. How fucking bad it would make you feel? How powerless?!”

“Gosh Heaven, you’re hurt. Oh God!” Arthur started to panic, tears filling his eyes and shoulder jolting with dawning sobs. His whole being ached at the sight of you wounded. It was stronger than him: he couldn’t bear the idea of your being hurt, even less when it was because of him — whether he was the direct cause or not. “I’m sorry love. Fuck, I’m so sorry…” He begged, trying to approach you again but each step he made caused you to step back. Arthur’s hand slowly squeezed his own arm, for he could almost feel the pain of your cut on his own unwounded flesh. Everything began to spin around him as he realized how stupid he had been, “Please, love…”

“Keep your apologies for yourself, Arthur. Let’s make things clear:  I’d rather burn at the stake than watch you slowly killing yourself with this shit.” You retorted, turning your heels and heading to the door not minding the fact you were not wearing shoes and that your arm was abundantly bleeding. It didn’t matter, you needed so fresh air and, more than anything, you needed to be away from Arthur for a little while. Meeting his eyes had become far too painful for you to bear anymore. You had almost reached the door when the gangster’s long and calloused fingers grabbed your hands to hold you back.

“No! Don’t leave me! Please, please I fookin’ beg ye but don’t… Just don’t leave me, Heaven.” He kept repeating over and over again, the gravel in his voice rising from one octave under the weight of despair and utter fear. The way his menacing traits had turned into the facial expression of a panicking child was truly heart wrenching – Arthur could not live without you, and it wasn’t a euphemism. Yet, you snatched your hand from his and, as you did, his very soul crumbled. As painful as it was to see him like this, you just couldn’t let this pass – he had to understand how serious you were about the whole drug issue, and how deep he had maimed your heart. You took one last look at him, shaking your head in disapproval, and stormed out of the house, letting the darkness of Watery Lane swallowing you whole.

At first, he had wanted to pin you against the wall and force you to stay. His desperate mind, seeking for any way to keep you by his side, had even thought about threatening to kill himself with his gun right in front of you if you left, but he had been frozen by the disappointed look on your face. Petrified by your gaze, as a poor unfortunate traveler meeting Medusa’s deadly eyes. Following your departure, Arthur had screamed until his throat hurt and his voice broke. The drowning misery he was experiencing, far worst than suffocating in French tunnels, had led him to destroy everything he could in the living room. Maddened by the thought of losing you, the flip in his brain switched and nothing made sense anymore. You had left him alone here, and he felt his mental health getting worse and worse as minutes passed, until he was completely out of his mind. He had done all he could to alleviate his guilt and sadness: from throwing in the fire all the cocaine he kept to hiting a furniture until his knuckles’ skin cracked open. God, he even threw his lanky frame at the wall several times in a frenzied attempt to knock himself up and get a break from the pain of your absence, but nothing worked. He was now sitting on the rug, rocking himself back and forth in front of the dying fire. If you didn’t want him anymore, all was left for him was to blow his damn brains out with his gun for if you’d rather burn than witness his fall, he'd rather die than existing one sole second without your heavenly presence by his side. He could afford to lose Linda, John, hell even Tommy, but he couldn’t do it without you.

Arthur looked at his wedding ring, jaw clenched and heart in bits.

He had fucked up. And he had fucked up really bad.

As he always did.

✞ Readers are left to interpret/choose what the characters feel for the reader. By no means it wants to make Reader/Heaven a Mary Sue everyone loves. Nevertheless, fanfiction should remain fun for readers so that's why I leave most of the things open to interpretation.

✞ Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language.

✞ Tag list: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @brummiereader @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @shelbydelrey @peakyswritings @helen06dreamer

#arthur shelby #arthur shelby x reader #Peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #Arthur shelby x oc #Thomas Shelby #Tommy shelby x reader #Tommy shelby x oc #Arthur shelby x you #arthur shelby jr #arthur shelby x y/n #Arthur shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fanfic #john shelby x reader #Arthur shelby x ofc #Heaven Shelby #Polly Gray #Michael Gray #tommy shelby #peaky blinders x reader #Paul anderson #Cillian Murphy #Heaven shelby #arthur shelby x heaven lavey #Heaven Lavey #Peaky blinders OC #paul anderson #peaky blinders #arthur shelby fanfic #arthur shelby fanfiction

[elsfairy]

꒰⠀WHAT’S MY NAME?⠀⠀⎯⎯ ⠀⠀SEVIKA. 🏒 ꒱

hockey!sevika is a menace. on and off the ice. always having her hands and arms around/on you protectively. she didn’t trust anyone to be around you, even if they were her said friends. Sevika was pushing borderline possessive when something involved you, simply because she cared about you so much that even the thought of someone else stealing your heart, made her skin crawl. if she was too busy practicing, and you were in the seat you always choose, watching her? then her eyes are more focused on the people around you than the puck she was supposed to be hitting. If you were laughing at a joke some other girl had told you? She’s clenching her jaw so tight that the veins in her neck threatened to pop, trying to figure out what was so fucking funny that it had her girl laughing, and giggling. “fucking asshole” is the term she’d always mutter under her breath, brain spiraling and thinking that someone was trying to flirt with you. Even if they weren’t. She’s just… jealous. you’ve never given her a reason to be, it’s just how she was when you were around. your relationship was her first real one, and every fiber of her being wanted to protect you, but keep everyone at bay and understand they can’t just have you as she has you. So yeah, Sevika was jealous that someone could make you laugh like you do when you’re with her, and that pisses her off more than anything. Because why? what’s so funny about their jokes? why are you laughing at their jokes with that little choked giggle you do when she says something funny? 

No, she didn’t like that. That giggle is hers to hear. That smile is hers to see. That fucking blush on your cheeks will always be hers to admire when you’re so zoned out, not paying any attention to her. 

Fuck, why was she jealous of a girl who didn’t even stand a chance with you?

For whatever reason she had, it didn’t take long to become a lot more silent towards you for the rest of the time she had to practice, giving you side-eye glances from across the stadium when she could, even if you couldn’t see them. Kept her eyes more or so focused on the floor, the puck, and the hands that gripped the stick tightly. Afraid she would break it if she held on any tighter.

“Who do you plan on killing with that grip?”

“Oh fuck off”

It only went downhill from there. Those glances became cold and closed off. You weren’t exactly sure why she had gone the full 5 yards and started blatantly ignoring you, but she could sense it was bothering you with the way you glanced over at her, pouting. She just didn’t know why that girl flirting or joking with you was affecting her so badly. The silent treatment went on for the entire ride back to her apartment, her hands gripping the steering wheel with a tight grip and a locked jaw that had you nervous. Why was she mad? Why was she ignoring you? Why hadn’t she said anything to you for the past hour? Did you do something wrong? The thoughts and questions were endless to you.

You had a whole apology ready for whatever reason the second the pair of you had finally made it back to the warm, cozy, and cool apartment. Ready to fall on your knees and beg her to forgive you for what you had done without knowing if it meant she would finally talk to you & stop ignoring you with every word said, or breathe you took. All of that died down the second the door closed, her large hand enclosed yours in a tight grip, pulling you into the bedroom, just a few words filling the air. “I’ll show you”

This was her favorite sight. Your face buried in the mountains of pillows that covered her bed, ass high in the air, and the only thing you had left on your body was her Jersey. The only piece of clothing she refuses to let anyone touch, let alone wear was bunched up over your hips, one of her hands had an iron grip on your hip, the other tightly wrapped around the fabric of the shirt and her strap buried so deep in your cunt that you were feeling like you’d feel it for days. She’s managed to pull 2 consecutive orgasms from you already within the past 30 minutes and is possessively going for a 3rd or 4th. Her pace was brutal, tearing whine after whine from your puffy, red lips that were covered in your own spit, and she could feel the pride swelling in her chest because she had you like this. You were fucked out & dumb on her strap, wearing her Jersey with her name on it, and the smirk on her face grew, thrilled because she was the one who was ever going to have you like this. Feel you like this. And have you forever. “What’s my name?”

“v-vika…”

“What’s my name?”

“Sevika!”

“Yeah. That’s right. Keep saying my name because it’s the only one you’re ever going to remember, Sweetheart”

based on this idea of Sevika letting you wear her jersey. Happy pride month 🌈

#this is rushed & bleh im sorry <3 #i needed to get this out before i combust #sevika #arcane sevika #sevika imagine #sevika x you #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #sevika smut #arcane #arcane smut #hockey!sevika #sevika drabble

[devildomsoup]

Shatter and Repeat

Genre: Angst

Character: Lucifer

Type: Oneshot

He is tired.

So, so very tired. 

Lucifer's back hurts, his head is pounding and everything seems slightly blurry. But he will not let it show.

From an outsider's perspective, he looks completely fine. Even from his brothers’ perspective, he looks fine. Nobody can tell that Lucifer is, in fact, anything but fine.

That is how he wants it to be. 

Lucifer is the avatar of pride. There is no way he will let anyone know he is struggling. His pride will simply not allow it.

Or rather, he will not allow himself to be a burden.

His brothers, annoying as they sometimes can be, are still the light of his life. They are his motivation. They are whom he fights to protect.

They are his everything.

They are his younger brothers, and he is their older brother.

As their older brother, it is his duty to make them happy.

Sure, Mammon's spending habits are annoying. But in the end, Lucifer still pays the bills Mammon can not and hands him a few Grimm for "food" just to be sure.

Sure, Leviathan's ramblings can be a bit tedious. But in the end, Lucifer will still wait hours in line for that limited edition anime figurine Leviathan dreamed of even though he has loads of work.

Sure, Satan's rampages are tiring. But in the end, Lucifer still replaces any book of Satan's that the avatar of wrath might destroy by accident.

Sure, Asmodeus' constant partying gets on his nerves. But in the end, Lucifer still stays awake every time, so Asmodeus can get help if he needs it.

Sure, Beelzebub's never-ending hunger drains him from time to time. But in the end, Lucifer will still make sure to always buy extra food whenever he goes grocery shopping. 

Sure, Belphegor's sleepiness causes problems. But in the end, Lucifer still places a blanket over Belphegor whenever he falls asleep in a random place.

Ultimately, no matter how much he denies it, Lucifer loves his family.  

He does things that he is not proud of, and maybe he is too harsh. But he truly cares about his brothers.

Sometimes, though.

Just sometimes.....

It feels like his brothers do not care about him.

Maybe Lucifer deserves it. Maybe this is his punishment. Maybe this is his own fault. Maybe if he could just be better. But why can his brothers not see how much he is hurting?

Why can they not understand that the constant bickering is wearing him down? Can they not see the grey hair that appears because Lucifer needs to solve most of their problems?

But that is the name Lucifer has made for himself. The eldest brother with a heart of stone and a cruel smile. The one who rules the home with an iron fist and ice-cold eyes.

Maybe if he just said something.

No.

He can not do that. He just simply can not do that. Impossible.

He is not Lucifer if he can not shoulder every burden. He is not Lucifer if he can not carry the world. He is not Lucifer if he can not be perfect all the time.

How can he possibly be proud of himself if he can not do that?

If he can not keep all the pieces of himself together even when they are threatening to fall apart.

If he allows the people around him to see those tears that are threatening to spill at any given moment?

Lucifer can not possibly allow himself to do that. How can he call himself the avatar of pride if he can not even keep himself together?

Perhaps the true nature of his sin is self-destruction.

An evil force gnawing at his bones hidden under a veil of confidence. The sin that is engraved into his soul is tearing Lucifer apart. Tearing his family apart. But his sin is screaming to be pleased to have its needs fulfilled.

The constant need to be perfect. To be the best.

He knows he should stop, but he has no idea how to do that. How can he stop the evil growing inside his chest? How can he fix the gaping hole in his heart?

Sure, he can smirk as he watches those lower demons quiver in fear of his power. But in the end, did it really matter? Is the price of this perfection really worth it? Is all of this really worth it if it destroys his family?

Lucifer does not have time to think about those things, at least not right now. Not while he has to keep his facade up. Not while he has to keep himself together. Because if he thinks about it now, he might shatter.

So Lucifer will bury all those feelings deep inside. At least for now.

At least until he is out of sight and all the paperwork is done. Lucifer will wait until everyone in the House of Lamentation falls asleep and all the papers have been signed. He will write until his hands bleed and his eyes sting. Only then can he allow himself to let go.

When everything is finally finished and his home is dead silent, Lucifer will take off his mask.

Lucifer allows himself to crumble into tiny pieces. He allows himself to cry until he gets nauseous. He will cry so silently that the only proof of him crying will be the tears dripping down his cheeks. He feels regret, fear, and despair. All the feelings he locks away during the day.

Lucifer allows himself to shatter.

When the next day arrives, he will pick up all the tiny pieces and put them back together. Lucifer will put his mask back on. He will walk out of his room and have breakfast with his brothers like nothing happened. He will push through the day, and then when it becomes night, he will fall apart again only to put himself back together the next morning.

Shatter and repeat.

Shatter and repeat.

Shatter and repeat.

#obey me shall we date #obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me angst #obey me lucifer angst #obey me writing

[rowaelinsdaughter]

Can I request no a Rowan fic I absolutely love the last one you did

dont feel pressured tho and write whenever you feel like please put yourself fist

Can I request one where reader has like very bad health and is also like low on all vitamins and is super low on iron like and bc of that she has all these side effects and feels like a burden like she is holding him back and ruining his life and maybe make her like super sick she gets a fever and stuff

I’m mainly self projecting on this one a bit bc im super sick and need a rowan fic and him to just take care of me😭😭 i be lacking in all vitamins ti lol

And please add lots of rowan you can never have to much rowan like he takes care of her snd just pampers her and gives her little kisses and stufd and just the full princess treatment and him just being him like love rowan

SICK

a/n;; i had to do some research for the sintoms but i think it turned out good, so, here you have!!

WARNINGS;; low iron, dizzy, fatigue, burden feelings

her body was aching, her head was dizzy and she was extremely fatigued. she hasn’t felt this way in a very long time, always checking her iron levels and the vitamin levels were normal, but when last night she started to feel tired and her face was pale, she knew something was going to happen. and it did.

rowan had awoken because her hands were cold as ice, something not normal in her, but when he heard her fast heartbeat… he knew what was happening. he had a meeting that morning, but he didn’t care. his mate was suffering, and by the way she was feeling, rowan kicked out graviel the moment he appeared at their door. 

slowly opening the door, making sure he didn’t pour the food, he made his way to his mate.

“babe” he whispered. she moved a little, slowly waking up from her nap “i have the food, come on” she opened her eyes, and rowan felt his heart ache a little at the sight of his suffering mate. before she could incorporate, rowan was lifting her to his lap, his back on the board and an arm around her fragile figure. 

“i feel like a burden…” barely a whisper. 

rowan frowned at that, lifting the fork to her. “why do you think that?”

chewing slowly, he waited  for her to finish. “because you were… supposed to have a meeting… but you are here…” she took a breath. “ i don't like it rowan…”

leaving the fork on the plate, his hand moved to her cheek. “you are not a burden. you are my mate, i dont feel obligated to have to take care of you and will never feel obligated. i love you, that will never change, sick or healthy” a tear “hey, don't cry” a low laugh from him. 

“it's your fault, rowan for saying things like that when i'm at my lowest”

“well, good thing i'm here for lift you when you are at your lowest”

“seriously rowan, stop” 

rowan laughed a little harder, lifting the fork again to her. once she finished all the food, rowan covered her again in the bed and he finished the house tasks. when he finished, he laid down beside her. her face and lips less pale but the fatigue was still present on her factions, laying on their sides, rowan started to leave small kisses on her face, a small laugh falling from her lips.

“ro, stop please, it tickles” he laid his weight on her, trying not to crush her, and started tickling her. crying for him to stop, she was trying to push him apart, but it was impossible. “ro, please!!” another laugh from her was enough for him to stop. 

he laid beside her watching his mate trying to catch some air. she looked at him and punched him in the arm. “i hate you rowan whitethorn” “no, you don’t” side by side, they watched each other and rowan thought he might die from this. from the love for his mate, from watching her everyday and thinking that he was the luckiest person in the world.

“thank you rowan”

“for what?”

“for loving me and for taking care of me”

“always, angel. always”

all rights reserved to ©rowaelinsdaughter. no tranlations allowed. no copy theme. don not copy my work.

tagging;; @shadowdaddies @hellwantfuckme @danikamariemain @thehighladywrites @loneliestluvr @throneofsapphics

#sarah j maas #sjm books #fanfic #throne of glass #throne of glass imagine #throne of glass fanfiction #rowan whitethorn #rowan x reader #rowan fanfic #rowan fic #tog x reader #tog fic #tog series #tog

[hannieluvsyou]

Drift Away. (Part One)

Xu Minghao x Reader (ft. Moon Junhui)

description: wherein your love for him slowly fades into blurry lines, and he realizes too late.

genre: angst

warnings: unrequited feelings (for now), swearing, Minghao is painfully oblivious

note: : I apologize in advance for any typos or grammatical errors. (This is also my first time writing angst hihihi). I'm also planning to make multiple parts bc I'm too lazy to write this all in one go.

Xu Minghao. My best friend. My star.

In this world, he is the only thing I have. I cherish him, more than anything but.. It's all one sided.

I give him everything. My time, my attention, my support, everything. But nothing is ever enough for him to see these lines I created that connects us. The lines that hold clarity, sincerety, and love that is meant for him and him only. The love that he failed to comprehend.

I was aware that he never asked for this, but I can't help it. His smile that lights up the whole atmosphere, his laugh that levels with the hymns of the angels in heaven, his heart that's full of warmth. He deserves more than this world has to offer.

But, his heart was out of reach, already beating and seeking for another.

But it's okay. It's not his fault. It's me who keeps on hoping that maybe, maybe things will take a turn. Maybe he might see me, too. It's my fault for letting myself fall in love with him so easily.

It was inevitable though, he's so fucking easy to love! Everything he does holds no flaw, every action carries grace, every word comes out like silk, what's not to love?

Even if I know that my love will continue to rot between us, I find myself still falling for him despite everything.

But.. I don't think I can fall for him any deeper. I had already reached the bottom of this sorrowful pit that I filled with false hope.

The false hope that I clung onto for the past years with him.

Today was the day that I decided to climb out of that pitiful pit.

It was a normal day. Nothing special going on, no events of any kind. Atleast that's what I thought.

I was getting ready to go to the grocery store since I ran out of stuff to eat but suddenly Minghao texted me, saying he needed help with something. Of course I couldn't refuse, it was him after all.

But oh how I wish I could rewind time and decline.

He arrived at my apartment looking clammy and nervous but I could sense some excitement hiding in there. As he flopped down beside me he finally looked at me and said the things that I wish I didn't hear. The words that I wished were aimed at me.

"Please help me confess to Lijuan."

I can feel my heart drop down.

Lijuan. My ex-best friend. How fucking ironic.

She's not only my ex-best friend, but also a backstabbing manipulator who took everything away from me when we were kids. Everyone I talked to back then, suddenly end up vanishing since little miss perfect was bad mouthing me.

I don't know how to feel, I want to disagree but I can't. I want to be selfish, but I had no right.

"Of course." I wanted to fucking cry but his wide grin and sparkly eyes made my lips quirk up a bit.

"Thank you! I knew I could count on you." He sighed in relief and proceeded to bid his goodbyes since he has to prepare for this big moment.

After he left, I was left on the couch alone. I didn't know what to do. I was heartbroken and devastated, yet what right do I have?

I decided to not go to the grocery store anymore since I lost every ounce of my appetite. Minghao said he'll text me the details about his confession, saying he'll take her out to this fancy dinner and break the ice to her.

I wanted to tell him about Lijuan, but I doubt that he'll even believe the shit that she has done to me.

I lay down on my couch and just stared at the ceiling above me, I wanted to cry but no tears came whatsoever.

'Maybe we were never meant to be after all..'

I was about to drift off to sleep but a sudden 'ding!' made me sit up and grab my phone.

Haohao: hey, would you mind picking up the flowers i ordered? They're already paid so u just have to pick them up.

Haohao: [location]

I stare at the message for a bit before typing my response.

You: sure, i don't mind.

Haohao: thanks again, i owe you one.

The things I would do, just because it was you. Damn, this hurts more than I thought.

I begrudgingly stood up and made my way to the location he sent me. It was a cute little flower shop situated beside a park.

As I entered the shop I was immediately greeted by the welcoming scent of flowers.

"Hello, welcome! How can I assist you?" A tall good-looking boy came up to me holding a bunch of roses.

"I'm here to pick up an order for Xu Minghao." I say with a somewhat bitter tone. He seemed to notice, and proceeded to ask, "Sorry for asking but is he your boyfriend? Did you have guys fight? You seem.. sad." He said now putting the roses down.

'Are you supposed to be a therapist or something?' I wanted to say.

"No, he's not my boyfriend and no we didn't fight. Can I just get his order, please?" He sensed that I did not want to dwell on the topic any further and only nodded. He went to the back to pick up the bouquet, I'm assuming.

As I wait for him to return, I'm stuck with my own thoughts. Am I really just giving up on him? It's not like I have a choice, though.

From now on, I think it's best to keep my distance from him and move on.

I can feel my heart drift away, I can hear the string snap between us. The string that failed to hold us together.

Thank you for making me happy, Xu Minghao. It's time to let you go.

#kpop #svt x reader #svt x y/n #svt x you #svt fanfic #svt #svt angst #xu minghao #minghao #myungho #seventeen the8 #the8 #the8 x reader #the8 x you #the8 x y/n #moon junhui #wen junhui #jun #junhui x reader #wen junhui x reader #jun x reader #jun x y/n #angst #fanfic #au #seventeen x reader #x reader #seventeen x y/n #seventeen fanfic #seventeen x you

[teamhook]

The Last Witch Hunter:: CSSNS

Hello. I know I shouldn’t start a new one but I couldn’t stop myself. I hope this will be incentive for the Muse.

Thanks to the @cssns

Thank you to my lovely beta that is a saint @ultraluckycatnd

AO3   FFN

Summary:            

Witches are among us. After centuries of conflict, a truce was forged. Only one strict rule, magicks could never be used against humans. Killian Jones is the last witch hunter; he serves The Order of Blazing Sword and Cross and protects humans. Now, though, he needs help from an unlikely ally to put an end to the darkness that is worse than any known threat, and has been lurking in the shadows, threatening to destroy humanity

The fallen tree branches intertwined with the overgrown roots that covered the ground. The humid air made it difficult to breathe. The valiant champions included a widowed Killian, his priest brother, and their father. They were amongst the last line of defense. They had all lost so much already. Wives, fathers, mothers, husbands and children; families torn apart. They were walking into a death trap knowingly as they split away from each other. Each falling prey to traps and illusions created to not only torment their minds but end their lives. The only hope left was to end the Queen Witch’s power and in her death, humanity would find their salvation at whatever the cost. The band of brave men made their way through the ice cold mountains to her lair. The darkness of the forest aided the evil hag and her minions as they killed the men one by one. The screams echoed within the trees. They needed to reach her nest; the Hexen dwelled within the tallest tree in the center. The giant sequoia stood in the middle of the field covered in shadows, the vines bulging from the ground across the path. The perfect abode for those who worshiped the darkness. Light had no place here.

 The temperature dropped as the brave man could see his breath in front of him while he struggled to keep his wits and focus on the task at hand. He stepped over his fallen brethren while making his way deeper into the nest. He knew there would be no surviving the quest but failure was not an option.  

 The ground shook abruptly and grumbled. His attention was drawn to the silhouettes in front of him. One was crouched on the ground, and the other was kneeling in front of the first one. He moved swiftly to get a closer look, and to his dismay, he could now see the witch had her hand inside the chest of a man. It was an older man whose features were enhanced by the flame of the fire surrounding them. It was his father.

 "Liam!!" He bellowed for his brother to help as he rushed to save their father.

 His father looked at him one last time as life was crushed out of his heart.

 The ground trembled again, and it became icier as the sudden snow flurries covered his body. He reached the crone as she stood up to face him with an evil smirk. She moved quickly in front of him, and reached for his heart. He was able to evade her hands with a spin; he swung his iron blade at her as she cackled, mocking him.

 Killian finally managed to do the unbelievable and get the upper hand. The witch struggled to stay upright and she shoved her hand inside his chest. "I curse you to eternal life. You will continue to live and see all those around you die. You will be left behind. Forever alone." She squeezed his heart one last time before taking her last breath.

***

 His eyes shot open at the violent yawing of the craft. This went beyond turbulence. It was freezing. It was an abnormal storm. He stood up to find the culprit but the flight attendant stopped him. "Sir, you need to go back to your seat," the woman said as she pressed her hand on his hard chest.

 Killian could see the interest in her eyes but right now was not the time. "I'm sorry, lass. I need to use the facilities," he said in a low voice while invading her space.

 She smiled in return. “You should return to your seat.”

 “I promise to do so after I’ve done my business.” He crossed his heart.

 She looked around and noticed no one was paying attention to them. “All right, but try to be quick.” She smiled, hoping her leniency will earn her a nice lay over.

 Killian walked past the restroom to the small flight attendant station. He grabbed a cup of water and pulled out a pouch from his wallet. It had a couple of small tools including a needle, which he quickly dropped in the water.

 The plane jerked violently due to what appeared to be turbulence. The other passengers were beginning to panic as the oxygen masks dropped.

 The needle guided him to the source, a redheaded young woman hugging a black bag. Luckily the seat next to her was empty, so Killian sat down. The girl looked up with wide eyes. He smiled and said, "Lass, hand it over." He extended his hand for her to place the bag in. She was about to object then she gasped as she realized his identity and placed the bag on his waiting hand. He opened it and noticed the runes were stuck. "Bloody hell, lass. Why did you think jamming weather controlling runes together was a good idea?" Killian scolded as he sped up his actions; he poured a potion to neutralize and separate the runes using tweezers. “I've been looking for these for a very long time. Lass, these tiny things manipulate the weather. Rain, cold, wind, heat... and you thought it was a good idea to put them together in your bag? Do you know what you get when you mix a thunderstorm with cool, moist air? You almost killed us all. We are lucky you didn't get them wet. You witches have no idea the power you possess." He shook his head in disbelief as he pulled out a case from his jacket pocket and placed each rune inside after covering it carefully with a cloth.

 “I know you are the witch hunter. Are you going to kill me?” the girl asked.

 “Why would I kill you, lass? I just saved your life,” Killian said. “I have a code.”

 “Are you going to turn me in to the witch council? I didn’t do it on purpose. I inherited those from my sister. I swear it was an accident.”

 “No need to fret. Enjoy your stay.” He winked at her and stood up, leaving her behind to go back to his seat.

 The flight attendant noticed him walking back to his seat while she finished providing some water to the passengers to help calm them down.

 "Excuse me sir, I thought I told you to go to your seat?" the flight attendant said, annoyed.

 "I'm sorry, love, but a young lass was in distress. I just wanted to make sure she wasn't anymore. My name is Killian Jones, I much prefer being called that.

 How about I buy you a drink to make up for my lack of listening skills?" he said with a sexy raised eyebrow.

 The woman tried to play it as if she wasn't tempted but the blushed cheeks gave her away. "Well, Killian, I suppose that would be all right."

 "We can meet at baggage claim and set sail from there," he said as he raised her hand to his lips.

 Witches are among us

 Descendants from an ancient race called Hexen

 Their magick diluted, half-forgotten but dangerously powerful

 After centuries of conflict, a truce was forged

 Witches would live freely if they followed one strict rule, magicks could never be used against humans

 A truce is a fragile thing…

 There are those who long for the dark days of the Witch Queen, Gothel.

 It is those whom Killian deals with.

 For centuries, he has

 served The Order of Blazing Sword and Cross.

 I serve The Order in a different manner.

  I write Killian's history.

 I am his handler, his confessor, and his friend.Together we have kept watch and kept the peace.

 I’m Dolan the 36th, Father Nemo

Father Nemo arrived at Killian’s place to take the report from the most recent mission.

 The doorman smiled at the older man. “Father Nemo. I’m sorry, but he is in a meeting. Could you please take a seat while you wait?”

 The elevator opened and a woman exited wearing a flight attendant uniform.

 “I think the meeting is over, my boy,” Father Nemo said as he rose from his seat to walk to the elevator.

 Killian opened his door with a wide satisfied smile on his face. "Hello, old friend."

 Father Nemo rolled his eyes. "You know you are older than me."

 Killian shrugged. "However, as you can see, I've maintained my youthful glow."

 "That doesn't explain why you have no sense of time," Father Nemo scolded him.

 Killian rolled his eyes fondly.

 Father Nemo smiled at the man in front of him. Killian was physically younger, but was actually much older than him. However, time stands still for no one.      We should get to business    , he thought as he pulled out his journal and pen from his bag to prepare for the details. "I assume the mission was a success and you were able to recover the weather runes without incident?"

 "Aye, they are safely put away in the vault," Killian replied. "Old man, really? You get upset at my teasing but I believe you secretly enjoy it. That is why you are not willing to use any of the tech I gift you with. Where's the iPad I gave you?"

 "If you must know, I regifted it. Besides, you will not need to worry after my retirement." Dolan the 36th, Father Nemo reaffirmed his decision it was time to move on.

 "Oh, you were serious. I thought you would reconsider but since you are set in retiring, I got you a small token." Killian smiled as he handed a box to his old friend.

 "You didn't have to do this." Father Nemo grabbed the box and opened it to find a very rare, expensive Waterman 402 pen. "Oh my. I thought you didn't get sentimental. This is lovely but truly too expensive."

 "We've had a good run. We took out many dangerous covens. I finally got used to you and now you want to find greener pastures."  

 "I'm going to miss you."

 "You know you can still keep the pen if you reconsider," Killian said with a hopeful smile.

 "I'm leaving you in modern hands. Besides, the vow was not til death but to face it at your side."

 "You do know there are only two Dolan's advice I have ever listened to: my brother Liam, the first Dolan, and you."

 "Fine company I'm in but wait a minute, you ignored it all the time!" Nemo said irritated.

 "Perhaps, but I always listened."

 "Killian, what if you could retire too? What would you do?"

 "Ah, but I can't."

 "Just humor me."

 "I'm not blind to the importance of my job. Every day I wake up, the world is safe."

 "I wish you could live. Truly. You are missing the best part. The one that goes beyond ships passing in the night. Flight attendants or whoever you found for the evening."

 "There's nothing wrong with a dalliance."

 "You need to find someone to trust and share your life with."

 "Old man, let's finish this then."

 After they finished the report they parted ways. Dolan the 36th, Father Nemo left to finalize his report and hand over the file on Killian Jones to his replacement, Dolan the 37th, Father Gideon.

 Father Nemo's words of advice for the young Father Gideon were to serve with distinction and to remember that Killian was more than a weapon as the elders of The Flaming Sword and Cross loved to refer to him as. He was beyond his success rate or the numbers of witches in detention or the ones that paid the ultimate price for breaking the law.

 The next day, Killian's phone rang. "Hello?"

 "Mr. Jones, this is Dolan the 37th, Father Gideon. I'm sorry to inform you that Dolan the 36th, Father Nemo passed away in his sleep peacefully. The ceremony will be tomorrow."

 Killian was alone now. His friend was gone and it served as a reminder to not allow anyone else to enter his heart.

 The unexpected death of his old friend had reopened the scars left behind by the loss of his wife Milah, their young daughter Alice, his father Brennan, and brother Liam months later. Killian had spent years protecting his heart and focusing on the job, claiming he had a right to seek vengeance for all the world had lost. Now he was grieving for the last person he allowed himself to care for. He truly would die alone. The Order hadn't even given a proper burial to his friend as they now pledged the new Dolan. Killian couldn't stomach the ceremony and stepped out. He sat down on a bench and contemplated his life.

 The young Dolan the 37th sat next to him.

 Killian's eyes stayed focused on an object as he spoke. "Do you see that cornerstone?"

 Dolan, the 37th, nodded. "Yes, Sir. I do. I'm-"

 Killian interrupted him. "I watched them lay it in when all that was there was a cornfield. That was long ago. Everything changes, only I remain." Killian finally faced the young man.

 "Sir, I'm sorry for your loss. I wanted to pledge my life and loyalty to you. Please, call me Gideon."

 "Father Gideon, there are levels of evil everywhere. However, I've never seen people get old, retire, and die on the same day."

 "Sir, I know this isn't the proper time but I need to sort you out with a new identity and all that comes with it." Father Gideon stated as he pulled an envelope from the briefcase.

 Killian rolled his eyes. "I understand all of you Dolans are fierce rule followers but I will be clear. First, I don't need a new identity. Second, there are more pressing matters. Something doesn't add up. You were the last one to see Father Nemo. I need to go to his place." Killian stood and walked towards his black super sport 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle.

     At least it's not red,     Father Gideon muttered as he opened the car door and slipped in. "Sir, I understand, but a low profile is important to keep. As for Father Nemo, what are you thinking?

 "I'll know when I see it."  With that he started the car and drove to Nemo's home.

 They entered and Killian looked around. "How do you know when there's magic in the vicinity? It comes from four elements; fire, water, earth, and air. The correct alchemical triggers will reveal its presence." Killian informed Father Gideon as he continued his inspection. "It appears there was no magic here. However, if the window hasn't been opened, how did this get in here?"

 Gideon looked at the dead flies on the floor.

 "One means nothing. Two perhaps a coincidence but three, that means trouble. He was killed by witches."

 Killian got his confirmation once the glamor spell was lifted. "This is a declaration of war."

  @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 @caught-in-the-filter @andiirivera @anothersworld @apiratewhopines @artistic-writer @batana54 @beckettj @bethacaciakay @bixisarusher @branlovestowrite @brooke-to-broch @captainodonoghue @carpedzem @chasedancer17 @cocohook38 @courtorderedcake @darkcolinodonorgasm @deckerstarblanche @demisexualemmaswan @djlbg @donteattheappleshook @dovelyheart @elizabeethan @gingerchangeling @gingerpoliglot @holdingoutforapiratehero @hollyethecurious @hookedonapirate @hookedonaswanprincess @hookedonhiddles @ilovemesomekillianjones @imlaxdris71 @itsfabianadocarmo @jarienn972 @jennjenn615 @jonesfandomfanatic @jrob64 @justanother-unluckysoul @k-leemac @karlyfr13s @kday426 @killian-will-do @klynn-stormz @kmomof4 @kwistowee​ @kymbersmith-90​ @laschatzi​ @lassluna​ @let-it-raines​ @lfh1226-linda​ @lonelyspectator12​ @mariakov81​ @motherkatereloyshipper​ @officerrogers​ @ohmakemeahercules​ @onceratheart18​ @pirateherokillian​ @purplehawkcaptain​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @revanmeetra87​ @sailtoafarawayland​ @sals86​ @scribomaniac @searchingwardrobes​ @seriouslyhooked​ @shardminds @shireness-says @snowbellewells​ @sotangledupinit​ @spacekrulesbians​ @spartanguard​ @stahlop​ @superchocovian​ @swanslieutenant​ @tehgreeneyes @the-darkdragonfly​ @thejollyroger-writer​ @thepirateandhisson​ @therealstartraveller776 @thislassishooked @thisonesatellite​ @tiganasummertree​ @tomeandflickcorner​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @veryverynotgoodwrites​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @wellhellotragic​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @winterbaby89​ @winterbythesea @xarandomdreamx​ @xsajx​ @zaharadessert​ @myfearless-love @cosette141 @grimmswan​ @fleurdepetite​ @hookmecaptain​ @once-upon-a-pirate-ship​ @undercaffinatednightmare​ @4getfulimaginator2022​ @nachocheese-itsmycheese​

#Captain Swan #cs ff au #cssns23

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (43/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 18,112 (OOPS, but not really)

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: Aemond return to King's Landing. Arianwyn tells the Vale the truth.

Warnings: self-harm

Author's Note:

So sorry for the delay! After seeing some new BTS from episode 10, my brain sprang to life with some new things I could incorporate here. And my beta is on vacation, so if you saw any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes, please let me know so I can fix it!

We are now officially leaving show canon behind...

Series Masterlist

Taglist: @thelittleswanao3 @trap-house-homiecide @50svibes @literishdegree99 @dc-marvel-girl96 @henriettadreaming @multiple-fandoms-girl @gyuxmilk @somemydayy @kittykylax @whore-of-many-hot-men @slavicvvitch @crazymusicgirl104

(Please let me know if your tag isn't working, and I'll do my best to correct it! And if you would like to be added to the list, just shoot me an ask!)

Three Days, Part III

On the 25th day in the ninth month, 136 years after Aegon’s Conquest…

The moon was tauntingly full and bright, and the clouds had long since dispersed. There was nowhere to hide. Anyone who looked toward the sky could clearly see the monster flying above them.

The monster, and the dragon he rode.

“Skoros emagon ao gaomagon?” Aemond whispered, far too quietly for Vhagar to hear over the roaring wind lashing at them as they raced back to King’s Landing with a speed he had never seen. What have you done?

He did not know if he was asking her or himself.

He was not sure if he had actually said anything at all, or so much as moved his lips. His throat was painfully raw from shouting through the storm – he may not have been able to produce a sound even if he wanted to.

But he must have said something, for Vhagar responded with a proud twist of her head and a victorious roar.

Gods save him. There was still blood on her teeth.

The blood of that poor young dragon whose name Aemond did not know. And…

Luke’s blood.

The pain that had been steadily growing within Aemond’s skull suddenly burst forth like a mighty wave crashing through a dam.

Even the sapphire – Aria’s sapphire – felt like it had come alive and was trying to claw its way out of his skin.

The vision in his good eye went blurry, and it was only thanks to the dozens of straps and chains tying him to the saddle that Aemond did not fall off Vhagar’s back and plummet to his death on the peaks of the mountains below.

He wanted to cut the straps away, break the iron chains with his bare hands. Anything to get away from the beast he was shackled to in body and soul, even if it meant his death.

Would it be anything less than he deserved?

But the pain was too great for him to wrap his hand around the hilt of his dagger.

Each beat of his heart brought on a new pulse of pure agony. With each surge, his muscles tensed until he was sure they would snap.

The only thing he could manage was to cradle the burning scar.

His eyepatch was not there, though he did not remember removing it himself, nor it falling off in the wind.

It was just… gone.

When another wave washed over him – the pain more intense than when he was first given the wound – he pressed into his hands, desperately seeking relief.

But it did not come.

The sapphire was as cold as ice – colder than anything he had ever felt. So cold that it burned the skin of his palm.

Aemond shrieked at the pain.

Vhagar echoed the noise, nearly coming to a halt over a mountain peak. But she recovered faster than her rider and began to fly faster still – so fast Aemond could not believe it – towards King’s Landing.

Towards home – to Aria.

Aemond collapsed against the saddle, not caring when the leather and chains bit into his skin as he strained against them.

His next cry came not from pain, but realization.

It wasn’t his scar that was hurting him so deeply.

It was the sapphire.

The jewel – the purest expression of Aria’s love he ever possessed – was fighting against him.

Burning him.

Hurting him.

Rejecting him.

He was unworthy of such a gift. Unworthy of Aria’s love and the protection her Runes offered.

She was so good, so pure, so perfect.

He was a monster.

Worse, a kinslayer.

Wearing her gift was an affront to her, the old gods, and indeed all gods and men. He could not be allowed to possess it any longer. His very touch marred its goodness irreparably.

He pulled his hands away from his face just enough to curl his fingers into claws – the same claws Vhagar bore.

Skin broke on the first strike.

Then again.

And again.

Over and over until his hands, and the sapphire that now sat within them, were coated in hot red blood.

Aemond squeezed his eye shut, unable to bring himself to look as he opened his hands and let the sapphire fall.

Then he screamed anew.

And he did not stop.

-

Sleep, restful sleep, had eluded Arianwyn, leaving her bleary-eyed as she watched Emrys bristle in the garden below. Her poor dragon was quite upset that his first-ever adventure had been ruined by the arrival of Vermax – almost as upset as his rider was by the arrival of Jacaerys.

Had it not been for the arrival of her stepbrother, they would currently be preparing to leave, if they had not left already.

Instead, Arianwyn was tugging half-heartedly on the satin belt of her dressing gown, wishing it was the leather lacings of her cuirass – freshly replaced after Aemond ripped them only days ago.

Emrys –just as averse to early mornings as his beloved rider – was not stretching his wings in anticipation of their long flight, but folding them tightly over his head to block out Vermax’s unceasing chirrups.

As she loosed her robe and sat at the end of her bed, Arianwyn bowed her head in prayer. “May the Crone guide me this day, that I may speak with wisdom and grace. If it is the will of the gods, allow my petition to be successful. And if it is not…”

She opened her eyes and gazed out into the gardens, where Vermax was excitedly sniffing at a large rose bush. If she ignored who the little green creature was bonded to, she could almost let herself be amused by the sight.

But she couldn’t ignore it, nor how Emrys was slinking closer and closer to her window, examining its stone walls as if trying to figure out a way to slip inside. It would never work, of course. He was so large that he couldn’t even fit his whole snout through.

When he finally figured it out himself, he dejectedly rested the tip of his chin against the windowsill and whined softly.

Arianwyn rose from the bed with a sympathetic smile and stroked his nose. “Nyke gīmigon, byka ossȳngnon,” she cooed as he leaned into her touch. “Lo jaelā naejot jiōragon qrīdrughagon hen zirȳla, kostā jikagon sōvegon ondoso aōla. Vermax iksis byka, se daor olvie adere, kessa daor gaomagon bē.” I know, little dread. If you want to get away from him, you can go fly by yourself. Vermax is small, and not very fast, he will not keep up.

Emrys snorted solemnly in reply, sending a small burst of smoke into the bedroom. No, he would not leave her now. Never when she was so upset.

“Kirimvose, dōna mēre,” she said with a kiss to his warm scales. “Avy jorrāelan.” Thank you, sweet one. I love you.

She could almost swear that as Emrys grumbled, there was a voice speaking in the back of her head that sounded eerily like that grumbling. It told her it loved her too.

“Kostagon jān arlī naejot ñuha jorepnon sir?” she asked playfully. Can I go back to my prayer now?

Emrys blinked and, with some difficulty, removed his snout from the window. Vermax immediately noticed the movement and began to approach the older dragon.

Arianwyn laughed as Emrys slumped against the wall, wrapped his wings around his face again, and pretended to fall asleep.

“Sȳz biarves,” she called. Good luck.

She did not return to her prayer immediately, for she did not know what to say next. So instead, she took off her nightgown and began to dress for the day. Jeyne had offered to send a maid, but Arianwyn found she enjoyed managing alone for a few days. Besides, she did not want to have to explain to someone new how to deal with her mass of curls.

When Brynna told her she had packed five dresses for the journey, even though it was supposed to take only three days, she had thought her maid foolish and unreasonably over-prepared.

But now, she was grateful to have options to choose from. It made her feel like a knight selecting which weapon to carry into battle.

She had already worn two of the gowns, leaving her with three options:

First, there was a heavily structured dress of deep blue silk – Arryn blue. The shoulders bore embroidery reminiscent of wings, a nod to the sigil of her godsmother’s house. But to wear something so obvious would feel dishonest. Too much like begging.

Arianwyn was not an Arryn. She was a Royce – and a Targaryen. She would not pretend to be anything else.

She would not rely on her connections to the Vale or the throne to make her argument. If she was to win Jeyne’s allegiance, it would be her logic and the brutal honesty of her story that won it.

So, the black and bronze gown – the one she had worn her first day back to King’s Landing – was also rejected.

There was only one option left.

A surcoat and linen underdress, like the one she had worn during the little game she and Aemond played the day before they left.

But this was far simpler than that one. The coat was made of soft, undyed wool, with voluminous sleeves to protect her from the cold mountain wind.

Its only decoration was the embroidery along the edges – intricate depictions of the beautiful flowers that graced the fields of Runestone. Campion and marsh. Cornflower and primrose. Foxglove and snowdrops. And Arianwyn’s favorite – meadowsweet.

As she looked at herself in the mirror, she felt perfect. Soft, but regal. Stately, yet not too imposing. She was every bit the Princess and Lady she now was, but she was still herself.

All that was missing was a ring on her finger and her husband on her arm.

Suddenly, she knew how to end her prayer.

“I know that I am on the right path, and my cause is just,” she whispered aloud, feeling that the words were too important to keep inside. “But the path you lay out for us is not always so clear. If I am to fail today, I ask only that I be allowed to return safely into my husband’s arms, that we may face whatever is to come together.”

-

The very earth trembled as Vhagar landed just outside the King’s Gate. She had flown so far and fast that, by the time she started her descent, she was too exhausted to land well.

The talons at the tips of her wings and her claws had caught the stones of the city wall as she tried to slow herself, sending broken shards of brick raining down on the gold cloaks standing guard at the gate. She had landed with such force that her back legs dug deep rivets into the ground below her.

It hadn’t helped that as soon as the city was in sight, Aemond took up the reins for the first time in hours to try and steer her directly toward the Red Keep.

“Skoriot issi ao jāre?” he had rasped when she pulled against his commands. His voice was practically nonexistent after hours of ceaseless screaming. “Gūrogon nyke lenton.” Where are you going? Take me home.

Vhagar ignored his commands. She knew there was nowhere she could land in the city itself that would not result in the injury or death of some innocent. After how he reacted to the righteous death of that little dragon and its rider – the same hateful boy who had maimed her Aemond on the night they claimed each other – who dared to threaten him, she would not put him in place to be hurt again.

In the years she had spent making him fierce, she had never thought him soft. None of her other riders had been so.

Thankfully, he was far too weak from the flight, his self-inflicted wounds, and whatever demons were roiling within his mind to fight against her in any meaningful way. Not that she would obey, even if he could. She would follow no order which might put him in danger.

“Kostilus,” he begged hoarsely as she turned toward the tourney grounds. “Nyke jorrāelagon naejot jikagon lenton. Nyke jorrāelagon naejot jikagon naejot zirȳla. Nyke jorrāelagon zirȳla.” Please. I need to go home. I need to go to her. I need her.

She let out a sympathetic growl but continued to descend on the great stretch of grassy fields outside the city, frightening the smallfolk for how close they came to their roofs.

Aemond was not surprised by her disobedience. He had begged her to stop when she began to pursue Luke on her own after that dragon – barely more than a hatchling – had loosed a weak burst of dragonfire on her. And she had disobeyed.

Of course, she had. Who was he to command the Queen of All Dragons?

Compared to the paragons of his house who had ridden her before him, Aemond was nothing.

He was not an almighty conqueror like Visenya.

He was not a brave and beloved Prince like his grandsire, Baelon.

He was certainly not like Laena, adored and admired by all.

No, he was only a wretched, monstrous, broken excuse for a prince – for a Targaryen.

He had never been worthy of any dragon, much less Vhagar.

Allowing him to claim her had been some cruel, cosmic joke. A way for the gods to amuse themselves by watching him fail so miserably. Or a punishment, perhaps. For the darkness that had always lived inside his damned soul.

Oh gods.

He was damned. As a murderer, a monster, a kinslayer.

All because of the dragon – the abomination created by his Valyrian ancestors with their infernal blood magics – that he had bound himself to.

He had to get away from her.

The moment she came to rest in the middle of the road leading out of the city, Aemond began frantically removing each of the restraints keeping him in the saddle. It took him longer than it should have, as his bloodstained hands still trembled. His chest was heaving painfully with each panicked breath, and without the chill of the wind to numb it, his empty clawed-open eye was starting to burn again.

When he was finally free, he scrambled down the rope ladder on Vhagar’s side quicker than ever before, despite the pain circling his legs. Somehow, on the flight back, he had pulled so hard against the leather straps and chains that they had dug into his skin. He had no doubt there were bruises, and knew it was more than likely that blood had been drawn.

But he didn’t care. He just wanted to get away, to run back to his rooms and into the awaiting arms of his wife.

He didn’t want to acknowledge Vhagar at all. But when he began toward the guards at the King’s Gate, each of whom was staring with wide eyes as the fact of who was limping toward them and covered in his own blood sunk in, she let out a low, pleading whine.

His exhaustion and devastation faded instantly, replaced with an enormous, unquenchable rage.

“Gaomā daor jiōragon naejot sagon zūgagon syt nyke!” Aemond shouted as he whirled on her, causing his left leg to buckle. He only just caught himself before falling into the upturned dirt. “Emā ojūdan bona paktot.” You do not get to be worried for me! You have lost that right.

Vhagar shied away from his anger, her orange eyes wide with bewilderment. How could her dear rider treat her like this after all she had done to protect him?

“Gaomagon ao sesīr gīmigon skoros emā sepār gaomagon?” he asked, ignoring the calls from the guards offering him aid. Do you know what you have just done?

The dragon only whined again – a feeble, wounded noise.

“Ao ossēntan zirȳla! Nyke mērī jeldan naejot sȳngagon zirȳla – hae ziry istin gōntan naejot nyke.  Yn ao ossēntan zirȳla!” His voice cracked like a raging fire as he roared, his throat raw and aching. You killed him! I only wanted to frighten him – as he once did to me. But you killed him!

“Īles iā riña! Īles ñuha lentor, se ao ossēntan zirȳla!” he shrieked as pain began to well once more in his empty eye – the result of the salty tears pooling within and stinging the open wounds he had inflicted himself. He was a child! He was my family, and you killed him!

He almost collapsed as each one of his wounds began to throb as one. “Emā vēttan nyke iā letnor sēntys! Se syt bona iksan qrimbrōstan! Ñuha gīs kessa zālagon isse se trūmāje hen Sīkudi Nopāzmi ēva se mōris hen jēda… se kesan gūrogon ziry.” You have made me a kinslayer! And for that I am cursed! My soul will burn in the deepest of the Seven Hells until the end of time... and I will deserve it.

Vhagar dropped her chin to the ground and moaned, her best attempt at appearing innocent and coy. But Aemond could still smell the sharp tang of blood on her breath and see the faint traces of rusty brown embedded between the scales of her snout.

Another pang had Aemond stumbling into the dirt, the impact sending licks of fire up his injured legs. Several guards at the gate began to run for him, but reeled back when Vhagar, too, surged toward her rider.

“Daor!” Aemond ordered with the last of his remaining strength as he fought to try and stand. “Umbagon qrīdrughagon!” No! Stay away!

The massive dragon winced at the sheer fury contained in the command and began to slink away like a scolded pup. As she retreated, the guards once again began to cautiously approach the Prince.

“Eminna daorun tolī naejot gaomagon lēda ao,” Aemond spat with a fading voice between shaky breaths. “Jaelan ao naejot henujagon.  Skoriot jā daoriot jemagon.  Hēzīr, iksā daorun naejot nyke. I will have nothing more to do with you. I want you to leave. Where you go does not matter. From now on, you are nothing to me. 

He did not look at Vhagar as he finally stood, turning to the three gold cloaks now surrounding him. They looked at him like they had happened upon an injured shadowcat – something at once pitiful and deadly.

“My Prince…” the eldest among them said sheepishly. “Are you alright?”

Aemond did not so much as glance at the man as he began stumbling toward the gate. He could feel his mind, which he had only just regained as he came back to solid ground, begin to slip away again. If he looked at the man’s simpering face, no doubt full of pity, he might very well lose it again.

“I need a horse,” he growled.

“Of course,” the guard said, running ahead of him to the guardpost. The other two fell into an awkward formation behind the Prince.

It took a humiliatingly long time for Aemond to actually arrive at the gate, by which time a horse was saddled and waiting. Mounting the damned thing when every muscle he had screamed in protest was one of the most challenging things he had ever done.

As he gripped the horse’s reins, Vhagar made another woeful noise – a last attempt to try and ply him.

With the sound, he felt the last remaining dregs of his consciousness begin to melt away. He had to return to the Keep quickly, before losing himself entirely. Indeed, it was already becoming hard to focus his vision on anything beyond his horse’s ears.

But he still held to his anger at his damned dragon.

“Lo nyke mirre ilagon laesi va ao aril…” he hissed, his lone violet eye bloodshot and filled with disdain. “Nyke dōrī jaelagon naejot ūndegon ao arlī.  Mirre.” If I ever lay eyes on you again... I never want to see you again. Ever.

He did not wait for her reply before driving his heels into the horse and setting it galloping through the King’s Gate and into the bustling streets of King’s Landing.

Vhagar’s doleful wails were heard by all within the city’s walls, save for her rider. His mind had already begun to pull him away from reality. All he could hear was the pouring of rain, the cracking of thunder, and the horrible crunch of bones between Vhagar’s teeth.

-

If Arianwyn had thought hours of listening to the old men of the Vale debate over dams and crops and visitation schedules was miserable, having to stay still and silent and keep her face neutral as she listened to Jace speak on behalf of Rhaenyra was surely a punishment from the gods themselves.

It certainly didn’t help that he looked at her with that stupid smug smile whenever he thought he made a good point.

Perhaps she should have prayed more for the strength to endure her stepbrother rather than just for the success of her own petition.

Jace had begun with a rather monotonous history lesson detailing the Targaryen family line from Aenar to himself. But, of course, he had incorrectly listed the late Ser Laenor Velaryon as his father.

Arianwyn had let her impassive façade slip for a moment when a few disbelieving chuckles and jeers echoed through the hall at the assertion. But the ever-watchful Gerold had spotted her slight smile and quickly corrected her with a gentle pinch on her elbow.

To his credit, Jace had not let it deter him. Instead, he smoothly transitioned into detailing how and why Viserys had named Rhaenyra his heir. Then to a fumbling and faulty explanation of the Widow’s Law and how he thought it supported his mother’s claim.

Arianwyn listened closely, making a note of each inconsistency, vaguery, or inaccuracy – whether it be intentional or not. While the bulk of her argument would rely on the revelation of Daemon’s character and past crimes, she had to first counter whatever Jace said.

There was ever the possibility that some, perhaps many, would not believe what she had to say about her father. If they did, she would still need to say whatever she could to convince them.

“There is little more to say, my Lords,” Jace proclaimed. The self-righteous lilt in his voice grated on Arianwyn endlessly. “It is clear that by both law and my grandsire’s wishes, my mother Rhaenyra was always the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, whatever the would-be usurper may say.

“I never had the good fortune to meet my mother’s mother, Queen Aemma, but I have been raised on stories of her goodness. I am proud to bear her blood, her Arryn blood. Though I have been here not yet a day, I can feel the land here call to me, as I am sure it does to my mother as well.”

Arianwyn considered her restraint in not rolling her eyes at that to be nothing short of miraculous. She would have to commission a bard to write a song commemorating the feat.

Jace turned to Jeyne and gave a short, almost solemn nod. “Rhaenyra is not only your cousin and your Queen, my Lady, but your peer. Those who would try to usurp her throne do so for no reason other than that she is a woman, and for that, they consider her unworthy of her birthright.

“I ask only that you honor the oath you took some twenty years ago by acknowledging my mother as your Queen and pledging your support to her cause. With good fortune, this farce will not come to bloodshed. However, I cannot deny that having you declare your support for the Queen, with the might of your armies behind you, would do much to dissuade my usurper uncle from pursuing this any further.

“But I am willing to wait to receive your answer,” he said, turning once more to look at Arianwyn with a smile almost too genuine. “For my sweet sister has come to speak on my uncle’s behalf. I find myself quite curious as to why she has done so, seeing as she is, herself, a ruling Lady. Nevertheless, my affection for her is nearly as great as my respect for her intellect, so I will humbly stand aside and allow her to speak.”

Another subtle pinch from Gerold signaled Arianwyn to bow her head in thanks to her stepbrother and give him a grateful smile. Though she would never admit it, she was surprisingly touched by his praise, underhanded though it was.

“I commend you for your eloquent speech, Prince Jacaerys,” Jeyne said from the throne as the light smattering of applause, led by Lords Sunderland and Corbray, finally quieted. “It is true that I have found myself in a similar predicament to your mother. Thrice have mine own kin sought to replace me, and thrice they have failed. My cousin Ser Arnold is wont to say that women are too soft to rule. I have him in one of my sky cells, if you would like to ask him yourself, or simply meet another long-estranged cousin.”

The gathered crowd laughed with her at that – including Arianwyn, despite her nerves.

Jeyne’s held up a hand to quiet the room once more. “As Jacaerys says, there is another here to speak to us on this matter. While she is not my blood as Rhaenyra is, she is my family in both the eyes of the gods and in the affections of my own heart. For this, and for her place as the Lady of Runestone, I now invite her now to make her petition on behalf of her good brother, Aegon.”

The silence in the room was so heavy that as Arianwyn walked to the center of the hall to stand before the Weirwood thrones, she felt as though she was moving through sand. But she swallowed her fear and willed her racing heart to calm.

Otto Hightower would not have sent her here if he did not believe her capable of succeeding – nor would any member of the Small Council, even Aegon. She reassured herself that she had not only their support, distant as it was, but that of the law, the gods, and her husband. With all that behind her, how could she fail?

“Lords and Ladies of the Vale, it is an honor to speak to you today,” she began, pleasantly surprised at the strength of her voice. “I ask that you please be forgiving should I not be particularly eloquent. I have never addressed a court before nor had any real oratory experience, and I find myself quite nervous to do so now.”

She laughed slightly, expecting others to laugh with her, at least out of pity, but none did. So, she took a deep breath and continued. “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting most of you personally, so I will begin by introducing myself. I am Lady Arianwyn Targaryen.”

“Princess, my dear,” Gerold reminded her with a grimace from where he stood by the base of the throne.

Arianwyn winced. This was precisely why she had prayed this morning. She did not possess a silver tongue. Indeed, at the moment, hers felt much more like lead.

“Yes, forgive me,” she stuttered. “I am still not used to that title yet. It was granted to me only seven days past – or eight, maybe? I actually do not know what day we were wed. It was around midnight. But I am not quite sure whether it was before or after.”

“Aria?” Gerold’s call was unsubtly covered with an obviously false cough. When she looked at him, he widened his eyes to let her know she had already begun to ramble.

She swallowed, taking a moment to straighten her skirts and gather her thoughts. “My apologies, again. I, um… I became a Princess only days ago when I was wed to Prince Aemond Targaryen. Naturally, as it comes from my husband, the title is quite dear to me. However, dearer to me is that which I inherited from my mother, who was well known and, I hope, well-loved by all of you: Rhea Royce, Lady of Runestone.

“That title was given to me on the day of my birth, as it was also the day my mother died,” she fell silent then as all those gathered in the Throne Room bowed their heads in remembrance. Much to her surprise, Jace joined them.

“I am here to speak on behalf of my good brother, King Aegon, Second of His Name,” she looked to Jace then, copying the smug smile he had already given her several times that day. Perhaps it was cruel of her, after he had just offered respects to her mother, but she could not help herself.

“Five days ago, Aegon was crowned by Lord Commander Criston Cole of the Kingsguard in accordance with the laws of the realm and his father’s dying wish. Of course, there are those who would point to the Queen being the only audience to the proclamation as proof that it is untrue. But I have heard the tale from the Queen herself, and I believe with absolutely no hesitation.” She could sense, more than see, the sour expression on Jace’s face at her words.

“It is no secret that King Viserys was long ill,” she continued. “As such, he was often confined to his bed and unable to govern the realm himself. In his absences, it was Queen Alicent who most often sat the Iron Throne in his place, where she proved herself to be wise, kind, and above all else, honorable.

“It would have been well within her right to dispute Rhaenyra’s position as heir from the moment Aegon was born, but she did not.” At least, not publicly, Arianwyn thought. She had overheard more than one conversation suggesting Alicent had brought it up to the King privately. “For years, she steadfastly supported the King’s attestation that Rhaenyra was his heir, despite its dubious legality. I can offer no better proof to the veracity of the King’s change of heart than that.”

A slight nod and a half-smile from Gerold indicated that she had made her point well.

“However, it must be understood that despite the King’s insistence in Rhaenyra’s place as heir for many years, despite whatever oaths he had the Lords of the Realm make, she did lose that position when Aegon was born.”

This was the part she was most nervous about.

“The ruling of the Great Council was clear: a male heir is preferable to a female. Even before the Council was called, this was well understood by law and men. It is why Princess Rhaenys was passed over in favor of my grandsire, Prince Baelon, following her father’s death. And it is why the Great Council voted so overwhelmingly in favor of Viserys’ claim.

“According to the very precedent that gave Viserys his throne, Rhaenyra stopped being the heir from the instant Aegon took his first breath,” she declared.

A murmur made its way through the crowd, and Arianwyn was gratified that most of them seemed to agree with her. However, seeing the dejected expressions on several Ladies’ faces pained her, knowing she had likely just affirmed their deepest insecurities and fears.

She avoided meeting their eyes and instead looked to Jace. “My stepbrother has brought up an interesting point in his interpretation of the Widow’s Law. He is correct that it prevents a man from disinheriting his children from a first wife in favor of the children born to a second wife, but I am afraid it is not actually applicable to the current dispute.

“The purpose of the Widow’s Law is to prevent rightful heirs from being cast aside in favor of their younger half-siblings. But a man’s eldest son, regardless of whether his mother was a first, second, or any other later wife, is the lawful heir before any daughters. Nothing can pass to the daughter so long as there is a son. Therefore, a younger son from a second wife inheriting instead of an elder daughter from a first wife is not a dispossession.”

Arianwyn paused to see Jace’s reaction. He stayed silent and watched her carefully and with more than a little contempt.

According to the plan she had made with Jeyne the day before, she should now tell the court of the dangerous precedent that would be set should Rhaenyra insist that Jace – a bastard – was her heir.

She shouldn’t feel bad about it. It was true, and everyone knew it – even him.

So, why was she now hesitating?

Perhaps it was because many of the Lords in the room were already nodding along as she spoke. If they already agreed with her, she would not have to bring it up. She would not have to hurt him, Luke, or sweet little Joffrey to win the day.

For a heartbeat, she thought she might not even have to speak of Daemon.

But as she examined the crowd to assess how many were already with her, she found there were still more than a few who looked doubtful. It was to win them over that she swallowed her fear and continued.

No, she had to this for more than just winning the Vale. She had to do this because it was, and always was, the right thing to do.

“Of course,” she said with a sweet, placid smile, “you are all wise and intelligent men, with far more political experience than my stepbrother or me. Everything I have said thus far is only a repetition of what I am confident you already know.”

Arianwyn bowed her head and took a deep, steadying breath. “There is one thing more I must tell you before I end my appeal. Something that you do not know. Something that, until now, you could not know. Something concerning my mother and my father.”

Anyone whose interest in the proceedings had waned was suddenly brought back to attention.

“I imagine you all know the story of my mother’s injuries that led to her unfortunate death,” Arianwyn said as she looked around, but none met her eyes. Of course, they did not want to be reminded of something so terrible. “Perhaps some of you even saw them. I must admit, I do not envy you if you did. The descriptions I have been given are enough to curdle my blood, so I will not repeat them here. But I will tell you the story of how she was wounded. For the truth of it is far different from what you have been told, I am afraid.

“That day, my mother set out by herself to hunt, as was her habit. Ser Gerold tells me that she savored the time she spent alone. How she was never happier than when she was in the hills and moorlands of Runestone. Words cannot describe how much it pains me that what happened to her – no, what was done to her – was done in the place she loved so well.”

Arianwyn took another pause to calm herself as a flurry of whisperers flew through the crowd at what she was suggesting with that one little word.

“You were told that her horse startled and fell upon her, leaving her paralyzed and injured. And that it was a miracle that my father happened to be flying nearby when he spotted her, rescued her, and brought her home. That she was so charmed by his heroism that she finally consummated the marriage and fell pregnant with me. I do admit, it is a good story. Like something that I would read in my books.” She laughed slightly – a light, blithe chuckle entirely out of place amongst her solemn words – though she did not know why.

“But that was a lie. My father did not save my mother. He killed her.”

Arianwyn tried to continue but stopped when the clamor rising amongst the crowd grew so loud that she could hardly hear her own voice. She looked frantically to Lady Arryn and Gerold for help, but neither seemed as concerned as she did – they did not seem concerned at all. Rather, they seemed more than happy to let the Lords and Ladies have their moment of panic.

It wasn’t until Arianwyn again looked to Jace that she understood why.

His face was twisted with shock and rage, all directed at Arianwyn. She had just accused the man he so admired of the vilest of crimes – kinslaying. The gravity of such an accusation was not lost on him.

Nor was it lost on the Lords and Ladies of the Vale. Those standing near Jace were now shuffling away, as if the crimes of his stepfather had tainted him as well.

Arianwyn did not pity him.

Why should she? For years, he had ignored Arianwyn’s fear of Daemon, even when it was abundantly obvious.

It was clear in how she blanched whenever her father would look at her. How she would avert her gaze and stand to the side when she encountered him within the castle. How she flinched every time he raised his voice or slammed a hand on the table at dinners.

What did Jace think happened when Daemon dismissed them all from dinner only days ago to speak to his daughter alone? Was he truly so blind he did not see her fear the next day? Had Daemon so thoroughly deluded him that he actually thought her bruises were the work of Aemond’s hands?

Even Jace could not be so stupid.

“Silence!” Jeyne called from her throne. But even she could not wholly calm the chaos that had erupted. “You will all be silent and let the Princess speak!”

Eventually, the room was silent again, as all assembled decided their desire to hear more outweighed their instinct to rage at the accusations.

“I confess I do not know his motivation,” Arianwyn said when she finally began again, “but my father came to the Vale that day to kill my mother. In his cruelty, he apparently decided he would rather her die slowly and in agony than kill her quickly. Raping her was just another insult. He never intended for his seed to find purchase or for me to be born. Indeed, he has made it quite clear to me that his only regret is that I did not die alongside my mother in the birthing bed.”

She went on until she had told them everything.

How Daemon never acknowledged her until Lady Laena’s funeral. The cruel words he had said to her then. How he had taken her to Dragonstone not out of fatherly duty but to punish her for fighting with his other daughters. The neglect she endured on the island and the threats he made against her there.

The details of how Jace and Baela had treated her, she left out. It would serve no purpose to share them. And besides, he knew as little of this story as the rest of them – that much was clear from the abject horror growing on his face with every passing moment.

But she did speak of Rhaenyra. How she ignored Arianwyn for years, even after she became her stepmother. What she had said in the garden at Dragonstone, revealing that she knew what Daemon had done while belittling it and calling it merely “regrettable.”

How the would-be Queen had only stood there when Daemon wrapped his hands around Arianwyn’s throat. How she said nothing when he called her a ‘whore’ and a ‘virgin cunt’ to be sold for his own advantage. How she had stared blankly when Daemon threatened to kill Arianwyn.

Just as she had in the Throne Room while Daemon spun his horrible little story about Aemond, trying to pass the blame for his own attempt on Arianwyn’s life to her new husband.

Rhaenyra had only stepped in when it became clear Daemon was coming dangerously close to exposing himself – and her.

Arianwyn fell silent then. She could have continued, released all her anger in one fiery burst, and shouted so loud the gods could hear that Rhaenyra was unfit to be Queen and that Daemon was an even worse choice for King.

But she did not.

Revealing the story to the world, at last, had exhausted her body and soul. Besides, there was nothing she could say that could possibly make her case more convincingly than the simple truth.

After what seemed like an eternity, Jeyne broke the silence. And with it, the spell of horrified shock that had enveloped the High Hall – perhaps the entire Eyrie.

“I will offer only one correction,” Jeyne said, her voice as raw as though she had been crying. Perhaps she had, and Arianwyn just had not noticed. “There was a miracle, dear Arianwyn. It was a miracle that Rhea survived long enough to deliver you.”

-

“Where’s Aria?” Aemond grunted as he slid off his borrowed horse once he was in the courtyard of the Red Keep.

Faintly, he could hear servants working, people chattering, and even the low bleats of sheep. But his ears were still echoing with the sounds of the storm.

He stumbled as he stepped away from the horse, cursing his mind for abandoning his body like this. Thankfully, someone was there to catch him.

“Aria?” he sighed in relief. That was Rune-etched bronze armor before his eyes, perhaps the most comforting sight in the world.

But the voice that came from his rescuer was deep and gruff.

Not Aria, then.

Aemond couldn’t make out what the voice was saying. It sounded as though it was coming from behind a thick wall of stone.

“Take me to Aria,” he commanded, pushing away from whichever of his wife’s guards had caught him.

He stumbled again as he climbed the steps into the Keep but caught himself before he fell. It would not do to let the servants and courtiers see him in such a state, to see him weak.

He was Prince Aemond Targaryen, son of King Viserys and brother to King Aegon II. He was a warrior. A scholar. The rider of the largest dragon –

Dammit.

The thought of Vhagar brought another bout of pain and nausea coursing through him. He dove into the first alcove he saw and doubled over, emptying what little was left in his stomach onto the stone floor.

An armor-clad hand came to rest hesitantly on his shoulder. “My Prince?”

Aemond shook it off, growling. This time, he caught a glimpse of brownish hair – the guard had removed his helmet. Still, he couldn’t tell who it was. His vision was too blurry.

“Do not touch me,” he moaned half-heartedly. Then, summoning all his strength, he stood once more.

Every step towards his apartments took the whole of his concentration – every remaining drop of his strength to hold whatever was left of his mind in place.

He likely would have failed had each beat of his heart not whispered to him: “Aria. Aria. Aria.”

All he needed was to reach her, collapse into her arms, and all would be well. She would make everything alright again. She could wake him from this nightmare and banish the darkness from his heart.

He just needed to get to her.

After what seemed like hours, he finally reached the dark wood door to their chambers.

The Runes he and Aria had carved into them years and years ago seemed to be lit from within, as worn as they had become over the years. Aemond ran a hand over them, and with each line, his resolve seemed to strengthen.

He was so close. She was right behind the door.

The metal of the door handle was cool, just like her touch – the touch that would soon soothe him.

But as the door creaked open, his heart sank, and his stomach roiled.

The hearth was empty. The fire unlit. The curtains drawn. The room dark.

Aria was not there.

“Where is she?” Aemond hissed as his weak, traitorous, broken body began to tremble and shake. “Where is my wife?”

He turned slightly to the guard that had followed him here – or guards? There appeared to be three of them now. Or perhaps his vision was multiplying.

“The Princess has not yet returned, my Prince.”

Aemond’s body went unnaturally still at those words, as his mind returned to him for only as long as it took for his world to shatter.

-

A small but not insignificant number of Lords had immediately made an impassioned plea – or, more accurately, demand – for Jeyne to declare war upon Rhaenyra and Daemon, not for their false claim to the Iron Throne, but for the rape and murder of Rhea Royce, and for the mistreatment of her daughter.

They had flocked to the base of the Weirwood throne shouting their demand the moment Jeyne finished speaking, forcing Arianwyn to retreat back to her place by Gerold’s side.

“Is this… good?” she whispered, staring wide-eyed at the display before her.

Gerold wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a hug. “I think this is perhaps the best outcome we could have hoped for, my dear.”

“So, you aren’t upset with me for telling them?”

He laughed as they watched one of the Lords surrounding Jeyne, a man who looked as old as time itself, start brandishing his cane like it was either a sword, a magic staff, or both.

“No, Aria,” he assured her. “I was quite nervous about what it would prompt Daemon to do, but I cannot deny its effectiveness. And if he does seek reprisals against you, I think all we must do is send Lord Upcliff to defend you. Gods, I thought he could hardly walk any more – just look at him!”

Indeed, the once doddering old man looked as though he was ready to lead the Knights of the Vale into battle himself.

As amused as Arianwyn and Gerold were, Jeyne’s smile at the reaction from her men had long since faded.

“My Lords!” she shouted again as her guards tried to pull the men away from the throne. “There will be no war today! So please – calm down!”

While the guards continued dispersing the irate Lords of the Vale, Arianwyn let her eyes drift across the High Hall to Jace.

He had said nothing since she revealed the truth. He had not even moved. His eyes were wide with shock and horror, his mouth hanging slightly open, and his brow furrowed. When he met her gaze, his expression hardened into one of anger.

Not at Arianwyn, as it had always been, but for her.

She could not bear the weight of that look, yet she could not turn away from it.

“Prince Jacaerys,” Jeyne called, breaking him away from his ceaseless staring. “You are the only representative present from Dragonstone. In the interest of justice, I here offer you the opportunity to defend your stepfather against the accusations levied against him. Have you anything to say to the court?”

Jace’s mouth opened and closed, words forming and then dying on his lips. Finally, after a moment of fruitless scrambling for something to say, he glanced back to Arianwyn, and his face crumpled.

“Nothing, my Lady,” he whispered as he looked down to his feet, weakly shaking his head.  

“Then I think we can forgo any further debate or discussion,” Jeyne declared. “As well as the lengthy process of a formal vote on this matter. I feel that we have heard more than sufficient evidence to know what we must now do without a doubt.”

Jeyne pursed her lips before looking back to the Lords suspiciously. “But, of course, I have the utmost respect for our laws and traditions. So, I will tell you what I propose we do. And should any of you wish to disagree with me, I will allow you to explain why before I ignore you and do what I believe is right anyway.”

Arianwyn almost laughed aloud while Jessamyn sighed and rolled her eyes. But no one else acknowledged the humor, so they both remained silent.

“It is my intention to declare my support for Aegon Targaryen as King,” Jeyne proclaimed, her voice once more that of the Lady of the Vale. “While I have always believed that in this world of men, women must band together, I cannot reconcile myself with Princess Rhaenyra’s abysmally poor choice of consort.

“Even if the law were on her side, and the Iron Throne was hers by right, it is my belief that her willful association with Daemon Targaryen renders her unfit to rule. It is most unseemly for a woman to stand by a man who has mistreated women – women I love – as severely as Daemon Targaryen has. I cannot forgive her complicity in his crimes. That is in the hands of the gods, though I have my doubts that even the Father himself would pardon such sins.”

With a deep, steadying breath, Jeyne braced her hands on the arms of her throne and looked imperiously over the men she ruled. “Is there any who would oppose this decision?”

Lord Sunderland began to speak but swiftly changed his mind. Then, though it obviously pained him, he bowed his head in acquiescence.

“Then it is decided,” Jeyne proclaimed with a wide grin. “The Vale and all its people hereby recognize Aegon, Second of His Name, as the rightful heir to his father, King Viserys, and as the one true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She paused to allow applause – louder than it had been for Jace’s petition – to again sweep through the room as her steward led chants of ‘Aegon the King.’

But she did not move to dismiss the court. Instead, she turned to her godsdaughter. “Princess Arianwyn?” she called, only continuing when the girl was again standing before her. “You have presented yourself well today. You should be proud.”

Indeed, Arianwyn was filled with such pride and relief that she felt her chest would burst for it. But she tried to remain humble as she bowed her head. “Thank you, godsmother.”

“You are very welcome, my dear,” Jeyne cooed fondly before slipping back into her more regal demeanor. “But your mission is only half-accomplished, is it not?”

“Yes, my Lady,” Arianwyn said quickly. “The King has asked that I negotiate for the support of your troops, should they be needed to defend his crown.”

“I do not think ‘negotiation’ is necessary,” Jeyne laughed. “I have only two requests of our new King, and I do not imagine he will object much to either. Will you hear them?”

“Of course, my Lady.”

“First, I ask that he use every tool at the Crown’s disposal to bring Daemon Targaryen to justice and ensure that he is punished in accordance with the severity of his crimes.”

Arianwyn nodded eagerly, too overwhelmed by the ferocity with which Jeyne spoke – a ferocity which suggested she would tear Daemon apart herself if given the chance – to say anything.

“My second request may be somewhat more difficult, I am afraid. Should war break out, it will be fought with dragons. Now, I have no fear of armies. Many and more have broken themselves against my Bloody Gate, and the Eyrie is known to be impregnable. But you,” she nodded to Jacaerys as well, “the both of you, have descended on us from the sky, as Queen Visenya once did during the Conquest, and I was powerless to halt you.

“The decisions I have made today, and truths that were revealed in my keep, will no doubt reach Daemon’s ears. Should he come seeking retribution, I must not be powerless to defend myself and my people. Send me dragonriders.” There was a flicker of genuine fear in Jeyne’s dark eyes as she spoke. Fear that her people would suffer the consequences of her actions – however righteous they were.

Arianwyn understood that fear. It was the same that had kept her and Emrys from escaping Dragonstone for all those years.

“I will do what I can, my Lady,” she said, hoping it would be enough. “I have little involvement in matters of war, but should it be necessary, Emrys and I shall come and defend the Eyrie ourselves.”

“Nothing would make me feel safer,” Jeyne agreed. Then, with a dramatic sweeping of her skirts as she stood, she descended her throne to take Arianwyn’s arm and begin leading her from the High Hall. “Speaking of your delightful dragon, I believe you are past due to fly home to your equally delightful husband...”

-

“Where is she?” Aemond demanded. His body had begun to shake again, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Only one thing mattered.

Arianwyn.

He felt the uncomfortable sensation of hot, salty tears pooling in his empty eye.

Oh gods. The sapphire was gone, as was the patch.

How many people had seen his true, monstrous self?

Aemond’s feet began carrying him to the bedchamber before he heard the guards reply – if they had replied at all. He pushed open the door so hard the wood cracked, but he did not stop.

Not until he reached the mirror.

The one he had set into the eastern wall. So that he could see his sapphire every morning and think of Aria. So he could see himself as she would – as she did – as the man, not the monster.

There was nothing left of the man in his reflection now.

His skin and hair were stained with his own blood, only interrupted by the clean tracks left by his tears.

His one eye was wide, wet, and bloodshot – the eye of a cornered, feral beast, not a civilized man or Prince.

His lips were so dry they had begun to crack and bleed, and the remnants of his sick were still at the corners of his mouth.

The wounds he had inflicted on himself were savage and deep. They would likely scar, but he did not care.

Aemond recognized the monster reflected back at him.

It was him, as he truly was, behind all his masks and lies.

“Where is she?” he asked, though he did not know whether the guards had followed him. “Why isn’t she here? I need her.”

He needed her so badly.

He would die if he did not find her.

He would die and go to the deepest hell, where he belonged.

He would never see her again.

She was good. Her soul was pure – she would not be sent to the hells.

While he suffered for eternity, she would live in bliss alongside the gods.

She would forget him, the broken man she had felt enough pity for to shackle herself to him in life.

Aemond hoped she would forget him quickly. He did not want her to suffer on his behalf.

He did not want to shadow her beautiful soul with the darkness that lived in him.

He screamed, the harrowing sound coming from the very depths of his broken soul, as he threw his fist into the mirror with all his might.

It shattered into a million tiny shards of pure silver, exploding throughout the room.

Each new cut on his face and each sliver of glass embedded into his hand at once anchored Aemond to reality and pulled him further into his distant, dark soul.

Suddenly, a hand brushed his shoulder.

He was so entirely consumed by the monster staring back at him that, even through the mirror, he had not noticed anyone approaching.

His training kicked in, and he moved on instinct.

He shoved the hand on his shoulder away as he turned, reaching for his assailant. Finding another arm, thin and fragile, he seized it with all his strength and twisted, twisted, twisted. Until he heard them scream in pain.

But he knew that scream.

Kirin.

At once, Aemond’s mind came racing back, and he was what was before him – what he was doing.

His hand was wrapped around Kirin’s arm – his bad arm – bending and pulling it past its natural limits. His manservant’s face was distorted in pain as he screamed, but his blue eyes were filled only with concern for his master.

Aemond pulled away the moment the guards burst into the room. Ser Conin and Ser Christor grabbed Kirin as he fell, immediately rushing him out of the apartments. To the Maesters, no doubt.

Ser Warren remained behind, his dark gaze fixed on the Prince, assessing him as a threat. But then, the old man saw the wounds on his face, the tear tracks through the blood, and the fear in his eye.

“My Prince,” Warren said, his voice soft and careful, as though he were trying to soothe a rabid dog. “Princess Arianwyn has not returned. She is expected tonight. Is there someone else I can summon to… help you?”

Aemond took a step back into the broken shards of the mirror, wishing that one of them would break through the leather of the boot and cut him. He needed more pain, worse pain, anything to anchor him to reality until Arianwyn was back.

“Get out,” Aemond whispered, his voice too broken to shout again, as he wanted to. “Get out. Leave me alone. If anyone other than Aria comes in here … I will kill them.”

Not a threat, exactly, but the expression of genuine fear. If he could hurt Kirin – his trusted servant and friend – he was capable of hurting anyone.

Except Arianwyn. Never her.

Ser Warren nodded and left quickly, muttering something about stationing guards at the door.

Aemond staggered through the rooms to the door, falling against it and ensuring the lock was turned. Only Arianwyn held the key to unlock it – only she could free him from this cage.

Or perhaps she would leave him in here. It would be safer to keep the monster contained, where it could hurt no one.

But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t even see him as a monster.

For once, the thought brought him more pain than comfort.

He didn’t want to be anchored to reality, he wanted to escape it.

He stumbled across the room once more. Not to the bedchamber, but to the cabinet he knew had been recently stocked with Arianwyn’s favorite wines. Flavored with fruit and flowers, their taste was as delicate as the woman who loved them.

His body was so out of his control that he ripped the door off the cabinet rather than opening it. It didn’t matter. He had what he needed.

He had always hated that loss of self and control. It was why he had always avoided wine for so long. And it was precisely why he needed it now – to hasten his mind’s retreat and keep him far away from reality until Arianwyn was here again.

Aemond grabbed the first bottle he could reach, ripped out the cork, and began to drink.

-

Jeyne, Gerold, and Jessamyn were the only ones to accompany Arianwyn to the gardens to say goodbye. Emrys, who had fallen asleep too quickly the night of their arrival to greet anyone, was thrilled to see Gerold again, and even more so to meet his rider’s godmother and her companion.

While Gerold was already acquainted with the dragon and knew how to approach him, Jeyne and Jessamyn wore twin expressions of equal delight and terror as they strode toward the great beast. Thankfully, Emrys was one of the friendlier dragons in Westeros, especially when the new people he met approached hand-in-hand with his rider.

Still, Jessamyn’s knees buckled when she first touched his smooth black scales, requiring Jeyne to catch her before she fell. Emrys immediately swiveled his head to check on her, prompting an outpouring of laughter from everyone.

Laughter that ended the moment Arianwyn spotted Jacaerys enter the gardens, lock eyes with her, and begin to walk her way.

“I’m leaving,” she hissed to Gerold as she started to climb into the saddle. “Right now.”

“Arianwyn,” Gerold scolded, grabbing the back of her armor to halt her. Even when he had not been training for many months, he was still much stronger than her, allowing him to hold her still despite her protestations and wriggling. “If he wants to say goodbye, you should let him. He is your cousin and stepbrother. And you all but humiliated him today. You owe him this.”

Looking to Jeyne and Jessamyn for support was useless, as they both muttered their agreement with Gerold.

“Please?” she begged pathetically as Gerold hoisted her from the stirrups and set her gently but firmly back on the ground, making her feel like she was no more than a ragdoll.

Again, it was to no avail. Jeyne stepped forward to tuck away a few strands of hair that had already come loose from Arianwyn’s braid as she whispered, “You have proved yourself a skilled diplomat today. Consider this but one final test, yes?”

“Will you stay with me?” Arianwyn asked, leaning into her godsmother’s touch.

Jeyne sighed and kissed her godsdaughter’s forehead. “No, my dear. I think you need to do this alone. There is more between the two of you than what happened today. If war is coming, you should make peace while you can.”

Arianwyn could not quite see the logic of making peace in preparation for war, but reluctantly agreed. Not wanting to show weakness, she held back her tears while she said goodbye to her cousin, godsmother, and whatever one calls their godsmother’s secret lover.

Then they left, passing Jace on their way back into the Eyrie. Jeyne and Jessamyn only politely dipped their heads to the Prince as they walked by, while Gerold stopped and grabbed his arm to whisper something to him before moving on.

Emrys growled as he approached, angling his head and wings to hide Arianwyn as best he could. At least he supported her.

“I want to talk to you,” Jace pled after several minutes of trying and failing to outmaneuver the dragon.

“And why should you ever want that?” she hissed, her voice muffled through the membrane of Emrys’ wing.

“I think after what you just said in there,” he huffed, “I deserve some answers.”

“Mmm,” Arianwyn hummed, fastening her bag to Emrys’ saddle a little too tightly. The dragon grunted, though he directed his frustration not at his rider but at the bastard Prince that was upsetting her. “I didn’t think I left any room for questions.”

Jace groaned in frustration. “Aria…”

“Do not call me that!” she shouted, abandoning her preparations for departure and bursting from beneath Emrys’ wing to round on her stepbrother. When she reached him, she shoved him as hard as he could. “You do not get to call me that!”

He stumbled back but did not move to retaliate. Instead, he held out his arms to try and dissuade her from attacking again. And to placate Emrys, who was viciously baring his teeth.

Arianwyn was disappointed. For a moment, she thought she might get to use the dagger Aemond gave her, now strapped to the belt of her riding leathers. She did have a better record with live targets, after all. But whatever her desires, she would not attack unprovoked.

She rolled her eyes as she stepped back to Emrys. “You may speak until I am ready to depart. I would be quick about it if I were you – I am anxious to return home.”

Jace scoffed as he took a cautious step forward, “To your one-eyed beast of a husband?”

That was provocation enough for Arianwyn.

She drew her dagger and whirled around. Rather than try and bring the blade to his throat, she grabbed his collar and pulled him to the blade. It worked much better than the lunging attacks Aemond had forced her to practice. She did not press hard enough to cut, only to apply enough pressure for him to think twice before talking again.

“My ‘one-eyed beast of a husband’ taught me how to use this,” she spat. Only partly true – he had taught her how to hold it. They had not had much success past that. But she understood the concept of the dagger well enough. She did not need much training to know which end would cut. “Would you like me to show you, bastard?”

At the pain that went through his dark eyes at the word, she almost regretted the insult. She had never used it before – she always thought she was in no place to judge someone on their parentage.

But she would not endure insults to Aemond. Especially not from Jace.

He and his brother were the cause of so much of Aemond’s pain. What was a single cruel and undeniably true word against what they had done to him? To what he had said to her on Driftmark over the past six years?

She could not decipher the expression on his face as he pulled as far away from her blade as he could. His eyes were sorrowful, but his mouth was curled in a sneer. “Do you really hate me that much?”

Arianwyn was taken aback, so much so that she released his collar and let him stumble away from her dagger. “What?”

He looked to be almost on the verge of tears as he looked at her beseechingly. “Do you hate me, Arianwyn?”

She expected him to accuse her of lying about her father and his mother. To demand she recant all that she had said. Or even to try and stop her from leaving.

But, true to form, he had asked her another stupid question.

“You spent our entire childhood making Aemond miserable,” she said, her voice thick with anger and confusion. He moved to refute or argue with her, but she raised her blade again to stop him. “He never did anything to you, yet you took every opportunity to torment him – whether Aegon was there or not. It was you who brought the knife to that fight!”

Jace looked away from her, lips thin with anger. But he said nothing as she continued her tirade.

“You had to know it was him.” she dropped the hand holding the dagger to her side as tears welled in her eyes. “When you came to the tunnel. Rhaena was with you, so who else could it have been?”

She began to laugh as her tears fell, and she waved her hand, in which the dagger was now only loosely gripped, as she spoke. “You saw Vhagar and knew it was Aemond. And you were not as desperate or ill-educated as Rhaena. You knew that he had not ‘stolen’ her,” she spat, the word that had long caused her animosity with her youngest half-sister disgusting her still. “You knew it was his birthright to claim a dragon.”

Arianwyn had never intended to say so much to him, having responded to his taunts with as few words as possible for so long. But he had somehow unearthed a rage buried deep within her, feelings toward him that she had not known were there.

“It had been his birthright to have an egg to warm his cradle – as you and I both did – but he was denied that, as he was denied so much by his father,” she laughed again. “But what would you know about that? Viserys always loved you and your brothers so well. And you have been blessed with an excess of fathers: Laenor Velaryon, Harwin Strong, and now Daemon.”

Her laughter faded, and her bitter smile fell. “It’s disgusting, you know. How you follow Daemon around like a dog, begging for his attention and praise. What is it you expect from him? You don’t really think he’ll let you inherit anything, do you? He has two trueborn sons with Rhaenyra. Not even you can be so foolish as to think he’d let a bastard take the throne before them.”

She took a heaving breath, fully intending to continue her tirade, but then Jace moved. He snatched the dagger out of her hand, sending it clattering across the flagstones and into the bushes. When her silver gaze finally left him to stare at it in disbelief, he grabbed her but the shoulders.

“Arianwyn,” he gritted through clenched teeth, “I just want to know – ”

“Why did you bring that knife?” she screamed with all the breath in her lungs, then fell silent.

She had not known it, but that question had burned in her mind for more than six years. It had fueled every frustration she ever held for him. It was the reason his every word grated on her – why she had always bristled under his gaze.

Luke’s hand had stolen Aemond’s eye, but Jace’s knife made the cut.

Jace did not answer, though he did let go of her. As she glared at him, he could not meet her eye.

“What did you plan to do to him?” She asked, as still as the stone of the mountains surrounding them. “If I hadn’t been there, what would you have done?”

“Nothing,” he sighed, his lip curled in a scowl. “I just… I wanted to scare him.”

“Why?”

“Because I did not like him.”

“He had never done anything to you, or anyone,” Arianwyn said, still not understanding. “He is your uncle – he wanted to be your friend. At Laena’s funeral, he tried to tell you he was sorry about Ser Harwin’s death. Why did you dislike him so?”

Jace released his grip and turned his back on her, so all she could see was his dark hair blowing in the breeze as he looked at the statue of Alyssa Arryn, only steps away.

“He had you.”

Arianwyn had never felt so lost. Her mouth hung open as she stared at him, desperate for him to say just one thing that made sense. “He ‘had’ me? What does that even mean?”

“You were always with him!” he shouted as he whirled around to her again, though he never met her eyes. “At meals and parties, in your lessons, in the library. Seven hells, you even came to watch him train even though you hate fighting!”

“He was – and is – my best friend. I was always with him because I liked being with him,” she countered, brow furrowing tighter. “Just like you were always with Luke and Aegon.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Jace said, laughing darkly and shaking his head.

Arianwyn scoffed, “I don’t even know what the ‘thing’ is!”

“It – ” the muscles in his jaw were so tight they seemed about to snap. “It was… frustrating to me. That I could never talk to you without him being there.”

“Still, it never seemed to stop you,” she said, crossing her arms. “Or Aegon.”

He had the courtesy to look mildly regretful. “That wasn’t talking.”

“No, it was ridicule.”

“And it wasn’t you that we were – ”

“It might as well have been.”

“Can you please just – ”

“What do you want from me, Jace?”

“I’m trying to tell you that I love you, dammit!” he roared.

Arianwyn felt as though she had woken suddenly from a nightmare. She stumbled back until she hit Emrys’ scales, then slid down until she was slumped against him with her head in her hands. “Tell me this is just another of your stupid jokes, or I am going to vomit.”

Jace grimaced and kicked the tip of his boot against the side of a loose flagstone. “I’m sorry.”

While she didn’t vomit, Arianwyn let out a miserable, guttural groan that sounded quite close to vomiting. “How can you love me if you don’t even like me?”

“I do like you,” he answered, still not daring to approach her or her angry dragon. “I’ve always liked you.”

Arianwyn finally raised her head, leaning against Emrys’ hot scales as she looked up at her stepbrother. “You don’t treat people you like the way you’ve treated me. You’re cruel to me.”

“No,” he sighed, stepping toward her just enough to earn a warning growl from Emrys. “It’s not cruelty, I promise. It’s jokes, teasing – that’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

“But we aren’t friends, Jace,” she countered, hating herself for feeling badly when he looked hurt by her words. “We never have been.”

“Why not?”

“Because you aren’t nice to me!”

“You wouldn’t talk to me if I was nice to you!”

“How do you know? Did you ever try?”

Jace opened his mouth, but what came out was more of a quiet squawk than an actual word. Arianwyn could do nothing but look at him in bewilderment as he recalled their every interaction. His face scrunched like he was trying to solve some great mystery.

“You didn’t,” she answered for him, lacking the patience to let him figure it out for himself. “Even once I was on Dragonstone, where Aemond couldn’t ‘have’ me, you were never nice to me. None of you were, except Rhaena. She’s the only one who ever apologized to me for what you did on Driftmark.”

He stared blankly at where Emrys had wrapped the tip of his tail around Arianwyn. A gentle touch of comfort, protection, and possessiveness from a beast capable of such awesome death and destruction.

She closed her eyes and let herself imagine that the touch was not Emrys but Aemond. That it was his warmth she was feeling. But if Aemond were here, if he heard what Jace was saying to her…

Perhaps it was a good thing her husband was so far away.

“So, you do hate me,” Jace whispered as the revelation finally came to him, “and… I deserve it.”

Arianwyn rolled her eyes, prepared to say something cutting, but then she saw the devastation and self-loathing on his face. She swallowed the retort, along with the slight pang of guilt in her chest. “Well, maybe not ‘hate,’ exactly. Just… very, very strong dislike.”

“That is the definition of hate,” he replied with a sad laugh.

“I’m sorry,” Arianwyn said, and despite herself, she meant it.

He shook his head, shoulders drooping. “No, don’t do that. I should be the one to apologize to you. For how I’ve treated you, for the things I’ve said, and for… everything with Aemond.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. It was not forgiveness, for that would require more than a simple apology. All she would – could – give him was acknowledgment. That she had heard his words, that she understood him. That, perhaps, forgiveness was possible.

Sensing the tension disappear, Emrys rose from his protective crouch and flexed his wings. He stretched a bit, testing the weight of all the saddlebags – and the sword, Lamentation, carefully attached to the side of Arianwyn’s seat. There had been a place for a weapon built into his saddle, but it had never been used until now.

“I think he’s ready to leave,” Jace sighed.

Arianwyn stood and looked back to her mount. He certainly was. She could tell by how he leaned down on one side – his way of asking her to climb on. She smiled, stroking his side before gripping the first handhold of the saddle.

“Can I…” Jace started, making her stop her ascent for a moment. “Can I ask you one more question before you go?”

Emrys bristled at the further delay but did not make any other attempts to intimidate the boy. Arianwyn didn’t respond until she was settled in the saddle with the leather straps around her thighs fastened. “You may.”

Jace looked up at her, brown eyes pleading and shoulders squared. Arianwyn knew that whatever he was about to ask, the answer was monumentally important to him.

“If things had been different,” he began, never breaking his gaze from hers for more than a blink, “if I had been different – been better… could you ever have loved me? Chosen me, instead of him?”

Arianwyn froze. He had just given her the power to break his heart.

She knew she should think about her answer, should try and imagine a world where Jace had been kind and sweet. One where it may have been him to spend those long days in the library with her. Or one where, once they were on Dragonstone, he changed to her and became the Prince to rescue her from her tower.

But none of those imaginings could even begin to form in her mind.

For each time, her mind instead conjured an image of a story she’d so often been told. Two white-haired babes – one swaddled in green, one in bronze – meeting for the first time. Smiles breaking across their still-pink, chubby cheeks as they reached toward each other with clumsy arms.

They had never stopped reaching for each other. And they never would.

“No,” she said. She knew it was the answer he was dreading, but no matter what he had done, he deserved the truth. And this was a truth etched into her heart, her soul. “It was always Aemond.”

Though his eyes began to water, Jace smiled tightly as he nodded. “I am very happy for you, that you are so happy. And… I will try to be happy for him as well.”

Arianwyn knew that ‘try’ was the most important word in that sentiment, but she smiled back anyway as she grasped Emrys’ reins. “Thank you, Jace. I will pray that you and Baela can find the same happiness in your own union.”

She meant it. When the betrothal was announced, she saw how excited Baela was. How her half-sister had looked so deeply in love the night of the dinner. If Jace would allow himself to, they could find genuine love together.

He pursed his lips in a way that usually meant he was about to make some snide comment, but he bit it back with a twitch of his head. Then, he stepped away from Arianwyn and Emrys, giving the dragon ample space to take flight.

“The next time we see each other,” Jace called, his voice sodden with regret. “We may very well be true enemies. It will be my duty to hurt you. Or kidnap you. Or...”

“I think it is more than likely, I’m afraid,” she agreed.

Jace was silent for a moment, looking down at his shuffling feet. “Aria?”

Though she still bristled at hearing him call her that, she did not comment on it. “Yes, Jace?”

He took a deep breath and looked directly into her eyes. “Promise me that whatever happens, you will stay far, far away from Daemon.”

So, he did believe her story.

To her surprise, she felt no instinct to gloat. On the contrary, she was touched by how worried he was about her.

“Don’t worry,” she said in consolation, allowing herself a slight grin. After all, she was most comfortable around Jace when she was teasing him. But now, her tone was far more playful than spiteful. “I was planning on doing that anyway.”

Then Emrys took to the sky, hollering in delight that he was finally going home –where Arianwyn knew her husband would be waiting for her.

-

Aemond waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Still, Arianwyn did not come.

How long had he been sitting on their bedroom floor amongst the shards of shattered glass, just waiting?

Minutes?

Hours?

Days?

Years?

An eternity?

He blinked slowly, his eye dry and heavy. And far too blurry to see where he had put his bottle.

So, he reached out blindly, discarding the empty bottles he found and savoring the clattering sound they made as they rolled across the floor. The pain it caused his aching head reminded him that he was alive and served as the beginning of the punishment he deserved.

Finally, he found a half-full bottle and brought it to his lips. Then, after another long gulp, he rested it against his heaving chest.

Night had fallen – or fallen again, if he had indeed been here more than a day. Moonlight shone through the window, reflecting off the pieces of mirror sprawled on the floor as it had once reflected off his sapphire.

But Aemond did not look at the moonlight. He could not appreciate its strange beauty.

He could only stare at the impenetrable darkness in the corner of the room.

It seemed to have emerged from within his broken soul.

And from within, staring at him like a wolf in the night, was the horrible, simple truth that he felt infinitely more guilt for hurting Kirin than he did for killing Luke.

It was that truth that made him a monster.

“Aria…” he whispered, his voice hardly more than a breath. Even as he drank, he did not dare look away from the darkness as he called out for his wife.

And he did not stop.

Next Chapter

#aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond fluff #aemond one eye #aemond imagine #aemond the kinslayer #aemond x reader #aemond x you #house of the dragon aemond #prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon imagine #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #ewan mitchell

[hadephobic]

What's with these homies who be dissin' my boy? Don't they know I'm aggravated with the negativity and the noise? They tell me "find a wealthy man," but they don't seem too happy I was afraid to put myself on the line for a boy Until he put me in my place and showed me how to enjoy myself I think I need your help, I think she's coming back

You're the only one who's making me come To my sinful senses I'll never love anyone the same I'll never feel ashamed of using you for pleasure

#a sketch bc alice needs love and also to celebrate this song being on spotify now #also ignore that she believes none of what she's singing #Fall apart; iron heart | IC #I'm walking the blade of a dagger | Visage #my art

[roseofdarknessblog]

Holding On or Letting Go (Levi Ackerman x Reader)

Word count: 3 814

Disclaimer: english is not my first language, I apologize in advance for any mistakes

TW:  mentions of anxiety, suicidal thoughts, mental health issues

A/N: These past few months were super rough and somehow nothing seems to be getting better. For now, at least. I wrote this pretty recently and mainly just for myself, but then I thought hey, why not publish it? Maybe there's somebody who needs to hear a few encouraging and hopeful words. If you do, if you somehow find yourself in this story, please consider Levi's words. There is always a chance they are true. ❤️

Holding On or Letting Go

You hated nights like these.

Hated crying yourself to sleep or staying awake for ungodly long hours, accompanied by your worst and darkest thoughts.

It was getting bad again, there was no denying it. Everything in your life was falling apart and you had no idea how to stop it from happening. The pain of being lost and desperate felt almost unbearable.

All those restless nights made you scared to even go to bed, which was funny since your bed was the only place where you felt safe. How ironic, right? What truly scared you, wasn't the actual act of laying down. Rather what came after, if you somehow managed to fall asleep. Nightmares and weird dreams, that made you wake up several times during the night or which left you feeling absolutely exhausted in the morning.

It truly was getting bad, when you started to think about taking your life once again. These thoughts were nothing new to you, quite the opposite. You knew them pretty well for many years. They kept coming and going. Now they were here again... screaming inside your head for attention every waking hour of every day. And it was getting harder and harder to ignore them.

With fresh tears in your eyes, you turned your head to the right and looked at the peacefully sleeping figure right next to you. Levi was laying on his stomach with his face buried into the pillow, while one of his hands was holding yours. That was nothing unusual, he loved and needed to be touching you while sleeping. Only then could he get a proper rest. It took you some time, but you got used to this habit of his. After some time you weren't afraid to say, that you loved how much he needed to feel your presence all the time.

Levi knew you were walking on thin ice once again. There was no way of hiding how you truly felt from him. And that pained you the most. The reality of making him feel miserable just because you weren't strong enough to handle your own life and emotions.

For a little while you just lay there, listening to his slow and steady breathing, watching the gentle rise and fall of his back with every breath. Seeing him so peaceful and vulnerable at the same time made you feel too many things at once. There were no words to correctly describe just how much you loved him.

That's why you were so scared of the future. Of the possibility of losing the battle with your own mind and leaving Levi behind with a broken heart and head full of questions. You feared he would blame himself if you truly decided to let go of this life. And somehow, that hurt even more than all the pain your mind put you through. The vision of him mourning the future you two planned together, but will never happen. Despite everything, you made so many plans and until now, you managed to fulfill only a handful of them. The majority of your dreams still lingered in the future and right now... well, they seemed unreachable to you. They were too far away and you didn't have the energy or the motivation it took to chase them down.

With a smile, that almost hurt and was just a stupid attempt for stopping your tears, you slowly outstretched your free hand toward Levi. With the tips of your fingers, you lightly and very carefully started to trace the outlines of all the muscles on his bare back, gently moving onto his shoulder and left arm. You wanted to remember all the little details about him. Store them in your head for the worst moments. He was always something like your own little sanctuary. Someone who you could run to, when everything became too overwhelming and scary.

Levi stirred a little but didn't wake up. You waited for a couple of seconds, your fingers still lingering over his body. When he didn't move again and didn't open his eyes, you let your fingertips caress his warm skin a little more. Both of your bodies were illuminated by the soft moonlight streaming in through the window.

„What are you thinking about?“ he asked suddenly in a sleepy voice, pulling your hand closer and kissing your knuckles. Without thinking, you moved closer, hiding in the embrace of his strong arms. Feeling his warmth beside you under the covers was one of the best feelings in the world, no matter how bad you were feeling. „Do you want to tell me what′s wrong?“

„Not really.“ You already knew, there was no point in talking. All it did, was drain you even more, anyways. Talking about your problems and emotions never solved anything. It felt pointless.

„You can talk to me about anything, love.“ His words were quiet and full of concern. Maybe that’s why he hugged your even tighter, burying his nose into your freshly washed hair.

He never failed to remind you how much he loves simple little things about you. Like the way your favorite shampoo smells, your most frequently used nail polish color, or the way you dress up in clothes you find the most comfortable to wear. The man loved everything about you. Everything. Literally. Even the things you hated to look at and the things you wished could just simply disappear.

He could never get enough of touching your soft skin. His hands just loved grabbing you by your hips, even though you hated them for being too wide. He found sweet pleasure in kissing and carefully biting your thighs, while making love to you, even though you hated them for not being skinny enough. He loved to lay his head on your stomach and talk to you about his day, even though you were disgusted with it for not being flat enough.

And so on.

There wasn’t a part of your body this man would not adore. If he could, he would kiss every tiny little inch at least a hundred times a day. Maybe even more. He never had enough of you, not even after hours of sweet and equally dominant intimacies. His own exhaustion never mattered to him. When he saw that you wanted him some more, that you needed to feel him some more, he obeyed without a single word. He was very well aware of the fact, that sometimes it was him and him only, who could keep your mind from wandering to dark and dangerous places.

„I′m scared,“ you finally spoke, swallowing hard. Your eyes were once more burning with tears that wanted to stream down your cheeks. The pain in your chest was growing worse by the second. Slowly it was almost impossible to take a breath without needing to suppress the need to sob. „I’m scared. And lost. And just so exhausted from fighting with my own god damned mind every single day. It was supposed to get better. I tried, I really did try this time and I believed that it’s gonna be fine. But it’s not, because I can feel everything getting bad again. And I’m just so incredibly scared, that this time...“

All of those words seemed to come out of nowhere. At first, you didn’t even realize that you said them out loud. Only after your voice disappeared into the darkness surrounding the both of you. The world behind the windows suddenly seemed too quiet. Almost dead. As if you and Levi were the only ones left in the universe.

„I don’t think I can fight anymore, Levi. Or rather... I′m not sure I want to fight.“

„Then I’ll fight for you, no problem,“ he replied almost immediately, pressing his lips to your forehead. His voice sounded almost too calm. Did he not understand what you just said to him? „I’m not letting you go. Never.“

„Why?“

You waited for the tears to run down your cheeks, but it suddenly felt as if you were too numb and tired to even cry again. Despite your heart and soul being ripped apart by everyday life. Despite your mind trying to end you during every awake moment of each day.

„Because I know you don’t want to die. You want the exact opposite.“ You furrowed your brows, trying to look into his eyes. They looked even prettier in the silvery moonlight. „When you smile, laugh, and joke around and when you’re excited about something... I mean really, truly excited when you ramble to me about some of your favorite things for hours and even days... that is the real you.“

„What?“

„You don’t want to die, Y/N,“ he repeated, brushing the tips of his fingers alongside your cheek and jaw. His touch was gentle as always. As if he was touching a porcelain doll, deathly afraid it would break. „There is so much this life has to offer and I know you want to experience so many things. You have your dreams for the future and the way you talk about them when you let your guard down... I know you don’t want to die.“

Why did he keep on repeating those words? How could he know? How could he be so sure? It was you, who had to live inside your head. It was you, who knew all the little details that made you think that this life is simply not for you.

„I know you want to live a long and happy life. And I really hope, that you are aware of the fact, that it′s not too late to start over. With anything. You are still young and have many, many opportunities. Your past mistakes don't have to hold you back from anything.“

„I′m tired,“ you whispered, wrapping your arm around his body. As if you were afraid, that he′s going to suddenly disappear if you don′t hold him tight enough. „And so unbelievably scared of everything. You can't even imagine how draining it is... to live like this for so many years. Always thinking about every little detail of every possible situation and expecting the worst. Dreading the moment I′ll have to get out of bed and face a new day. Always hiding the fact, that I′m constantly in so much pain.“

The way he held you against his body and rubbed your back made you surrender, and tell him everything that was on your mind. Levi reassured you many times, that it was absolutely okay. You could always talk to him about anything and everything. About every little detail, that bothered you. But doing it was hard even after all that time you spent together.

This wasn't the life he deserved. Not the life you wanted him to live. Somebody like Levi deserved only the best of everything. Not a burden like you. Not a partner, who promised him many things, but eventually wasn′t able to fulfill anything. Not someone, who was planning on leaving him behind, despite him trying his best every single day.

„I don′t think I want to do this anymore.“

„What exactly makes you think that?“ he asked, running his fingers through your hair. You tried to take a couple of steadying breaths before answering him. However, the next couple of minutes were spent in complete silence. „I know how misleading your anxious thoughts can get. But I also know that you are strong enough to fight them. You know they are not telling you the truth.“

Mental illness took many things from you. Throughout the last ten years or so it turned you into a completely different person in many aspects. You tried to fight back and get better multiple times. But nothing was working, you always ended up where you began. All the effort was pointless, it only left you more defeated.

„Everything is going to be okay, love. Everything, I promise you. No matter how scared and tired you are right now, it′s going to get better.“ His lips pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. „We′ll figure everything out. Together, you and I. There is nothing we can′t get through, remember that. It will get better... so much better. You will be happy again. And so glad you didn′t give up. There is just so much beauty in this life you still need to see and feel. You deserve it, you deserve every single good thing you ever wished for, and a hundred times more.“

Could you really believe his words, when your mind was telling you the exact opposite? When it was trying to convince you, that pain and failure was all you ever truly deserved? After ruining so many things and letting down those closest to you, there should be nothing nice waiting for you. Those truly beautiful things and experiences belonged to other people, not you. They were reserved for someone stronger, better motivated, way more determined and persistent... someone more beautiful and lovable. Anybody but a weak-minded and pathetic failure like you.

„I promise you won't regret staying alive, because you never know what could happen. You could be living your dream life in a couple of months. You can soon have everything you′ve always wanted or something even better, but only if you don′t give up.“

He was never the best with words, but when it came to dire situations like this one, Levi always managed more than perfectly. Somehow he always knew, what your heart needed to hear and feel. What the back of your mind was trying to tell you as well, but couldn′t say it loud enough to drown out all the other anxious voices. So he took it upon himself. To remind you just how wrong you were when you thought there was nothing left to live and fight for.

„I′m here and I′m not letting go. Ever,“ he whispered even more reassuringly, running his hand up and down your back in a soothing motion. Tears were still collecting in the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill down your cheeks. „You′ll push through this, I know that. Maybe not tomorrow or the day after, but you will be okay again. You will smile and be happy again. Happier than ever, and I′ll be right there beside you the whole time.“

You shook your head, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. You didn′t want to talk anymore. Talking seemed too tiring and not being able to put your thoughts and feelings into words made your insides twist in unimaginable pain. You so desperately wanted to get it all out... scream your confusion and fear into the wind and watch them fly away. But that was impossible. The sorrow had nowhere to go, it was bound to stay inside you.

„You don’t want to die, Y/N,“ Levi repeated again, wrapping his arms around your body even tighter. „Am I right?“

That was it.

At that moment, hearing the fear in Levi′s voice... it felt as if your heart snapped in half. All the tears finally rolled down your cheeks. You cried and sobbed for what felt like eternity, while your partner quietly held you in his arms, shielding you from the world. He knew you had to let it all out. And the best thing he could do was give you the support and the feeling of safety you needed.

„I don't...“ you got out in a hoarse voice and almost too quiet for Levi to hear. But he did. He was paying very close attention, not to overhear even your quietest word. „I don′t want to...“ You couldn't even finish that sentence. Not even for Levi′s sake.

„I′ll give you everything you want from this life and even more. Everything you don′t think you deserve. I′ll do it all, just to see you smile again. I′ll show you, that this life is truly worth living and I′ll keep doing it until you see it for yourself as well.“

He was right.

Deep down you knew it.

Life really was worth living.

You wanted and tried to believe it. Sometimes it was fairly easy. Just closing your eyes and imagining all the possibilities the future held. Sometimes you could almost taste the freedom you longed for – the peaceful and quiet life, where you had everything. Not in a sense of wealth or luxury. Just everything you personally valued the most. Ordinary things like love, peace, happiness, harmony, and purpose.

„I love you, Levi.“

You could feel him smile a little, while he pulled away to look you in the face. His eyes were almost identical to the silvery moonlight, that was illuminating the beautiful contours of his face. There wasn′t a feature you didn′t love about him. Sometimes you still wondered what a man like him saw in someone like you.

„And I never want to lose you,“ you added, resting your forehead against his, brushing a few longer strands of his hair away. „Or lose myself again and again. Over every little mistake or every horrific thought that goes through my mind.“

You wanted to live. So, so, so much. Just not like this. All you truly wanted, was to escape your own head and finally have a life you dreamed of so many times. The life you painfully wished for every single time you closed your eyes.

You never really wanted to kill yourself... just the current version of you, so the next one... the better and finally happy one could be born.

It was that simple and complicated at the same time.

All you wanted, was to live again, not just survive.

You wanted to fall in love with your old hobbies again and feel the sunshine on your skin the way you used to many years ago.

You wanted to make people around you proud and happy.

You wanted to make yourself happy again. See a purpose in every day you got the chance to wake up to. Get out of bed and feel joy about all the things you had the opportunity to do.

You wanted to see life as a gift, not as a curse.

It was really that simple and complicated at the same time.

„Never forget, that you don′t have to conquer the world in one day. You have all the time you need, to be everything you′ve ever wished for. But only if you don′t give up,“ Levi said, kissing the tip of your nose, while his fingers gently wiped tears away from your cheeks. You loved just how gentle he could be with you. „Everything will turn out like it′s supposed to. And no amount of worrying is going to change that. So, please, don′t make yourself sick over every little thing. Don't torture yourself with the past, present, and future all at once. It won't do you any good, just harm you even more.“

You nodded slowly, letting him pull you close again. His fingers slipped into your hair, while he cradled your head against his chest, letting you feel his presence even more. You knew that love wasn′t some magical remedy, but it had the power to do wonders sometimes.

„Can you promise me you′ll give life another chance?“ he asked after a quiet moment, while some more tears slipped down your wet cheeks. „At least one more?“ he added, when you stayed quiet, leaning against him a bit better.

You didn′t want to promise anything. Better said, you didn′t want to lie and let Levi down even more. Or yourself.

„I know how many times you wanted to give up in the past, but you never did. Nothing was stronger than you. Than your will to have the life you dream about. So, please, don′t let this bring you down. I know you can do it... you can find that strength again and get through even the hardest tasks.“ Closing your eyes and listening to his voice in the dark was so comforting. Every single word, even without a specific meaning, sounded like the most beautiful song you could ever wish to hear. „Everything will be okay. Just like many times before.“

„And if not?“ you asked, trying to hold back another sob. „What if I stay like this forever?“

Levi shook his head, his hand slowly running up and down your back. „You won't, I know that. You won′t stay like this because this is not the real you. Just a temporary version, that is needed for your future happiness. For your survival right now in this moment.“ His lips pressed to your forehead in another small kiss. „And when that moment finally passes, the real you will come back. And it will be even happier than ever before.“

What did the real you look like? So much time went by since you saw that version of yourself the last time. Would you even recognize it, if the two of you just randomly met somewhere on the street? No, probably not. That was the most heartbreaking thing about this whole situation. You completely losing yourself, and becoming a stranger. Just an empty shell of a person once so full of life.

„Can you promise me you′ll give life another chance?“ Levi asked once more, pulling you away from another messy horde of painful thoughts. „At least one more?“

You could feel just how eagerly he waited for your answer. For any kind of confirmation. But you just motionlessly lay there with your head on his chest and your arms wrapped around him. Giving him false hope would be cruel. Promising something, you weren′t sure you will be able to carry out would be heartless.

You wanted to live.

So, so, so much.

Live and be content with the life you had. Live and be happy at least most of the time. Live and finally see life as a gift. But despite that, sometimes the darkness inside you seemed too scary and strong. Too demanding and never-ending.  

„I′d like to stay a little longer,“ you whispered finally, pressing your lips against Levi′s neck, while also attempting to finally stop your tears.  

„That′s my girl,“ he said proudly, planting a kiss on top of your head. „I love you so much and I am so incredibly proud of you. For everything.“ Somehow, even despite all the chaos in your head, you knew he was being honest. He meant those words. And all those other ones before as well. „You′ve got all it takes to do literally everything you′ve ever dreamed of. And I′ll be gladly standing by your side, and watch you amount to great things while holding your hand and never letting go.“

Life was, after all, about giving chances.

So that night, after crying your heart out, you decided to give it another one.

Maybe just one more.

And maybe one of many.

#levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x female reader #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin

[thetomorrowshow]

cold, empty, lonely

have a short little fic about death and disconnection :)

cw: canonical character death, description of dead body

~

He finds her body on the side of the hill, crumpled upon itself, red hair dulled against the cold, yellow grass.

Bdubs doesn't touch her, at first. He just watches, waits for some kind of movement.

In the weak light of the moon, the chill wind that blows almost makes it look like her chest is slowly rising and falling. Her hair flicks up a bit, blown like the grass around, and her clothes shift a little, and if Bdubs squints his eyes almost shut and stares at one spot long enough, he could swear that she was just sleeping.

They aren't actually breathing, though. And when he opens his eyes wide, lashes not blurring his vision, he can see again the red that shines against her grey shirt.

They had brought him her armor. It was cheap stuff, iron, held together by whatever leftover straps she'd been able to scrounge up after her good set of armor had been claimed as loot by the Red Army. They hadn't wanted the new set, and had brought it, bloodstained, as proof of their conquest.

Bdubs had pleaded with them for what felt like hours for the location of her body.

He needn't have. He could have looked out a back window and seen it, if he hadn't been so distracted with everything going on.

Their body lies just above the little river that feeds into the Crastle's moat. The river has begun to freeze at the edges, little broken-off sheets of ice forming from the rocky shore, frost touching the red-spattered stones and pebbles. And their body is just beyond that, where the stones and grey dirt turn to dying grass and bare shrubs as the slope climbs upward into a squat hill, alone in the darkness of the night.

He stands there, at a distance, watching their body for probably ten minutes.

Her body looks so lonely.

Cold. Empty.

Lonely.

Bdubs sighs (his breath puffs out in a mist before him—winter really is coming, isn't it?) before crossing the distance between them, crouching down beside the body.

Their flower crown—the one that Bdubs had collected the flowers for—has come apart, a crushed halo of daisies, partially obscured by their hair, a petal weaved in here and there.

Her hair is long, tangled, spilling out around her head like the rays from the sun, curling around her throat and caught under her body.

With a gentle touch, Bdubs brushes their hair away from their grey lips, where some strands have stuck.

Her cheeks are almost colorless, the few stubborn freckles faded. Their lashes are long, soft, forehead unwrinkled and face expressionless.

There's no twist of her mouth, no scrunch of their eyes, no desperation in their brows to denounce pain. There's nothing else, either, though—no peaceful relaxation, no joyful grin, no angry glower.

She's simply blank. It's as if she never lived, never felt.

Her face is cold. Empty. Lonely.

There's still sticky blood on her shirt, her chest slick with it, the ground stained. A lucky stab, straight to the heart. A cleaving of lifeless flesh, right through their chest, somehow missing the bone frame that once held the body together.

Bdubs pulls her shirt a little bit, rearranging it to cover the ugly, open wound. He's not quite sure why he does it. He'll just bury her, anyways.

But he does. He touches the shirt, stiff and sticky with blood, and tugs it over the wound. He pulls more of her hair away, where it's become plastered to her body with blood. He arranges her body so that it isn't half curled on its side, but fully on its back.

They look almost as they always did. Just missing everything that made her alive.

She wasn't supposed to die first. It was always supposed to be him, everyone knew it. Not her.

They probably worked so well together because of how reasonable she was. Bdubs doesn't like being reasonable, likes to kill first and ask questions later—or, if he feels like it, let them sell him a coffin first and ask questions later. She preferred to observe, keep track of enemies and allies, sneak around quietly behind the scenes and make chaos of her own kind.

Which is why Bdubs should have died first. He's so publicly provocative of the Reds, so eager to spill blood.

If anything, she was fairly peaceful. Not genuinely, but she always chose to take a step back from conflict and find a way to profit from it.

It was their Red blood that got to them, Bdubs thinks idly. They hadn't been Red for long enough to let the bloodlust acclimate, and had just gone on the hunt rather than let it simmer.

And now they're dead.

He needs to bury the body. Preferably now, when it's night yet and the battles haven't resumed.

He doesn't wait any longer.

He gets to work, picking up the shovel that he'd brought with him and stabbing it into the earth. Again. Again. Again.

The rough wood of the handle pokes into his palms, but he doesn't stop. The pain reminds him that he needs to keep going.

Every so often he pauses, wipes the sweat off his forehead, looks over at the body.

Then he keeps shoveling.

The world has lightened by the time he finishes, bathing the hill in grey. Bdubs shakes some clumps of dirt off his shovel, whacking it against the ground a couple of times.

Without further ado, he hops out of the shabby hole he's dug and tosses the shovel to the side. He gets on his knees, back creaking, and looks down at his hands.

He should wash them before he touches her, probably. Dirt is packed into every crease of his palm, his nails torn and muddy, grit between his fingers. A couple of splinters sticking out of his skin here and there.

Not that there's any point to washing them. Dirt goes to dirt and whatnot.

So, gently, Bdubs gathers up the body in his arms. He slowly turns, scooting a little on his knees, until he's facing the shallow grave.

Bdubs sets the body down, carefully, supporting the neck so their head doesn't loll. He moves their arms over their body, one limp hand placed over the other.

They wouldn't have liked this. They didn't like being touched.

He doesn't touch her any more, then.

Bdubs grasps the first handful of dirt, holds his closed fist over the grave. A couple of grains of dirt spill out, running down her shirt.

He holds it there, for longer than he should. Long enough that his arm grows weary. Long enough that somewhere, a bird starts chirping its wake-up call.

He needs to let go.

Probably, the worst part of all this is that he's doing it alone, he thinks absently. It's always been the two of them.

And there are others who could be here. Other friends. Other allies. Enemies, even. He shouldn't be alone in this. He shouldn't have to bury her alone.

It still looks like her.

He drops the dirt. It lands on her face, on her grey lips, on her bloodless cheeks.

Then he picks his shovel back up and gets to work, heaving load after load of dirt back into the grave.

And when Bdubs returns in the windy morning, the impromptu occupants that he'd left in the Crastle the previous night are all gone. It's just him, in a small castle that used to belong to two.

And Bdubs is cold.

Empty.

Lonely.

#3rd life smp #mcyt #bdubs #bdoubleo100 #zombiecleo #mcyt fanfic #idk short little bdubs cleo fic #mas writes #i have another 3rd life fic in the works #i am still on hiatus btw #oasis is posting this lol but i did indeed write this #oasis say something here: #ooh I get a chance to speak #hi guyyys :DDD #okay back to mas now 🥰 #ummm ok 3rd life fic next trust au fic and more esh au are in the schedule! #oh you can interpret this as /p or /r if you want idc #lmk what you think! #love you guys

[heimdallsram]

 ━━━━ masterlist. soundtrack. archive of our own. taglist.

title: perennial

pairing: heimdall x female! goddess! reader

"You were a goddess of oaths and vows. It was only fitting that Odin would

bind you to his service in only the most ironic way that he knew how: marriage."

this fanfiction contains the following: domestic violence, blood, gore, choking, violent sexual content, bad BDSM etiquette, non-consensual somnophilia, blood drinking, unhealthy relationships, and much more content that may be sensitive to some readers. reader discretion is advised.

*for inquiries about the taglist, please dm me and i will add you to it.

 Odin was a terrifying man. While he appeared the genteel, kindly older god with an inquisitive twinkle in his only good eye, he was anything but—to most, or all outside of Asgard, he was a monster who did not deserve his place. He was a manipulative man, a smart and narcissistic one that had driven the best of them into their early, shallow little graves before they were brought back again to serve as his Einherjar. He had exiled his wife, after all, sealed her existence to Midgard and corrupted the Valkyries that were loyal to her—twisted her own son’s heart to her, though she had a hand in that as well, cursing him with immortality and invulnerability as she did. Freya—Frigg, as she was known in Asgard—could not be blamed for wanting to protect her child. But not giving the same regard to Odin… she had sealed her fate more quickly that way, and for the good of all others, Odin had never succeeded in that particular spell.

 You supposed that was why he kept you around, at first. A goddess of oaths and agreements was detrimental to him if left unchecked. You held all of his hidden secrets, his deals, his vows with magics, his pacts, his promises, his wishes, in the palm of your hands each time he made one, sifting through the forbidden knowledge with a careful eye. Each time a marriage vow, or any other form of a promise, was created, you would know, and it would be made known to you the promises and agreements made in their specified vows; just like now, like today, as you bore witness to the violent, almost… bloody fight between man and wife.

 An insipid dalliance with a lover had stolen his wife’s heart from him, you recalled. The words shuttled through your mind painfully and quickly, like daggers of ice. With each vow broken—love, eternity, fidelity, faithfulness—you felt the bindings of their fates rapidly unwind like a loose spool of silken thread. Spin, spin, spin, and it was all falling apart before your eyes, through a magic window framed with wood and lit with warm candles.

 The woman cried as the man curled his fists into her hair and pulled. Her pleas did not reach his heart, for he had shielded it against her—against everything she stood for. You could not pity her for what she had done. Instead, even as she was brought to her knees and a leather belt lashed across her face, you felt fiercely proud of her for taking control of her happiness despite the pain it was now bringing her. Her husband, while feeling the betrayal keenly, was not faithful nor was he in any position to feel wronged, for he had committed the same crime and found himself innocent.

 When the breaking of the vows had made themselves known to you, you had risen from your bed in Odin’s grand hall, bundled yourself in warm furs and silks, and braved the chill night as it rose over you in an ill tide. Your leaving had not gone unnoticed; there had been several eyes upon you as you had made your way down the frozen, muddy path and to the home sequestered among many others. Munin, loyal creature that he was, had flown and followed and remained at your side upon the bench you now sat on, watching the events unfold as you knew they would.

 It was another version of foresight that the All-Father found… pleasing to have in his employ. It was the only way you could explain the way his mouth had twisted into that friendly, yet not so kind, smile when you had spoken to him of his broken fatherly vows to Thor—the ones he had unwittingly made after bringing a child into the world. Love, warmth, care; Thor had been denied them all. It had not even taken a teenage goddess, newly minted and born from the previous, to point that out.

 You could not do as Heimdall could and read thoughts and intent. You were not as the Norns were, able to pick through decisions and fate and weave together a predictable future. You did not even have the sooth saying abilities that the Giants had, long gone as they were. The vows and oaths spoke to you and you would obey; that was all that Odin knew. All he would ever know, for now; he had no need of the knowledge that you were both judge and executioner.

 “It’s kind of a cold night to be witnessing vows, isn’t it?” Odin was never obvious in his appearances with you. He was always quiet, always contemplative, desiring the upper hand always. Much like yourself, he had abandoned his thinner robes for more thickly lined ones; even his eye patch was lined with fur, perhaps to keep the aching loss of his eye safe from the cold. Perched on his shoulder was Huginn, tilting his head to and fro, not quite looking at you but through you. “When I was told you had left, I almost didn’t believe it.”

 It was a lie, of course, in lieu of acknowledging the way the woman’s husband had abandoned his wife on the floor to take a swig of bitter ale.

 Your answering smile was small. “Much as we are all slaves to fate, so am I to the oaths made between those slaves. They call and I must answer, you understand. Even in the cold of night.”

 “Sometimes your disrespect is refreshing,” Odin sighed lightly. To you, it almost sounded tired; as if speaking had simply exhausted him. “Not like Thor’s or Sif’s or… Hel, Frigg’s.”

 You kept painfully quiet at the mention of the former Queen’s name. Instead, your eyes remained trained on the window where you could see the husband come into view once more, ale on his lips and beard and his shirt abandoned. There was nothing you could do to hide the grimace as the man hit his wife so hard that she rolled on to her back, slammed her nose into the baseboard of their bed, and coughed blood. Beside you, Odin did not flinch.

 “Well, don’t take too long,” he said, finally, with a tone of amiability. He patted you on your shoulder like an old man might as if speaking to a good friend, Munin leaping into his arm and melding with his flesh. “Big things to do in the morning, little time to do it, you know.”

 You did not look away from the woman as she rose to her feet, fists raised and trembling. “Of course, All-Father.”

 He vanished into a flurry of black birds with golden eyes. You paid it no heed. You continued to watch as the woman began to fight back, little by little, inch by painstaking inch, until both she and her husband were bleeding, laughing lightly at each other, stroking each other’s bloodied hair and bruised cheeks.

 Only then did you rise to your feet, your cloak dragging in the mud and soiling the white fur as you approached the door to the warm, violence blessed home. You knocked on the door only once, knuckles white against the wood. You tucked your hands carefully against your stomach, folded neatly, and schooled your expression into something… other. Something placid and stern and knowing. Something only your powers could give you.

 Your feelings did not matter when it came to this. Could never matter, in the end.

 When the door opened, your stomach curled unpleasantly. They had made haphazard attempts to clean themselves up: streaked, wet blood here and there, hair pulled back tightly. The husband had thrown on a shirt; the wife had tied an apron around her neck to hide the belt lashes across her chest and ribs. A deep sigh threatened to escape your lungs. All slights had been made right between them, their smiles dimmed with confusion as they took you in: a stranger in the night, dressed in rich silks and fine furs, your hair pulled back into a severe tail at the nape of your neck.

 “I apologize for the lateness,” you began, your voice monotone and lifeless as you edged past the husband, past the door frame and into the home within. Blood stained the floor at your feet, mingled with ale and spit and other indiscernible bodily fluids. A stool sat in front of the hearth, an abandoned knitting lying helpless as it smoldered under the heat. In the corner, sleeping pitifully, was a baby, cocooned in warmth and shielded by a newly woven basket. You took in all of this with one sweep of your gaze, your heart pounding in your chest in a crude drum beat. “But you have broken your vows, and they called to me. I must obey.”

 It was always a little heart breaking to see the way their faces dropped when they realized who—what—you were. You never forgot how their eyebrows would sink low over their eyes, their mouths fall open and slack for just a moment before words and pleas bubbled from their lips, the way a wife might freeze or a husband may raise his sword to you. It was always the same variation of reactions, one never quite the same as another but similar in all respects, and you had come to expect them all at some point, when your guilt had failed to override the sense of duty you now held to yourself.

 Neither noticed as a breeze, sweet smelling and of sage and lavender, quietly closed the open door and flashed pale lilac. It would not open until dawn, just as the sun peered over the horizon, and the floorboards and fur rugs of the home had been soaked in more blood than had been shed by both husband and wife. In the corner, cooing innocently with a bundled sprig of mint and holly in its little fist, the baby awoke to brilliant, sparkling rubies dripping from the roof like mother’s milk.

 You would not be there when the surrounding inhabitants woke for their day and slowly noticed their neighbors were not outside as per usual with their child in tow. You would not be there as a comely old woman made her way into the house and gasped at the grisly sight before her. You would not be there as the child was scooped up and brought to safety, even though the threat was already over. You would not be there as the local carpenter tried, and failed, to scrape the rune burned over the headboard in shining lilac light off, not to disturb another family who may occupy the space.

 You were never there.

 Instead, you would shed your clothes upon your return, as nude as the day you had been born from the flesh of the former Var, and sit in the morning sun on your stool, unblinking and unseeing. You would bathe yourself and cleanse your skin of the blood you had shed, bundle your clothing for washing, and carefully weave your hair into something presentable. You would present yourself as if you had never claimed two souls in the night, as if you had nothing to do with the events at all—Odin would see to it if fate did not.

 You would drink, smile, and remain placid. Your place was secure. Odin needed you and you would keep going as you were, Freya’s parting words to you echoing in your mind like a plaintive wail.

 Never trust him.

 And you knew she had been right when your morning was interrupted by a servant carrying a letter, Sif right behind her, dressed in her immaculate blue gown and her hair like spun gold. She appeared apprehensive, not at your nudity as you accepted the letter but at your potential reaction. You could already feel the loom of oaths and vows spinning as the golden haired goddess shut the door behind her, parting the wax seal with your thumb and exposing the contents within.

 ‘[Name],

 It pains me to do this, but you leave me with no choice. You are to be bethrothed to Heimdall, in all ways that matter. I cannot trust you as you are now, you understand.’

 It was not signed, but it did not have to be. Your disrespect to Odin had gone on long enough, it seemed, and he could not tolerate it any longer. It was both a punishment and a leash, one shorter than he gave most. Thor had a longer leash than this, and his was studded with proverbial spikes and metaphorical shame. You had been expecting something like this to occur, but… Heimdall.

 You burned the letter over a candle at your bedside, watching the edges flicker and turn pitch. Odin might think he was clever, subjecting you to his most loyal dog and binding you to him in the way you thought worst, but you always had a plan, a card up your sleeve should you ever end up in one of his schemes as your Queen had done.

 Heimdall was an itch you could not scratch. A mystery you could not unravel. His only oaths were to Odin, his only promises to Odin; his loyalty was unmatched. But just like any dog, there would come a day where it would bite the hand that feeds it, and you would make sure it would come to pass one way or another.

 You made an oath that morning as the sun rose to its apex in the sky. And when it descended, heralding the arrival of Odin’s beloved hound and a night of festivities for the equinox, your mind was a shield and your mouth a blade.

 The moment Heimdall laid eyes on you, eyes shining and fuchsia and a burning shade of Bifrost as he tried and failed to read you, sitting quietly in a corner and entertaining the woeful drunken stupor of Baldur’s widow with your doubloon gold gaze and a tiny, sly smile on your face, you knew you had won.

 But that victory, you would soon come to find, would not come without a price.

| next.

#heimdall #heimdall x reader #gow heimdall x reader #gow heimdall x female reader #gow x reader #gow x female reader #atreus x angrboda #heimdall is a major prick in this one #i couldn't bring myself to make him nice and kind without some sort of slow burn first

[fallenclan]

okay but hear me out: yewberry and brambletuft are getting closer, falling in love even. brambletuft has been reserved since her father died, pulling away from other cats, but yewberry has managed to slip past her defenses. they learn to lean on each other and are soon always in each other's company. they've both lost their fathers recently, after all (albeit in different ways).

and then. brambletuft starts acting... off. paranoid, guilty, ashamed? perhaps she's done something or planning to do something. there's two ways this can go:

brambletuft murders someone, sets up some sort of trap, or attempts to kill the cat(s) she believes responsible for henryclaw's death. i can't imagine she'd actually be satisifed with her actions and unlike otterslip, she'd regret what she did. it would tear her apart. she'd start jumping at shadows, waiting for her deeds to catch up to her. maybe anterclan starts demanding answers, maybe somecat in fallenclan figures out what happened. either way, brambletuft is on thin ice---mentally, and with the fact that she could be EXILED or worse if antlerclan demands retribution.

brambletuft doesn't actually do anything, but plans to do something. she might start to try and distance herself from yewberry suddenly or again, begin to act erratically.

either way, yewberry's relationship with brambletuft would be heavily affected. if she kills someone (or tries to), would he ever be able to look at her in the same way? even if she doesn't, the pain of seeing her so shaken/guilt-ridden would have to get to him, ESPECIALLY since she's already been grieving her father.

and then. BAM. it comes out that OTTERSLIP, of all cats has been ""helping"" brambletuft and encouraging her actions. that OTTERSLIP has led brambletuft down this dark path, causing her so much more pain than if she'd just had time to process her grief. that it's OTTERSLIP who, once again, acted selfishly (in yewberry's eyes at least. it's up for debate as to whether otterslip's actions were selfish or purely motivated by a desire to seek justice for his loved ones) and took away someone yewberry loved. because yewberry does love otterslip, but he also can't reconcile a cold-hearted murderer with his kind-hearted father, so to yewberry, his father might as well be dead. at this point, his FATHER and OTTERSLIP are two entirely different entities, despite being the same cat.

so if someone in fallenclan were to kill otterslip, my first choice would 100% be yewberry. in a fit of fury (justice, he'd argue), he murders otterslip, the cat who took away both his father and his friend/love (ironically continuing the cycle of violence scorchstar began so many moons ago). in killing otterslip, yewberry would be becoming just like otterslip himself.

so uh. yewberry as the killer. yes.

alternative choices i think might be interesting narratively:

poppyfeather (to protect brambletuft)

brambletuft (you know why)

maplestar (to protect his clan from otterslip's influence)

applebranch (to protect silverbelly)

hailcrash (to protect someone--ie: otterslip is literally attacking someone so hailcrash steps in to save them. esp sad since he mentored her and they were friends, only for him to kill her brother and attempt to kill her sister, both of whom i presume she is close with?)

moonstep (avenging his brother)

crowflame (to protect the clan, maybe making a name for himself? i feel like he wants adventure but also to be a hero kind of, if that makes sense? i feel like the idea of protecting the clan from someone who is, in his eyes, inherently bad appeals to him. otterslip betrayed fallenclan, therefore he betrayed crowflame too! plus, who's to say otterslip isn't going to try and manipulate antkit? i definitely think crowflame feels maplestar was too lenient with otterslip by letting him walk away, and if the drama with brambletuft comes out this would just be one more reason for crowflame to seek out otterslip and "finish the job.")

anyway sorry for the long ask (i will totally do this again).

-🐉

WAUGH this is so cool. i LOVE the ideas for cats that could kill Otterslip (especially since the one i had in mind was on the list!), they all have such good reasons??? like. i can see almost all of them happening

I just can't imagine Brambletuft killing anyone, shes such a little silly to me u_u she's like an inchworm. all she knows is Leaf and Be Small (she is a large cat). Otterslip could absolutely Try and talk her into murdering someone (Silverbelly, most likely) but i don't think she'd ever go through with it, or even come up with a cohesive plan for it. more likely she'd just become sympathetic towards him and have horrible intrusive thoughts about killing her clanmates. poor girl

i absolutely agree with Yewberry as the killer tho v_v i can see him doing that. my original idea was Moonstep, because he and Stormsight were so close and i think he deserves a girlboss moment, but my mind has moved to Yewberry now. rotating that little motherfucker in my brain. microwave style

#fallenasks #dragon anon