#ironic that out of the three grandfathers I have it's the one who is not even related to me that I know more about

[oliviablancmom]

"Pedriiii - Part II"

Pairing: Pedri Gonzalez x singlemom!Oc

Theme: fluff, angst

N/A: And here is part two, I hope it lives up to your expectations. I would like to thank each like, comment, reblog, and ask about this imagine. I'm happy that you liked it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I love seeing your reactions. Again, this chapter turned out huge, but I needed every part to make sense. I hope you enjoy it and fall a little more in love with these three.

Warnings: Men being inconvenient in this chapter, people making a child cry.

Pedri was in a mood; he was training alone in the academy because Gavi did him a favor by opening up to the entire team about his meeting with the woman from the nightclub, who turns out to work for Barça. And now all of the guys were messing with him, especially after Gavi spilled about the ring that was shining on her finger. Seriously, Gavi needs to return playing ASAP because Pedri can't deal anymore with the boy gossip phase.

"Are you sad today?" The little boy asked the player, taking his attention from the movie he was watching on his iPad. "I can bring M&Ms for us; Mom put some packages in her purse, I think she's sad too," he says pouting.

"I'm fine, buddy, just focused. But why is your mother sad? Did something happen?" Pedri asked curiously. In one of the many conversations he had with the little boy, he discovered that the little boy's mother worked for the team, but Pedri hadn't had the opportunity to meet her yet.

"I don't know; Father is supposed to take me this week. Then he screams at her and then at me, and they fight." Pedri swallows the knot in his throat as he sees the little boy's eyes watering; something hurts inside him for seeing the little boy like that.

"You know, those M&M's we were craving for, we finally get to have them," he says in an attempt to cheer up the little boy.

"No way, for real??" He jumped excitedly, and Pedri smiled at him.

"I swear. I'm going with Gavi after the training to get them." Pedri fixed the cap on Axel's head.

"You guys aren't going to eat them without me, right?" He pointed the finger at Pedri, trying to make an angry face.

"What, of course not? I'll bring them for you tomorrow, and also, I wouldn't eat them with Gavi; I'm angry at him," Pedri says as he starts to get his things ready to leave the academy.

"Why?" Axel asks curiously.

"Because he has a big mouth," the boy gasped, looking at Pedri.

"So he would eat everything," Axel says, worried, and Pedri laughs at his reaction.

"Yeah, something like that, buddy."

*****************************************

"Axel, I swear, it's been days since the last time I gave you candy; you shouldn't be this energetic," Isa asked as she watched her child jump from one chair to another. The boy stops, with a little smile on his face, and then back to his jumping games. Isa looks suspiciously at her child.

"Axel..." She calls, getting close to the boy. "You didn't eat any candy, right?" She holds the boy, stopping him from jumping anymore. He looks at her, his head tilts to the side, and a mischievous smile emerges on his little face, the dimples in his cheeks showing up. "Axel Harver," she says unbelievably as she starts to tickle him, his laughs getting louder and louder.

"Mom, stop. Please stoooop, Moooommy." She lets him go, letting him catch his breath.

"Little boy, little boy. I already told your grandfather not to give you too many candies." She kisses his head.

"It was for my friend; I couldn't let him eat alone," the boy said simply, and she smiled at him. Sometimes she couldn't believe how smart he was for his young age.

"No, you couldn't," she smiles, looking at the time on her watch; it was time to go home.

"Get your things; it's time for us to go home." The little boy ran to get his bag.

"Can we stop by Pops?" He asked excitedly.

"Of course, it's been two days since the last time you saw him; you guys are probably getting sick already," she says ironically at the boy, who had his grandfather on his little finger.

"He says that I could start Barça school after my birthday, so I'll be a La Masia boy, mom." The boy says excitedly as they walk towards the parking lot. He and his grandfather had been planning that moment for over a year; the excitement of both was evident. Honestly, Isa was still insecure about the idea of him wanting to be a player; she was too jealous for that, and modestly aside, her son was adorable, he would definitely get some attention. "You think I could play with my friend?" She looks down at her son.

"Well, probably, he's going to Barça school too?" She asked, as she had heard more than once about this friend of his.

"No, in the first team," he says simply. She looks confused at him.

"Well, I think it would take time for you both to be there; maybe you even change your mind about being a player." Her boy made a disgusted face.

"Axel, you are having so much attitude lately."

"But he's already there," he ignores what she is saying. She stops, looking at him.

"Wait, in the first team? Your friend?" The boy nodded happily. "The friend you spend the day with?" He nodded again, as his little eyes focused on something behind her.

"Are you befriending the players?" She asks, but she doesn't get his attention, as he seems to focus on the thing behind her before she can turn to see what he's looking at. He snaps out of his trance.

"Pedriiii!" he screams, and he runs away from her. She was pretty sure that her eyes were going to pop out as she heard the name. She then turned to see where her boy was going, catching a glimpse of him jumping excitedly into the player's arms.

"You've got to be kidding me," she says to herself.

*****************************************

"That friend of Aurora's is really into you," Gavi says to Pedri, who rolls his eyes. "You should give her a chance."

"I'm not interested; she's not my type." Gavi smiled wide at his friend, ready to comment, but was cut off by the boy who jumped at Pedri.

"Hi Pedri, hi Gavi." The little boy high-fived the two players.

"Hey little guy, no Gavi shirts today?" Gavi asked, getting an eye roll from Pedri.

"No. My mother said I should wear other clothes from time to time," he says with a sad smile, receiving a laugh from both players. "Are you going to get my candy?"

"Yes, I will. Are you here alone?" Pedri asked worriedly. He was used to meeting the boy alone inside the training center or the stadium, but the thought of the little boy running alone by the parking lot gave him shivers.

"Nooo, with mommy, Silly," he says, laughing as if Pedri had told him the funniest joke. Before Pedri could look around to search for the child's mother, his senses were clouded by the familiar scent of perfume that had been stuck in his mind for the past few days.

"Axel, what have I told you about running away from me like that? You can't let go of my hand on the street," the woman said in a sweet yet reprimanding voice.

"I know, Mom, but I had to talk to my friend," the little boy says in an even sweeter voice as he hugs the woman's legs. Pedri was absorbed in their interaction, while the woman's eyes stared at him. He simply couldn't believe it.

"Hi, Isa. Cute kid you have; now I can see the similarities," Gavi was the one to break the silence.

"Thanks, Pablo; he is the cutest." Pedri saw her eyes shine proudly as she looked at the boy, and honestly, Pedri felt dizzy.

"Hey, Pedri. I need to take my mother home and take her to a place," Gavi calls for Pedri.

"Ok, Let's Go! Bye Axel," Pedri wave a quick good bye to the little one, ignoring his mother.

"NO! You can't come, it's personal," Gavi says almost desperately, getting an intrigued look from Pedri.

"Gavira, I spent months taking you to every place; you owe me," Pedri says feeling annoyed as he watches his teammate head to his car.

"Sorry, brother. Ask one of the boys."

"We can take you!" The little voice says behind him. "Right mom, right? We can take him, pleeeease, we can take him, riiiiight?" He says as he jumps, pushing his mother's blazer, whose face was getting red.

"I don't know, we are going to Pops, and he probably doesn't want it."

"Of course he wants," Gavi says almost screaming.

"Aren't you leaving?" The three ask at the same time to the youngest, who looks amused as he gets in his car, leaving the parking lot.

"So you're coming with us, right? Right, mommy?" The woman only nodded, taking the kid in her arms and heading to her car. Pedri follows right beside them; he watches as she puts the little boy in the car seat.

"Axel, stop moving," she murmurs at the chatty boy. Once she finishes fixing it, she takes a step back, expecting to close the door, but ends up bumping into Pedri, who was holding the door. With a push, he closes the door, trapping Isa between him and the car. He takes a breath watching her beautiful face, but then he remembers something that was bugging his mind.

"Is your husband coming with us?" He says in a hushed tone just for her to hear. She opens her mouth to reply but nothing comes out; she brushes past Pedri and gets into the car. Pedri runs his hands through his face; he would kill Gavira.

"Aren't you getting in? We are late," she says annoyingly after rolling down the car window. Pedri grumbles and heads for the passenger door.

*****************************************

There was so much tension inside the car, of course imperceptible to the little one who chatted incessantly in the back seat, telling things to his mother, asking questions to Pedri, and singing along to the songs playing on the radio. Despite the many conversations he had with the little one, Pedri hadn't realized how talkative he was; perhaps the presence of the other players made him feel shy. Pedri returned to his conversations with the boy, noticing the mannerisms he had and now could see how much he resembled his mother: the sweet way of speaking, the sweet and welcomed smile, the dimples on his cheeks when he smiled. Pedri was feeling something strange; the presence of the woman clouded his feelings.

"Pedriiiii," Axel's voice snapped his attention back. Pedri turned in his seat to face the younger one.

"Yes, buddy?"

"Mommy is talking to you." The child pointed to the woman driving. Pedri redirected his focus to her, who glanced at him briefly before returning her attention to the road.

"You didn't tell us your address," she said calmly, the velvety tone of her voice sending shivers down Pedri's spine.

"Um, actually, you can drop me off at this store downtown," he showed her the address. "My brother will pick me up there."

"We can drop you home."

"No, I don't want to cause you any trouble," he couldn't help the sharpness in his tone, and he saw the woman wince and just murmur a little and almost inaudible 'ok'.

After a few minutes, they arrived at the candy store.

"Wait here for a minute," he told the woman, hurrying out of the car as quickly as he could to retrieve his order from the store.

*****************************************

"Oh my God, he's really going to get them," Isa looked at the back seat, seeing her son looking outside where the player walked towards a store, a fascinated look on his face.

"What, Axel?" She asked curiously, not used to Axel admiring someone else like that; normally, he was a shy child around strangers.

"Our candies," he said excitedly. "The ones we wanted but couldn't find, with different flavors."

"Did you ask him?" She turned to look at him, trying not to sound like she was reprimanding him.

"No, he wanted them too. And since I'm his friend, he's going to share them with me, because he likes me, Mom, he really likes me." Isa felt her throat tighten, and her eyes filled with tears. Words could hurt, especially when said to a child. She didn't know what to say to him, but the little boy's excitement comforted her heart.

"Here, buddy, we finally got them," the player gets into the car, snapping Isa out of her thoughts; she silently watches their interaction and how happy her son is. "Are you taking them to practice tomorrow?" Pedri asked as he stroked the child's cheek.

"YEEEEES!" Axel shouted excitedly.

"Alright, see you tomorrow then!" He said smiling at the little boy and then turned to the woman beside him. "Thanks for the ride."

"Thank you for this," she said honestly. "You have no idea what this means." The player furrowed his brows in confusion and then exited the car.

*****************************************

The feeling of returning to training with the rest of the team was a great relief, especially when there was the possibility of returning to play soon. Pedri felt ready; the medical department had already cleared him to drive, but they still wanted to postpone his return to the fields. And as eager as he was, he wanted to follow the guidance of the professionals. But still, knowing that he could return to playing soon gave him extra motivation in his recovery.

Pedri was eager to share the news with his little friend, who longed for his return even more than he did himself, but it had been almost a week since the last time he saw the boy. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he missed the boy running to meet him after training. He thought about asking about him to the boy's mother, but every time he saw her, the ring gleamed on her finger. Pedri didn't want to make a big deal out of it; after all, it was a one-night stand, but he couldn't deny that he was affected. The remnants of that night were vivid in his mind, and knowing that the woman was committed spoiled the images for him.

"You know, for someone who wants to seem indifferent, you're terrible at hiding it," Gavi whispers beside him as they watch the woman approaching with the film crew.

"Hello, boys," she says with a sweet smile.

"Hello, Isa," Gavi greets excitedly and nudges his friend to do the same, but Pedri just nods slightly, which seems to frustrate the woman. She kept her gaze on the player's face, reading every detail as if searching for an opening to say something.

"Here are your lines," she says after a few minutes of silence, handing over the cue cards with the ready-made phrases they needed to record for the Barça One promotion. "It'll be quick," she says, moving behind the man handling the camera, and soon the rest of the crew went to prepare the players.

Gavi was the first to record, while Pedri amused himself watching. Gavi hated these kinds of activities, so something that could normally be quick ended up taking longer because of him. Pedri's attention is stolen when his eyes fall on the woman, who is watching the recordings while making some notes in a notebook and speaking to the cameraman. As if sensing Pedri's eyes, she turns to face him and then walks slowly towards him, stopping by his side.

"You said you didn't know who I was that night," the player says quietly so only the woman can hear him. She looked back at him, her confidence in facing him as if challenging him bringing back memories.

"Are you talking to me now?" She asks in an ironic tone. "And I never said I didn't know who you were, I just said I didn't care," she says convincingly, and there it was, the sharp tongue and tone from that night, the player thought.

"That's not how it seemed, just like the part about being married," Pedri smiles proudly having retorted in the same tone, but the woman's furious look makes the smile disappear.

"It's not like that, and if you didn't keep avoiding me every time I show up, you'd know," she turns her attention back to Gavi's recording.

"You just had to say 'Hey, I have a husband,' it's not that hard," he says as he moves away from her."

*****************************************

Isa didn't want to go out that night, in weeks like that she gets in a terrible mood, there were right and wrong days, and that was a wrong one. But her work friends were eager for a night out , and they kept saying how good it would be for her since she was an ocean of anxiety. So there she was, sitting in the bar watching her friends dancing excitedly, she didn't want to go dance, not yet at least, she still wasn't feeling at her best to enjoy the night like that.

"Hey doll, can I buy you a drink?" A man comes to her side, she looks at him uninterested.

"No, thanks," she says simply, backing at watching her friends.

"C'mon, it's just a drink." He holds her arm getting close to her face.

"I don't want it." she says firmly.

"Oh, don't play hard to get," he touched her hair. "you are too pretty to be here alone." He insisted with a flirtatious smile.

"She's not here alone." The familiar voice cut before she could answer the man. "Take your hands out of my girlfriend" he says in a warning tone, making the woman gasp, Isa looks around to see if there are eyes on them, but for their luck, no one is paying attention.

"You? Her boyfriend? No way." The man laughs looking at Isa. "Aren't him like one of the Barça kids?" Isa saw Pedri's face turning red, and before he could answer she took him by the waist, getting him away from the inconvenient man.

****************************************

The moment he saw the woman enter the bar, he just knew that he shouldn't have accepted Ferran's invitation to the nightclub. Because from that moment, his attention were on her, just like the first night. He tried his best to try to look uninterested, he even tried to speak and dance with a girl who was in their VIP area. But his eyes kept stealing glances at the woman, and the moment he saw a man on her side, he made his choice, going right into her.

He didn't have the time to answer the man who called him a kid, he had an answer for that, a good one that Isa herself could confirm, but her hand putting him away was distracting, the power she had over him was driving him crazy.

"Barça would end us, especially me, if I let the image of one of their golden boys get messed up because of some nightclub confusion" Pedri looked at the woman's face, her big brown eyes were soft and just like always, were mapping all his face.

The people around them didn't seem to notice who he was especially how they weren't dancing to the rhythm of the music playing. Pedri's hand was over her waist going up and down, she passed her manicured hand by her hair and the action made the smell of her perfume travel to his nose, automatically he bent down to her neck, smelling her inebriated perfume, like someone addicted. The woman was blinding his senses. He thought that the remaining images of their night, which kept playing as a movie in his mind were just the carnal feeling of a good night, but now he was afraid that it was something more, since the fact that only the idea of watching her gets all his attention, and we're everything about her, literally everything.

"Let's get out of here" she murmurs in his ears.

He didn't answer, he only took her by the hand to get out of the club.

That's how they ended up in the hotel room again, they didn't talk, the actions of the desire were speaking for them, Pedri was tasting every piece of her, like a starving man, like it was the last thing he would do. And deep down he thought that maybe it was the last thing, cause a noise kept ringing in his mind, remember him about the ring on her finger. And that makes him snapped at realization, he took the woman's hand who was holding his hair as if she depended on it, and there was no signal of the commitment. He kisses her hand then her mouth, and then all over her breast. She kept murmuring and saying things he couldn't understand, her face was all messed up because of her red lipstick, and he was sure he had the vestiges in his face too.

"You remember what you said to me that night?" He asked her, her eyes looking at him with such intensity that he felt at his chest. She smiles, her cheeks getting more red.

"That you should stop flirting with me 'cause i was hard to forget." She said with a lazy smile as she kissed his face.

"Well you were right"

"I am always right, I said that too, when you call me an arrogant, knowing-all b*tch."

As Pedri was to answer, the woman's phone rang, she picked it up from the bedside table, and the name "Henry" showed on screen, making Pedri rudely distance himself from her. She rolls her eyes as she answers the call, and soon her face turns pale, Pedri watches her with worry.

"What happened? Baby..." She gets up from the bad, "Do not cry, please, don't cry. Mommy it's going to pick you up, my Axel." Her choked voice and the mention of the name make Pedri stand up and approach the woman, who was trembling nervously.

"Let me talk to someone," she says, Pedri stops in front of her. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH HIM? HE IS JUST A CHILD!" she screamed sterically, her voice full of pain, making Pedri holding her arms, and try to calm her down. "That always happens, every time, he's just a baby, and every time you guys do this to him." She goes silent for a moment, Pedri felt his heart beating so hard that he could hear the thuds echoing in his ears. "I'll go get him" she says firmly, " I don't care how late it is. I'm not leaving my son like this." She ends the call and then throws the phone on the bed, her hands covering her face as she collapses and cries uncontrollably. Pedri embraces her, his chest full of concern for the woman and the little boy.

"Isa, what happened? Is Axel hurt?" he asks.

"I need to go," she says, stepping away from the player.

"I'm coming with you" She pushed Pedri away.

"No, you're not, you don't need to." She says coldly.

"I'm not letting you go anywhere alone, not in this state," he says firmly as he gathers their things around the room. Isa looks at him with apprehension and suspicion. Pedri couldn't understand her action. He holds the door, waiting for her to leave the room, and then she huffs in frustration and follows him outside.

Once in the car, Pedri gives her his hoodie that was in the backseat of his car, as thanks to him, the woman's dress was ruined. He drives to the address she had given him, the journey in complete silence except for the sound of the woman typing incessantly on her phone. As they arrive at the destination, Isa takes a deep breath and then looks at the player.

"Pedri, please, promise me, no matter what you see or hear, you don't leave the car, understood? Or you'll make things difficult for me." The desperation in the woman's voice made Pedri's stomach sick; not knowing what was happening was making him desperate. "You'll make things difficult for Axel," she says before he could say anything. And, reluctantly, Pedri agrees with the woman, as he would never do anything to harm the child.

He watches as the woman gets out of the car and rushes into the yard of a house, calling out for Axel. A blond woman emerges from the house and points a finger at Isa. They engage in a heated discussion, but he cannot hear their words. Then he sees Isa push the woman and hastily enter the house. Everything falls silent for a few minutes, and his heart races so fast that he wonders how he hasn't had a heart attack yet. After a few minutes, he sees Isa emerging from the house, holding Axel in her arms. She walks briskly towards the car, with the blond woman following her, screaming insults. Isa quickly jumps into the car with Axel, and the back door closes behind them.

"You can go now," she says, and Pedri turns around to look at her. Her face is red from crying. Pedri starts the car and drives away, not knowing exactly where to go, but deciding to wait before asking as Isa is talking to Axel. "It's okay, love. You're okay now." She says in a calm voice, trying to calm down the little boy.

"I don't want to come back, I don't want to stay with them, they're all mean to me," he cried so hard that Pedri stopped the car, deeply concerned for the kid, as he had never seen him cry like that before.

"You don't have to, Mommy promises you won't go back there, at least if it's something you want." Pedri turns to look at them, observing the woman wiping the tears from the little one's face and giving him a tight hug. Their eyes meet, and Pedri sees so much pain in hers.

"What's going on? This is tearing me apart," he says as he gestures towards them.

"Pedriiii?" Axel spun so quickly to look at the player that Pedri feared he had snapped his neck. He leaped from Isa's arms to the front seat and hugged Pedri tightly. Pedri simply held him back, while Isa looked on in complete awe at her son's rapid change of mood.

"I'll finally be able to eat my candies," the little boy says with a sweet excited voice.

"Axel!!" Isa says laughing at the boy's innocence.

*********************************************

N/A: SOOOOOO, what did you guys think? Writing the last part, breaks my heart, because I know their situation, me being mean for not telling you guys 😏

So, the next chapter will be the penultimate one, and then there will be the final one, and then the bonus. As mentioned in the previous chapter. Of course, it all depends on how much the characters are talking to me as well...

#pedri gonzalez #pedri imagine #pedri x reader #pedri gonzalez x reader #pedri #barca #fc barcelona #gavi imagine #pablo gavi

[notjustjavierpena]

Three Times You Didn’t Kiss Joel - And One Time You Did (Part I)

A/N: Enjoy the beginning of a four chapter fic, where a cute summer romance starts! This is the same universe as Hurried Morning but before! Chapter two and three are just waiting to be posted. See my masterpost for all chapters.

Summary: Joel helps you restore your grandparents' house over the summer. He has big strong arms.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader/You (No y/n)

Tags: +18 no smut but mature thoughts (minors DNI), pining, summer romance, DILF Joel, sexual tension, idiots in love

Word count: 2.8k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47914783/chapters/120803500

Chapter One: Introductions

The house had been empty for a while when you had moved in. The location was good, somewhat quietly charming as the suburbs were, but the house’s neglect called desperately for a loving hand to bring out that charm again, which had been allowed to fade for too long. It wasn’t that the house had been willfully neglected by you, no you had wanted the house for a long time, but the whole scenario of you ending up here had been long and ridiculous: Your older brother had finally, out of the goodness of his heart, offered it to you, but only after a few years of having been in doubt about whether or not to move into it with his family. He had only gotten first say in the fate of the old place, because he was the oldest of the two of you, a thing that he liked to remind you of. 

The house was overly suburban, missing only a wisteria bush and a fresh coat of paint, additionally, perhaps, a good amount of effort put into the garden as well. It was going to be a time-consuming summer project, but one that you were excited about because of its potential end result.

The house was all paid off by your grandparents, but after the passing of your grandfather some years ago, your grandmother had felt like the house was too overwhelming to live in all by herself, so she had found some place smaller and left the fight of inheritance to your mother, who had then passed it onto you and your sibling. The fact that you had now won that fight was ironic; you would end up alone in a house that your grandmother found too overwhelming to be alone in. 

You step out of your car after parking it in the driveway, walking around its back to open the trunk and start unloading its contents. It is half your latest salary worth of a Home Depot haul.

You head to the garage door, knowing that your grandfather used to have a workbench inside and you need tools to assemble some of the things you have bought, amongst other a stepladder that you hope to build without too much trouble. 

Though the lock at the bottom of the garage door is already doing its job of causing trouble, and you curse quietly as you have to put everything onto the ground at your feet to use both hands on it. The lock struggles for a moment but then clicks, and you finally pull up the garage door until you can duck underneath it with ease.

You get a feeling of someone watching you as you drag two buckets of white paint into the garage, following with a new set of brushes and paint rollers.

The feeling grows stronger as you reemerge from the garage and you start to hear muffled voices nearby too, but you ignore it due to how much you have scheduled for today. Additionally, you would admit in all honesty that you would be staring at the single woman neighbor too, if she was struggling with the garage door and making a fool of herself. You push your curiosity away and reach into the car trunk again. 

“Hey,” it’s the voice of a teenage girl. You jump and nearly hit your head against the roof of the vehicle, and she chuckles a little in a way to seem cooler than she is, “Oh, sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you, but you just looked like you needed a little help and I wanted to offer. Well, my dad told me not to.”

“It’s alright, I’m grown. I can handle myself,” you stand up a little straighter to properly look at the teenager, giving her a smile to reassure her that you’re cool too. She’s around fifteen, kindest eyes you’ve ever seen in a girl her age, a mess of curls and her thumbs tucked into the belt loops on her jeans. She looks shy, but something tells you that she isn’t. You realize that you are staring, then hold out a hand and introduce yourself.

“I just moved in, inherited the place from my grandparents,” you add as the teen shakes your hand.

“I’m Sarah, we live just a house away. There,” she points to a nearby home, where a man is standing against one of the posts on the front porch. He has his arms crossed over his chest but you’re too far away to read his expression. Sarah continues, “Oh, right, that’s my dad. Yikes, that stance makes him look like a jerk.”

“Perhaps a little,” you laugh genuinely and Sarah beams at your approval. She raises her arm and waves her father over, who protests against it at first by waving his arms no, but then capitulates and walks over to you. 

“Joel Miller,” he states as he approaches, holds out his hand and you repeat your name, trying to grab his hand for a shake, but it ends up the other way around with the size of his palm. Joel’s hands are huge and rough, calloused in a way that makes you guess that he doesn’t sit in an office all day. He has a firm grip, and you catch yourself watching the way that the muscles of his underarm flex when he holds your hand in what feels like an instant.

He doesn’t notice you staring at all, but you wonder if it’s because he is so used to it; Joel Miller is gorgeous, scruffy and sexy in his washed-out jeans and a simple army green t-shirt. You wish that you had worn something other than your dark blue t-shirt with a Batman logo, but a sundress would not have been practical for assembling stepladders and carrying tools.

“We were wonderin’ when we were gonna see someone move in,” he speaks with a Texan accent. It suits him very well, “I’ve wanted to paint the surface several times last summer, would be a shame to have it crack if you had the opportunity to save it.”

“I could use some help, honestly. My grandma moved somewhere smaller because it was too much work to be alone here,” you run a hand over your hair, brushing a strand behind your ear. Sarah looks from you to her father, and then back to you again. 

“Maybe that’s our summer vacation!” She exclaims. Joel turns quickly towards her.

“Sarah, honey,” he warns but she just continues without a hint of hesitation, sporting childlike enthusiasm and innocence. 

“But you said that we needed something to do together this summer, and we couldn’t afford a trip somewhere,” she reasons excitedly, “This is perfect. Very movie-esque, you know.” 

“But it’s not our house,” Joel adds, smiles at you apologetically and makes your pulse spike. 

“But she says she needs help,” she doesn’t let it go. It’s sort of sweet, “Come ooon, dad.”

“I do actually need help,” you back her up. 

“You don’t have a boyfriend who knows how to swing a paint brush? Or who you’ll hurt by not letting him do the heavy lifting?” Joel asks casually. Sarah scrunches up her nose beside him. 

“Nope, no boyfriend with a masculinity complex,” your cheeks blush a little as Joel chuckles, hidden by a smile as you shake your head no. You wish you did have a guy in your life, but right now only so you could see if there’d be any detectable disappointment on Joel’s face when you said yes.

Joel reaches up to scratch his beard. He looks like he is weighing the pros and cons, but a part of him also drags out the anticipation to tease his kid. He smirks, “Fine then, but you better be up early every day for a day’s hard work, Sarah Miller.” 

“Oh, he used your whole name. You’re in trouble now,” you point out with a grin. Joel eyes you from beside you.

“Yes! Better than summer camp,” Sarah removes her fingers from the belt loops of her jeans to grab her father’s arm and press her forehead against it, “Thank you.”

“You’ve never been to summer camp,” Joel rolls his eyes but wraps an arm around his daughter. 

“I sleep in though, so don’t come knocking at eight in the morning,” you point out. 

“Dad sleeps in too, don’t worry,” Sarah keeps going. 

“Sarah, what’s wrong with you?” Joel is the one who looks embarrassed now. He pushes her gently away, “Go back home, kid. Let the grown-ups sort out the details. You can call for pizza, yeah?” 

“Ugh,” you hear her say to her father but she gives you a sweet smile, “Nice to meet you.”

“You too, Sarah,” you reply but she’s already walking away with her back towards you. Joel, on the other hand, doesn’t move from his spot in front of you, suddenly stuffing his hands in his pockets and almost entirely mirroring Sarah’s stance from moments before.

“Tell me what you need help with?” It’s meant more as a question or a suggestion than a command. 

“Right,” you wonder how long you have been staring at his mouth. It’s been a while since you’ve been kissed, so you allow yourself the fantasy of Joel Miller being interested in kissing you. His beard tells you that it’s been a day too many since he would normally trim it, and you can almost imagine the feeling of the hairs tickling your chin and jaw as he kisses your mouth and neck—

Stop. 

“Well, I have some work to do on the house facade,” you blurt out after the silence has gone on for too long.

“Clearly,” Joel nods in acknowledgement, crossing his arms over his chest and spreading his legs a little where he is standing. Like this, he looks like he is a good listener, “I should see if I can find some cheap but good wood protection, looks like it’s going to be more expensive in the long run if it doesn’t get some kind of coat.”

“That’s so nice of you,” you give him a soft smile. It is confirmed then; the man is clearly not the office-type with how he talks about restoring the construction of the house to its peak. 

He goes on: “Don’t worry about it, yeah? I’m sure you can pay me with hot dinners for Sarah and I or something. I can do this, the work on the house, but I’m terrible at getting her to eat other things than takeout with my normal schedule.” 

Suddenly very open. Interesting. 

“I wouldn’t mind that, no. It’s going to be a lot of dinners though. I have a whole lot of ideas,” you reply, still trying to not drop your gaze to his mouth again as he talks, “Garden needs to be weeded out, replanted, lawn mowed— oh, you don’t have a lawnmower, do you?” 

“Sure do,” he answers, nodding towards his house, “I can get it. You need help with that now?” 

*

You blame the Texan sun for how breathless you feel as you have time to really look at him. He has his hands on the handle of his old lawnmower, gripping firmly to the point of unintentionally showing off his biceps in the form-fitted shirt that he wears as he pushes the lawnmower around the wild grass. 

You are sitting on the back porch, legs crossed with a screwdriver in hand and the instructions to the, by now, stupid stepladder. You’re more creative than practical, and it shows in the way that you tighten one screw but the stepladder still wobbles as you test it out. 

Frantically, you go through the instruction manual front to back and then back to front until you accidentally rip the thin paper, but you don’t feel any smarter about what you are doing. You throw the screwdriver onto the wooden boards beneath you, fighting the urge to scrape a bad word into the grayish wood. 

You lean back on your arms and close your eyes almost all the way, soothing yourself by taking in the sun and letting yourself look at Joel work without him noticing too much. Your eyes travel down his frame, looking at the jeans that have green patches around the base of the legs before going upwards again. You try to convince yourself that looking at his clothes makes up for how you’re ogling him now.

Subconsciously, you stretch out your legs from underneath you, then cross one leg over the other and lean further back on your elbows instead. Joel’s knuckles are slightly white from gripping the lawnmower and his t-shirt has started to form a patch of sweat at the base of his spine, supposedly caused by sweat dripping from the back of his neck because the hair there is damp. You curl your toes a little, press your thighs together. You want to know how strong those hands are, how they work at his daytime job, which you guess by now has to do with construction work. It feels wrong to think these things, but you allow them as long as they don’t leave your head. 

You close your eyes fully then, not needing to feel even more warmth prickle at your skin, radiating from your core instead of being caused by the sun. You lay like this until the lawnmower stops. 

“Woah, what happened here?” Joel walks over and looks down at you and then to the crime scene you’ve left open on the back porch flooring. You stare at him with a sheepish expression on your face as he shields the sun from you with his body. 

“It didn’t want to do it the way that I wanted,” you simply say.

“Remind me not to piss you off,” he jokes and shifts where he stands until the sun hits your eyes again. You grin up at him, holding a hand over your eyes to not be forced to close them and miss how he looks as he smiles back.

“Thanks by the way,” you add a moment later, “I’m honestly happy that I don’t have to do it myself.” 

“Yeah, no problem… Look, I’m gonna go back to Sarah, have a shower, then the pizza that’s probably cold by now,” he lingers for a moment before starting to move.

“Sorry about the pizza,” you say and start to get up again, leaving behind the mess of screws, ripped pages and stupid tools. 

“All good, I think Sarah will forgive me. She likes you,” he waves back at you as he leaves. You wave after him too, something feeling like it’s about to implode inside of your stomach and you know what it is. It is butterflies. It is the beginning of a crush.

In the morning, you find the stepladder assembled to perfection on your back porch. 

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel x you #the last of us #joel miller x you #my writing #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfic #dilf!joel

[daydreamsandcrashingwaves]

Keeping It Close To The Chest (KICTTC) pt. 2

Wow, I really was inspired! It really warms my heart that so many people enjoyed it as well! Again I Frankensteined this together as parts of it came to my brain, then connected them all. I swear I shuffled things like 5 times.

Be safe, make good choices

TW/CW: Child abuse, child murder, death, child death (Danny), Shock/ptsd symptoms, Guilt/ self-blame, Child warriors/soldiers, blood, familial abuse/ neglect

~~~ IF I MISSED A TAG please let me know, I want everyone to be able to make the informed choice that is best for them! ~~~

Here is part one in case you missed it!

Part three Part four

Happy holidays my friends :3

~Ren

One two three four five six. In. Hold.

The air in the bat cave was chilly. As usual.

One two three four five. Out. Again.

Usually, moisture clung to Damian’s skin and clothes. Today it seemed harsh and dry like even the cave was voicing its displeasure and passing judgement. It added to his melancholy and nostalgia.

One two three four five six. In. Hold 

His first week in Gotham the rain had been coming down in heavy sheets, he had never seen a storm quite as wild before. He had felt small standing on the Wayne manor doorstep next to Mother, with the wind and rain whipping around them, cradling them in water. He shivered at the memory. Damian had only known the weather in Nanda Parbat, being so close to Ladakh the weather alternated between dry and hot to freezing temperatures in the winter. True downpours were rare due to where the base had been built.

One two three four five. Out. Again

The nights were long and cold. Their room only outfitted with bare essentials, had none of the comfort he had now. Damian can still recall how his little body would shiver and shake no matter how hard he tried to still it. Many winter nights under the protection of the dark, Danny would cross their room to slip under his covers. Two little bodies next to each other, the warmth soothing their bruises and sore muscles while they watched the snow drift down from the window. 

One two three four five six. In. Hold

Damian was not in shock as Tim may have suggested. No. He would never fall so far that emotional distress would prevent him from what must be done. The nervous tick to his heart was because of his worry for Danyal. Damian had only accepted the heat reflective blanket so Father would leave him be. He clutched the edges in an attempt to refocus. He cannot remember who dragged the plush chair into the batcave but he supposed being comfortable while waiting for Danyal to wake was acceptable. Damian also grudgingly could admit to himself, they were kind to place it so he maintained visual on his little brother.

One two three four five. Out. Again

Danyal’s blood had stained his costume. Green and red, Damian’s colors but now, well. He’d start by asking Alfred to take a look, see if it could be cleaned but maybe it was time to follow in his sibling’s footsteps and completely change his armor out for something that didn’t threaten to drive him to his knees. 

One two three four five six. In. Hold

He wanted to be clean, so he'd be allowed in Danyal's room, but he was stuck where he was. Some parts of his clothes were wet still, other less saturated parts were dry and itchy and uncomfortable. He idly scratched at some, and then abruptly stopped when the flakes caught under his nails. He’d have to talk with Danny about why it seemed his green blood tingled against his skin.

One two three four five. Out. Again

( He would bite his tongue though, he's not so dense to miss the fact that prying is glaringly rude, and he doesn't want to give his brother anymore reasons to run from him. Even if he wondered why Danyal's blood smells like rotting food and sweaty locker room with a touch of something he couldn't name. It was a nauseating combination instead of the iron he has grown used to.)

One two three four five six. In. Hold

Toxic green it was always that blasted bright green. Grandfather lived as long as he did due to the pits, the pits brought Jason back, now Danyal was affected, and he had no idea what to do. He was scared. He was so sacred.

One two three four five. Out. Again

"Heyy Bud, maybe it's time to change and shower?" Richard's voice comes from behind where Damian slumped. Damian allows a quick glance at his eldest brother, before he turns his gaze back to Danny's prone form on the bed.

No, he hadn't flinched at the sudden noise, he obviously knew Richard was approaching his seat. Even if his brother is eyeing him with that look like he knows what Damian is thinking. Damian bites his cheek until he splits the skin. Which he can't. He can try to understand because of his experiences with Jason's death, but. Danny was Damian's twin. His other half, they had always been together. Richard can't possibly understand the guilt he carried for not realizing Danny's plan when he realized something had changed the look in his twin's eye, or how ashamed he is for the sliver of pride he felt afterwards when Grandfather handed Damian with his personal kodachi, a blade every member had coveted. How it felt like betrayal that he had thrived in the League those five years after Danyal's death.  

He doesn't know what that's like to lose an intrinsic part of you. He had a family before being adopted by Father. The Wayne's had been allowed to stop for Jason's death. Dick had been allowed to mourn his little brother, to erect a grave to sit with. Damian only had had Danyal and then he died, and Damian was never able to speak of Danyal again until now. Hell, Grandfather was pleased to have taught Damian a lesson on rooting out weakness. He regrets not trying to bring life to those memories he cherishes.

Damian's frustrated with himself, the small movement was meant to be a reach for one of the knives that are still lining his body. Inescapable evidence he is balancing precariously on a knife's edge. Evidence Richard is no doubt started collecting the minute he had realized Damian recognized him. A fierce scowl finds its way onto Damian's face as he clenches the material of his pants between his fists. He wants to scream. If he were Jason, he'd snort at his brother's insistence in taking Bruce's place when he glitches over big emotions, when inevitably hides from his children until he's done processing.

Damian doesn't say anything though for a couple minutes, he knows Richard is caring and kind but the idea of talking about feelings with his sappiest brother has Damian suppressing a shutter. He doesn't want to talk about any of this, even if he knows his grace period to collect his thoughts is running out quickly.

"I'll stay with him while you're gone." Richard offers quietly, "Babybat, please?"

The name hasn't bothered Damian in years but now it has him seething and baring his teeth.  "Do not call me that Grayson." Damian has never been the baby of the family, that spot has always been Danny's.

No one has questioned his prickly disposition since his arrival or knows why he hates their pet names or where and he disappears on his birthday. They dismissed it with condescending smiles, ruling it as him finally acting like a child, more anger, less murder. Like throwing a tantrum over a ripped toy. How has he managed to fool a family of crime fighting detectives?... He's the superior son of course. The sentiment rings hollow, if they don't know it's because they didn't bother to ever really get know Damian past his carefully constructed front. Truly, Damian thought, a ten-year-old fooling all of the Bats and Wings is ridiculous. Damian is stubborn to a fault and decided if they think his grief is equal to an upset child, well he wasn't going to point it out for them. It took Danyal dropping from the sky for them to realize, there was more to Damian than they knew.

Grayson is watching him carefully now, but his posture remains open, relaxed, his warm smile still firmly in place. Even if Damian knows the tightness at the corners indicates his rising anxiety. Damian still wants to break those perfect teeth of his.

This isn't easy for him, why would he make it easier for them.

Instead of acting on his impulse to maim, he paces closer to the glass, allowing himself to remember their childhood, Danny had burned brightly in the darkness the League surrounded itself in -too brightly- and ultimately snuffed out. Danny was all enthusiastic questions, witty remarks and freely given smiles. He had intended to tell Father about his dead twin, had been preparing how to report the situation just right in the time it took to travel from Nanda Parbat to Gotham with Mother, surely Father would let him speak of Danyal, even once would have been enough.

The whole point of Mother sending him away to live with Father was to get him away from the League and Grandfather's influence. Away from his wretched rules that prevented him from honor Danyal as he should. Mother had tried to hide her emotions away but when Grandfather had started talking about Damian like he did Danny those last few months and -well, Damian was an excellent assassin being the son of Talia Al Ghul and Bruce Wayne; two of the most resourceful people out there- he knew what her fear looked like in the forced steadiness of her hand as she lead him away, the sorrow in her brow. He knew his Grandfather would soon order him dead as well.

Mother had him pack his bag and took him to Father, one twin lighter than planned. His Father was nothing as expected. Damian had imagined someone like Mother, always calm and collected, her icy displeasure, her quiet pride. Batman was close to expectation, Bruce Wayne on the other hand was loud, emotive, emotionally compromised. Damian would've shrunk under his Father's attention that first meeting if not for his rigorous training. Anger, guilt, resentment all flew around the room. He kept the secret of his twin buried where it couldn't hurt anyone; he had seen Father's reaction to Damian, nothing good would happen if he told Bruce. The detective would surely push and pry until their secrets lay at his feet, once a mystery was presented to him Batman would stay on it until he was satisfied with the answers. The destruction would only be regretted in the aftermath.  

It was demeaning to allow his new family to think he lacked in his training but for those first few months with Danny saturating his thoughts Damian would turn to where Danyal would be at his elbow, would open his mouth to whisper in Arabic to share their secrets like they used to or he would leave his blind spots wide open, shame and grief had warred inside him for a long time. Damian had loved his little brother with everything he had and then he was gone- killed by his own hand at his Grandfather's request. The Waynes had given him this new family with assorted siblings overnight, and itmade him breathless to acknowledge that Danyal would never thrive in this warmth. 

(Danny had been a mischievous child, witty and too smart for his own good to the frustration of their teachers. Even if he fell short in martial arts and weapons training compared to his older brother, he was better at blending quietly into the shadows. The twins shared a fierce protectiveness between them of course but Danyal? Danyal was creative, had an inherent genius for tricks and traps. Danny who cried in their room after a mission but did not hesitate with those who disrespected Damian. The only evidence their teachers would find was the self-satisfied look on Danny's face, much to their anger. With no evidence to show Grandfather they were forced to be content with pushing them harder until one of them collapsed and then took glee in punishing the one who fell behind. (No matter how much Damian helped with Danyal's sword swings or his forms, his twin rarely beat him in a straight fight.) 

Danyal would crawl into his bed those nights seeking his twin's warmth in the cool desert night, and he'd fix Damian with this blazing look before shying away, moving his attention to Damian's hands he would trace every scar and callous until Damian drifted to sleep. Danyal would wake him before their trainer arrived and they'd steal a few quiet moments for themselves.

(The only time Damian woke before Danyal their hands were still between them entwined, his little hand was clutched tight-like Danyal was afraid of it being snatched away. Damian gave a little squeeze back and Danny's eyes fluttered open. When he saw Damian next to him his face stretched into Danny's true smile, soft, shy and sweet. A smile for Damian alone. He has started to forget what it looked like.)

Damian had been adrift in this new world away from the strict dogma the League required. The new rules he was expected to live by now were so different, he constantly wished Danyal was here for Damian to find some familiarity in. He was on an uncontrolled spiral those first months until he had given in to Richard's soft support. It had stung at first, to receive the affection that only Danny had given him in the past.

Richard was the one who noticed he was spending his free time sketching, dragged him out of the manor to give him his first bound sketchbook with charcoal and had beamed proudly the first time Damian allowed him to see it being used. Damian knew just how hard his brother loved their family, loved him. It was the only reason Damian quelled the urge to stab him, even if it was extremely tempting.

No, he must be intentional now. Strong in the face of what is sure to be murky doubt at Damian's claims. Tim had tried to run a paternity test with the blood from one of Danny's bandages Alfred had discarded- it came back with an error message about twenty minutes ago, but Tim was nowhere to be found. If he can bring Richard over to their side before the rest of their siblings or their father push their way into the batcave for answers, he'd manage to keep things relatively neutral while he argued his case.

Damian takes a deep breath strengthening his resolve. This is for Danyal, he will not misstep now with so much on the line.

If Damian fails to convince them, he will take Danny and run. Between the two of them no one would be able to find them unless they wished it to be so.

“Damian…” Dick says his name carefully, with as much feeling as he can, because he knows the shock of having his brother rise from the grave you buried him in. He aches that one of his siblings ever had to go through what he did. “ I think someone should be with you while we wait for him to wake up.”  

The sneer of disgust that overtakes Damian’s face at his words was expected and how familiar it was had Dick shoving aside the burst of fondness that it caused, and he cuts Damian off before he delivers what surely is a scathing reply.   

“I know you want to be by Danyal’s side, and I can see how much you love him…" Dick clears his throat when it threatens to close, he has to keep talking because this isn't just about Damian, this is about their baby brother that looked terrified under Damian's gaze in the warehouse. "You saw his injuries; I’m worried with how scared he was earlier Danyal may injure himself more if he feels overwhelmed.”

Damian’s eyes closed tightly against the agony that shot through his chest. He knew that. He didn’t need Richard’s reminder. For Danny to look at Damian with such terror, pleading with him- Damian has never hated himself more. He has no doubt this is truly Danyal, Damian knows clones don't carry scars, scars show the life you've lived, it's unique no way to replicate it. They were all there just like Damian remembered.

As heir Damian had to be cold and merciless in the League, he was used to those around him being afraid of his capabilities, of how easily he could snuff out their lives, at one point he had been proud of his Grandfather’s smile when he had heard his four-year-old grandson had taken down his trainer with ease. He had never been that way with Danyal, distant sure, he had to be under the League.

But now that he’s been away, had a chance to meet so many people he knew better. He never felt as alone as he does now, Dick besides him and Danyal resting close by. He never wanted to cause his brother such pain. Richard could be right, he was much more knowledgeable on feelings than Damian, who still stumbles on the finer intricacies of societal interactions. He.. He would do anything for his little brother and if that meant sending him far away from here, Damian would do it. Would help him escape Batman and Bruce Wayne who were both annoyingly persistent. The others.. he could convince, he had enough blackmail stored away for an important favor. It was enough knowing Danyal was alive. 

(No. He’s lying to himself. He’s so close to unraveling but will grit and bare it. It’s his responsibility, he always will look after Danyal. No matter the personal cost. He can practically feel Richard’s devastation from here; he’s sure his older brother is desperate to make this better, however he can. Damian won’t let him. He deserves Danyal’s fear, he was a murderer masquerading as a boy. A boy who in this moment aches to hold his little brother close like when they were kids. Beg his forgiveness and sob and marvel because his fear makes this real, his brother is alive. If Damian believed in miracles this would be his.)

He cannot afford to lose this head with Danny vulnerable in the next room, so he breathes a long breath through his nose again stubbornly not looking at Richard, keeps his eyes on his baby brother, watches his strange breathing rhythm raise and lower the sheets in reassurance his twin is still with him and turns his body towards Richard, a small concession.

"Danyal is my little brother, my twin." It's said slowly, Damian carefully controlled his tone, flat, to the point. Damian just had to get this report out, "When we were five Grandfather ordered that I lay claim my title as heir."

From the corner of his eye Damian can see Richard's smile tighten with tension in an effort to keep it there, now that Damian has started though he pushes past the guilt that has haunted him to finish, " I was superior in martial arts and weapons handling but I was too rigid, Danyal- he" Damian's throat is tight, like there is a rock in his throat, and he clears it quickly. "We excelled when we were together, he took to the things I had not. I knew I'd be Heir, being the eldest grandson. But-" He chokes and Richard makes an aborted motion to touch him. Thankfully he waits.

"But I knew he'd be my Shadow; We'd rule together as soon as I took my place at as the Demon Head... Until Grandfather made us duel." To the death goes unsaid but Damian could see the horrible realization breaking across Richard's face, so he turned his head to look at where the bats nest was among the stalactites. He could make out their mass if he looked hard enough. "Danyal threw himself onto my sword and I killed the person I promised to protect!" Damian pauses, and whispers into the air between them. "There was so much blood." It wavers in his mouth but doesn't break.

The truth burns as it's coming out. Damian got all the big things into the open, now he allows himself to fall into his elder brother's arms and weep. All his pain and regret soaking Richard's shoulder. His body is still sitting with Richard, but Damian is back in a time filled with sharp strikes, where punishment was to be embraced. Swords against whetstones. Legacies to be molded. Damian can hear the whoosh of leather through the air and on cold nights the scars on his back ache.

Damian shivers now in Richard's hold his breath clouding the space between them. Damian shoots straight out of Richard's arms as soon as he realizes it's not just his breath that's visible. The cave had gone from chilly to freezing in a flash. The temperature in the warehouse had dropped too, right before his twin came tumbling out of the sky. Something is wrong. In the time Damian had looked away something had begun to stir in the recovery room. The once steady if slow beating of his twin's heart now resembles an average heartbeat.

Energy pulses. Biting wind almost takes their feet off the ground. The lights burst, raining glass from the ceiling. Richard throws an arm around Damain and pulls him into one of those springy twists only he could do that brings them under some cover.

A shadow writhes in the dark of the recovery room and Damian struggles to free himself from Richard's grip. "Danyal!" He's becoming desperate. Danyal has to be alright. Damian cannot handle losing his baby brother again. Richard stays firm. "Let me go! Please he could be hurt." His voice cracks over the plead, he feels small. Small and helpless. Two things he swore that day he would never give into again.  

Running out of patience Damian swipes at him with a blade and when Richard yelps and releases his arm he rolls, pushing into a sprint once he drops. Only to stop cold a few feet from the door. Peeking up at him from the side of Danyal's bed are solid glowing green eyes.

Part Three 01/06/2024

#ddcwtxt #Keeping It Close To The Chest #ddcw.txt #daydreamsandcrashingwaves #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp #dc universe #batman #bruce wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #batfam #league of assassins #ras al ghul #Child abuse #physical abuse #child death tw #death tw #child murder #Shock #ptsd #guilt #supportive dick grayson #Good big brother Dick grayson #Dick Grayson and Jason Todd sibling relationship #child warriors #blood #danny and damian are twins #danny Fenton and Damian Wayne are twins #twin au

[violetriorsons]

—in a world alone (we're all alone);

a collection of missing moments based on xaden's letters to violet. // pre-FW; iron flame spoilers.

part one.

“sgaeyl watched me kill another cadet for bullying garrick during threshing. she says she chose me for my ruthlessness, but i think i just reminded her of my grandfather.” — chapter 12 (iron flame).

.::.

The number one objective: don't die today.

It's proven to be a shockingly easy goal over the last few hours. A quick glance at the sun in the sky tells Xaden it's the start of the afternoon, and the biggest problem he's faced since Threshing started at nine this morning is the uncharacteristically strong heat for the beginning of October.

It's unsettling — he knows damn well that Fen Riorson's son is at the top of the hit lists of a number of cadets in his year (and the other years, for that matter). And he also knows Threshing is the best opportunity any of them are going to get to finally settle any bets.

It's why when his year dispersed this morning, Xaden had made a point to move in the opposite direction than Garrick and Masen. The target on his back is too big today to risk his only friends.

But so far, it seems his worries were for nothing. The few cadets he's come across over the last four or so hours have paid him nothing more than a wary glare, clearly far more interested in finding their dragons than wasting time trying to run a sword through him.

The dragons Xaden has passed by have also ignored him, both to his relief and mild dismay. The jitters in his chest persist, but for new reasons.

For months, the most common and accepted rhetoric he's heard spread throughout the quadrant is that no self-respecting dragon would go through the disgrace of bonding a marked one. That there's nothing worthy in the children of the people who had threatened the safety of human- and dragonkind all over Navarre.

Up until now, Xaden hadn't let himself dwell on the theory. His priority was keeping himself, his friends, and the rest of the marked ones in his year alive (a feat he's already fumbled, twice). But now, walking through the disturbingly quiet forest, there's no escaping the nauseating fear that everyone was right.

If he'd had the choice, Xaden thinks he might've gone into infantry to honor his father's wishes. He hadn't had the time to figure out for himself what he'd wanted to do with his life before fate and the lost Battle of Aretia had written his destiny for him. Before he knew it, the apostasy had come and tragically gone, and he was suddenly saddled with a hundred and seven souls to keep out of Malek's all-too greedy hands.

Three years ago, Xaden had brokered a deal with General Sorrengail to keep the orphans of his father's allies alive. He knows his father would've abhorred the agreement, but the man had also taught him well about making tough decisions. And making it through the riders' quadrant was their only shot at survival.

But now he's dreading that he might've sentenced them all to a worse fate: if the dragons aren't interested in bonding them, they'll all be doomed to relive their first year in the riders' quadrant over and over until Malek finally decides to collect his due.

Xaden hears the crackling of dragonfire in the near distance— too near for his liking. He quickens his steps as he searches around him in vain for any spot of blue.

Unlike Garrick this morning, Xaden did have a certain dragon from Presentation on his mind. An enormous, navy Blue Daggertail that had left him stunned when he saw it near the end of his deadly stroll yesterday.

He'd stopped dead in his tracks when he'd first caught sight of it, and had Garrick not given him a shove from behind, he's sure that he would've ended up a pile of ashes for daring to look a dragon in the eye for as long as he did.

It was an honest mistake. Xaden had felt something shift inside of him when he locked eyes with the beast, a sharp thrill that lingered long after the first-year cadets had all retreated to their bunks for the night.

Though judging by the icy narrowing of the dragon's eyes as it stared back at him, he thinks maybe the feeling was not mutual.

The thought is reinforced by the fact that he hasn't caught a single hint of her presence anywhere this morning. Idly, Xaden wonders if perhaps the Daggertail had picked another cadet at the start of Threshing, and his mood begins to sour.

But before he can linger any longer on his newfound worries, he hears a familiar shout nearby that has his stomach dropping.

It's Garrick.

All thoughts of the Blue Daggertail are forgotten as Xaden races in the direction of the shout.

The number one objective: don't die today. It goes for himself and especially for his best friend.

Xaden may or may not bond a dragon today. But if nothing else, he'll gladly spend the rest of the day making damn sure his friends make it out of this forest alive.

The shouting continues as he approaches, and Xaden recognizes the voice of Garrick's opponent just before they both come into view.

Prince Alic.

Xaden should've seen this one coming. He'd been too concerned about the target on his own back to consider that his friends have also made enemies in the quadrant all on their own.

The limp-dick, sorry excuse of a prince had wasted no time trying to assert dominance in the quadrant after crossing the Parapet this summer. He's been a terror to most, the Riorson son included, but Alic has had it out for Garrick since he lost to him during assessment week on the mat.

And apparently, he's decided Threshing is the perfect setting to enact his revenge.

Garrick's one of the best in their year when it comes to sparring, but the royal training the asswipe of a prince has under his belt makes him more than a worthy adversary. And though Xaden would be willing to bet that Alic snuck up on Garrick, any matters of honor and dirty tactics don't matter much if Alic makes it out of this forest with Garrick's head in the end.

Rage waves over Xaden and he barely manages to wrangle it back under control so he can slow his steps and assess the situation from a distance.

So far, Garrick seems to be holding his own well enough.

Xaden wavers, unsure of whether to step in or let his friend prove himself to any dragon who may be paying attention.

"I'm betting the prince loses his head."

The unfamiliar, feminine voice startles him out of focus from the fight. He hadn't noticed the giant shadow under his feet that now blankets his immediate area, and when he twists around to look for the source of the voice he finds himself face to face with the navy Blue Daggertail he'd been seeking all morning.

"Holy shit," he curses without thinking, and he just barely stops himself from scrambling backward. Dragons typically don't respond well to cowardice, and he doubts this particular one is any exception.

Her size had been daunting during Presentation, but having her right in front of him now, with her head lowered to his eye level and a bit too close for comfort, it dawns on him what a monstrosity of a creature she is — especially compared to the other dragons he's come across in the field today.

Suddenly, Xaden can't remember exactly why he'd been searching for her in the first place. Does he have a death wish?

The dragon's head moves forward, and Xaden locks his knees in place as she gives him a quick sniff at his chest before lightly blowing steam in his face through her nostrils.

"There's something very familiar about you." Her voice echoes in his head again, and his heart is threatening to break through his ribcage as she stays in his personal space and continues her perusal of him.

Xaden arches an eyebrow. Familiar? "Yeah, we kinda met at Presentation..." His joke falls flat, but he pushes forward. "I'm Xaden —" He stops short of saying his last name, and his earlier fear surges back with a vengeance.

Despite all it's cost him, Xaden has never been at odds with the war his father had started. Their country was corrupt, rotten to the core, and the price Xaden has been made to pay for his father's actions has only strengthened his belief in Fen Riorson's cause.

But would the dragon agree with that?

"Riorson," the dragon finishes for him, rather absentmindedly — uninterested, even — as she sniffs at his hair. She says nothing more, all her focus on her odd inspection of him, and some of Xaden's nerves give way to confusion.

Is it a good sign that this dragon is currently covering his leathers in snot?

As if in response, the dragon chuffs. "Better that than being charred by dragonfire, I would think."

Xaden's eyes widen in return. Did she hear his thoughts?

"Very true," he breathes. He tenses again, keeping quiet as he awaits judgment from the dragon he'd spent all night thinking about.

With no warning, the dragon lifts a claw and swipes it over the upper left side of Xaden's face, too quick for him to see it coming. The claw breaks the skin deep over his brow, nicking the eyelid he'd managed to close out of pure instinct, and digging through the top of his cheek.

"Fuck," he swears without thinking, instinctively lifting a hand to his eyebrow. His fingers come back bloody.

"There," the dragon says, sounding satisfied as she lowers her head to his level again. "Now I see it."

"Interesting word choice after almost taking my fucking eye out." He can't help himself from expressing his disdain as he works to keep the blood from seeping into his eye. "What do you see?"

"I'd given your grandfather a similar scar during his Threshing. It'd been accident then."

Surprise quells the anger. His brows knit together, the movement making the sting from his new wound worse. "You knew my grandfather?" He didn't even know his grandfather. From either side of the family.

"He came before you. But he didn't make it out of the quadrant." Her words are matter-of-fact, but there's an undertone of sadness that has Xaden believing she feels the loss far deeper than he ever could.

"I'm sorry...," he trails off, not sure how he's supposed to address her. He wipes more blood away from his brow before it gets in his eye.

"Sgaeyl," she offers distractedly, her eyes moving beyond him, to the sword fight still being waged in the tiny clearing behind him. "I said the prince would lose his head today. Why don't you go prove me right?"

Xaden turns back around and tenses, cursing himself for forgetting about Garrick.

Blood is now flowing from Garrick's left shoulder but he's paying it no mind as he raises his sword up to block Alic's attempt to slice Garrick's right arm off. As the two swords clash, Alic gets in a sloppy, but effective kick to the side of Garrick's calf that has him going down.

Garrick manages to twist his body last-minute to land on his side and avoid getting the wind knocked out of him. But the maneuver has his wounded shoulder taking the brunt of his fall.

Xaden's moving toward them before he even realizes it, silently drawing his own sword as he approaches. His heart is hammering again as he watches Alic raise his weapon to take the final strike.

Xaden sword is quicker, and he runs it through Alic's back, deep enough that it reappears through his abdomen. Alic's response is a garbled groan, and Xaden lifts his foot to kick the prince off his sword.

Alic falls forward, the force of Xaden's kick sending him face-first towards the ground — right where Garrick is lying.

Garrick rolls out of the way just as Alic hits the dirt. His eyes meet Xaden's with a flash of gratitude as he works to get himself up.

Xaden waits to make sure his best friend is good before turning his attention back to the dying prince, who's working mightily to get up onto his knees.

"You're a... worthless piece... of shit, son of a... traitor..." Alic's rambles are out of breath as he continues to bleed out on the ground.

Xaden hears the dragon grumble behind him, and he can feel the wordless expectation emanating from her as she waits impatiently for him to follow her earlier command. He spares a quick glance at Garrick again, who's retrieved his sword but is distracted by the dragon who's stepped out from the trees and into view.

"Sorry I butted in," Xaden tells Garrick with a sheepish grin. "But I've been asked for his head." He tilts his head in the dragon's direction as means of explanation. Garrick's eyes widen, but he chooses to stay silent in the presence of the dragon, giving Xaden a firm nod instead.

Before he can think too hard about it, Xaden swipes his sword through the neck of the still-rambling royal. The man's head hits the ground with a sickening thud, and Xaden works to keep his breakfast down.

Though not his first kill, it is the first time he's ever decapitated someone. It turns his stomach in the worst way, even as he feels a small twinge of satisfaction in getting to behead one of King Tauri's sons.

Perhaps he's not quite as monstrous as he's come to feel over the last few months — yet.

He's still got a dragon to impress, so he forces down the nausea, compartmentalizes any horror he may feel over adding to his body count, and bends down to retrieve the severed head by its hair.

He turns toward the dragon and tosses the head at her feet, making sure to keep his eyes off the ground and on hers the entire time.

She chuffs in what seems like approval. "Ruthless."

A heady rush of pride sweeps through him, giving him confidence as he admits to her, almost accusingly, "I've been looking for you all morning." Her earlier words about his grandfather finally sink in.

He came before you.

She'd chosen him. And now she's choosing Xaden.

She lets out another chuff. "I woke late. And I refuse to skip breakfast, even for Threshing."

Xaden smiles, glancing behind him to see that Garrick has disappeared. His smile wavers, and he worries over the wound in his friend's arm. Will he be okay to keep dragon-seeking?

"You care a lot for him. And for the others." It's a statement, not a question.

"Yes," Xaden answers anyway. He forces down the trepidation over letting her in on his secrets.

The marked ones and Aretia are who he's dedicated his life to, and there's no point in trying to hide it from her. She needs to know who she's choosing, and what he'll be continuing to fight for. And all the types of monsters he's willing to fight against.

"You carry scars for the ones you're devoted to," she notes. "And now you'll carry one for me as well."

The reminder of the wound on his brow cuts through the adrenaline enough for him to feel the sting again. But her words erase any lingering resentment he may have felt over the scratch.

She steps forward. "Get on my back. The cadet you saved will be just fine, and your other friend has already been chosen. There's no point in spending any more time around here tempting the cadets who'd love to take your own head off your shoulders."

Xaden exhales in relief at the news about Masen, and decides to trust her certainty that Garrick will make it just fine on his own.

He hesitates for just a second, calculating the best strategy to make it up her leg. The gauntlet didn't quite prepare him as well for a dragon of her size. It's a challenge, but he makes it up to her back, avoiding the spikes at her neck, and reaches the divot with only minor embarrassment.

"Didn't you practice?" she chastises him, but her tone is light.

"Of course I did." He rolls his eyes. "But you're huge."

She chuffs. "Wait until you see my mate. You'll see who's the real monstrosity of a creature."

Xaden lifts a brow, fighting the discomfort of her knowing what he had been thinking earlier. "Is that always...?" He trails off, not sure how to phrase the question.

She scoffs. "Get used to it, cadet. I know everything about you. I always will." It almost sounds like a threat.

He nods, mostly to himself, knowing he'll just need time to adjust to it.

As a means of distraction, the dragon formally introduces herself. But she also launches into the sky as she does so, and her words are lost to the wind whooshing past Xaden's ears as he directs his focus on staying seated as she flies high above the trees.

He remembers her earlier introduction, though — her name is Sgaeyl. She's a navy Blue Daggertail, once bonded to his grandfather.

Unbidden, a memory from many years ago of his mother rises to the surface. She'd told him once that her father had entered the riders' quadrant while she was a baby. She never got to meet him.

"Dragons aren't allowed to bond direct descendants of their previous riders," Xaden notes lightly, trying to shake off the heavy feeling that comes from remembering his mother.

Sgaeyl stays silent, and Xaden interprets it to mean that she has little care for any rule that may stand in the way of what she wants. And what she wants at the moment is him.

"I could go mad," he continues absentmindedly. Judging from the excited flip his stomach just did at the thought of being wanted by this dragon, he may already be half-way there.

"You won't go mad," Sgaeyl asserts.

He arches his wounded brow. "And how do you know that?"

"Because I chose you," she scoffs.

He grins at the arrogance, but his chest fills with pride. And anticipation, as he sees the flight field getting nearer in the distance.

Soon, they'll be landing in the field. Soon, he'll be walking up the dais to look the roll keeper and General Sorrengail in the eye and announce the name of his new dragon — and relish in the shocked faces of Commandant Panchek, Captain Fitzgibbons, Colonel Aetos, and anyone else who doubted that a dragon would choose Fen Riorson's son — or any marked one.

Sgaeyl knows everything about him. And she chose him.

Xaden Riorson is officially a rider.

#xaden riorson #sgaeyl #xaden and sgaeyl #fourth wing #iron flame #fourth wing fic #empyrean fic #this really got away from me oops #it's way longer than i thought it would be #lina scribbles

[shady-tavern]

Vampire’s Lullaby

Warnings ahead for a child getting injured and threatened with more bodily harm and death, blood and gore, though not overly descriptive. Please take care of yourselves.

This is part one of a dark vampire story folks. I hope I could do it at least some justice. If you are concerned about the contents, drop me a message and I’ll answer you.

***

'Never look them in the eye, child,' the priests always cautioned. 'You'll only find the loss of your mind and virtue there, if they don't take your life immediately.'

There was no love left in the creatures of the night, in those ever hungry for blood and flesh, in the terrors of the dark. The sunlit hours were spent scurrying about, getting work done before the sun set and the monsters crawled out of wherever they hid.

Annabelle had been taught early on to ignore the luring calls and songs of some of the night creature, to keep the curtains drawn and to stay inside, no matter how frightening or pleading something sounded outside. She and all others could flinch and cry all they liked, so long as they remained in their homes.

Those who could afford it kept their homes safe, buying all that was necessary to ward off any and all night creature, while professional hunters prowled along the property. Those less rich could still often enough convince a less reputable hunter to guard their home, by offering them food and lodging and a bit of a salary.

Young, inexperienced hunters or older ones with lasting injuries usually took those less well-paid guarding jobs. Those families who could bear to have a set of working hands missing sent one of their children to get a basic education in hunting, hoping it was enough to protect their home.

Annabelle knew people less fortunate considered her one of the reasonably lucky ones. She had three older brothers and her parents had reliable merchants buying their wares. Her mother sold iron tools she made in the smithy, while her father sold his weaving. Her two oldest brothers had learned the craft of their parents, while her third brother, the youngest of the three, had gone and become a hunter. 

Dion was the one keeping their home safe and she hated it. She hated the howls and screams and snarls of the monsters that hunted. She loathed the crooning singing that wanted to lure her towards the barred windows, cruel in its sweetness. The shadows she could sometimes see creep past during a full moon frightened her, before Dion chased them off. 

She hated that he was out there, fighting, coming home injured and bleeding. She knew, deep down, there would be a day when he wouldn't return. None of them were lucky enough to avoid that misfortune forever. Not when it had killed her grandfather and later her uncle, while guarding the house.

Sometimes, when she came back from work, she saw her brother standing outside, hand shaking as he held his weapons. But every time he hesitated, he would look at the house, through the windows where she knew her parents and older brothers sat, still either at work or taking care of the house. 

Then he'd look at her, walking briskly towards him in the setting sun. He'd nod at her and remain where he was, unflinching and with a straight back. In front of the house, guarding it.

The thick wooden door would close behind her when she stepped inside, lined with iron and dusted with silver shavings, expensive protective measures that had cost her grandmother and grandfather all their savings when they settled down in the city.

Dion would lock it with a hard noise before his steps faded. Annabelle hated those noises, hated how final and grim they sounded. Hated that she didn't know if he'd come back at dawn to unlock the door again.

They weren't truly locked in, she knew where the spare key was after all, they all did, but her parents wanted him to be the one to unlock it every morning. They wanted to give him every reason to come back alive.

She wished she could tell Dion to just stay inside with them. To sit in front of the fire and cover his ears when some beast howled, like he had done as a little boy. Annabelle was barely a year younger than him and she remembered helping him, clapping her hands on top of his to muffle the sounds extra hard.

No matter how much the noise had scared her as well, she had put on a brave face. When her parents had decided he should go and apprentice with a hunter, she had fought with them, for the first time in her life actually shouting and screaming while her parents grew just as loud. 

They had been just as desperate and scared and helpless in their arguments as she had been, but that hadn't gentled her fearful fury one bit.

When she had offered to go in Dion's stead, they had waved her off with scoffs. She wasn't big and sturdy enough, they had said. She wasn't strong enough, not fast enough, no hunter would teach her. She'd be dead within her first night outside.

She couldn't bring herself to say it to Dion's face, but she thought he shouldn't have become a hunter. Then again, none of her brothers were suited for the task. Rudi, the eldest, was currently courting a young woman, hoping to marry her and have a family of his own. He always got up at dawn along with Annabelle, peering out the windows to check if Dion was alright.

Gerard, her second-oldest brother, kept on weaving late into the night, the sound of the loom by now a welcome background noise as they all settled down. She knew the reason he stayed up late was so he could listen for his little brother, to try and hear if anything happened to him. Even if he couldn't help, he still stayed up.

Since the two oldest were meant to inherit the business, continuing the craft of their parents, the horrid task of protecting the house fell on Dion's shoulders. 

Annabelle had gotten an apprenticeship with their neighbor Mr. Bell, an older scholar and bookbinder, who had taught her everything and then hired her at his printing and book selling store.

Mr. Bell had recently started talking about letting her take over when he retired, since he was most pleased with her work. He wouldn't hand the business to her entirely right away, but he spoke about working less over the next year or two and letting her handle things more in his stead.

It filled her with fierce hope, that once he let her take over, she could earn enough money to hire a hunter. So Dion could stop reaching for cold steel and second-hand armor made of leather and rusty iron. So he could allow his hands to do something soft and gentle.

She once or twice heard him have nightmares through the wall during her free day and he barely smiled anymore and his humor had grown dark. Sometimes he managed to make her laugh, startled and a little horrified all at once, when he joked about death with other hunters in the evening, while she stopped by them to wish them a good night.

Not every night was bad, thankfully, there were even a week or two where it was utterly quiet, but it always got rough around the new and full moon.

Her brother got injured at times, coming home with a limp or a bleeding arm that got tended to swiftly so he could return outside the next night. How her mother scrubbed blood from their worn floorboards with tears in her eyes.

One day, she had promised herself therefore, he could rest. Which was why she was working from sunrise til sunset and why she stayed sweet and polite, no matter how rude a client was. Why she made sure Mr. Bell wanted her to take over his business one day and not someone else.

Her family worried about her, since she often barely made it back home in time, the sun almost gone when she arrived. Dion always looked relieved whenever he saw her hurrying down the street, his hunter garb making him look dark and foreboding.

She left early every day ever since she had figured out at what minute the sun crested the city wall enough to shine a weak, pale light along the main road. The path of the sun was always unobstructed, for across from them, on the other side of the road, was nothing but a drop down to the lowest level of the city.

That part of the city was built at the bottom of the hill that bordered on being a mountain, made up of homesteads and farmland. Scholars still argued that the hill should be classified a mountain, while others said it only looked that big because of the ostentatious, large castle built at the very top.

The fancy castle was surrounded by high walls and equally fancy manors and smoothly cobbled streets that wound down steadily. Their part of the city was always lit and very, very well protected

Annabelle usually didn't pay the upper crust much mind, she was far too busy for that, but sometimes as she walked to work, she wondered what it must be like to live without fear. To know the night creatures could not touch her.

By the time she reached the big crossroads where Mr. Bell had his business, the sunlight touched the shop and she'd unlock the door. Slipping inside, she would set everything up for the day in peaceful, soft quiet. She got the books they were selling ready in the shop and got started on their orders, mixing inks and selecting the requested paper.

Mr. Bell certainly was delighted about that, arriving with a spring in his step and all he had to do was sit down and get started.

Of course, leaving this early meant there were still some night creatures around at this hour. The last stragglers who wanted to pick off early risers who either thought they could slip by unnoticed or who had to risk their life for their income. 

The hunters were counting on that, however. They said the monsters still out and about when the sun rose were the really stupid or inexperienced ones and usually made for easy pickings. 

Sometimes Annabelle heard the gurgling cries as something died in an alley and she made sure not to look when she passed by. Since the night creatures avoided the sun like the plague, Annabelle was safe enough so long as she stayed on the main road. 

Besides, she wasn't the only one with early working hours, the baker down the street got to work even earlier, risking her life every day to earn just enough coin to pay an older, banged up hunter to guard her and her children.

Dion unlocked the door for her after the fifth bell of the clock tower struck and today she saw that his eyes were dark and there was tension all throughout his frame. It must've been a rough night, for he barely said anything to her. Even the other hunters she passed by were quiet and grim, curtly nodding at her in greeting.

She wrapped her shawl tighter around herself to ward off the chill of the morning hour, warily glancing around. It was quiet enough and she only realized she had walked too fast, that the sun hadn't risen far enough yet, until she turned around the corner, one street away from the crossroads and found it lying in dark shadows. 

The surrounding houses stood empty as of last month, which usually meant there were no hunters immediately nearby. Only, the street lying in shadow wasn't empty, like she had expected. 

A howling snarl was cut short into a high-pitched yowl by the echoing shot of a blunderbuss. She barely got a glimpse of something big and furred crumpling to the ground, before she was nearly bowled over by a hunter running past her.

The man dragged a screaming, crying child into the sun, where it hissed and tried to cringe back, only to get gripped tighter. The hunter held the kid by their curly hair and Annabelle was about to shout at him in alarm, when she saw movement in the lingering dark.

She saw a second hunter further down the shadowed street barely dodge a beast that leapt down from above. Leathery wings nearly knocked him over as the massively oversized bat scooped up what could only be a bleeding, panting werewolf. 

Only the bat didn't quite look like a bat either, it was far uglier for one and had arms along with wings and a body that tended a bit more towards the humanoid, leaving it looking like it had jumped straight out of a nightmare.

The werewolf reached a clawed hand for the crying child with a pained groan, while the bat skittered up the side of the building, too fast for anyone to catch up, until it was safely out of range of the blunderbuss. Then both night creatures suddenly fell still, staring past Annabelle.

Annabelle turned around, only to become still and unmoving herself. The first hunter held a silver dagger to the child's throat, a thin trickle of red blood dripping down, while black veins started to slowly appear along its skin, caused by the blade's touch. 

The child was whimpering softly, a horrible, helpless sound that cut straight through her heart. Tears fell out of big, dark eyes and the boy was breathing fast and shallow in panic and he looked frozen in place, not daring to move even the tiniest bit.

For a long, heavy second, all Annabelle saw was Dion as a little boy, curly haired and terrified as he hid beneath the table, hands clasped over his ears as he sniffled. How she had crawled under the table to join him, pressing her own hands over his and how he had curled into himself with relief.

The kid didn't look too much like him when she blinked the memory away, the hair was the wrong shade, the eyes far too dark. But it was similar enough, along with the small button nose and chubby cheeks, to remind her of her brother when he had been little. It left her reeling for a moment.

"Move on," the hunter growled at her. "This doesn't concern you."

It didn't. It really didn't concern her. Annabelle held no love for night creatures, not when Dion carried scars from their claws and teeth. Not when she had nightmares about them and her parents had cried themselves to sleep for weeks after sending her brother out to guard them. But she couldn't bring herself to move, feet feeling frozen to the floor.

The child's gaze met hers and it was painfully clear the he wasn't human. He had fangs and claws and pointy ears, but in that moment he just looked like a helpless kid. The boy, six years at most, looked terrified, trembling all over and trying his hardest to reign in his panicked little gasps to keep the blade from digging in deeper.

The werewolf keened, a desperate, pleading call and the massive bat, the vampire, hissed, low and threatening.

"What are you doing?" Annabelle's voice sounded strange to her own ears. "That's a child."

"It's a monster," the hunter snapped back, keeping his eyes on the two night creatures high up on the wall that stared back at him. His friend was pacing down below, clearly trying to figure out how to kill them while they were distracted. Considering his sharp, loud cussing, he wasn't successful.

"Stab it or something," the pacing hunter shouted. "Lure them down, I don't want them to run or the sun to take my kill!"

The hunter pulled the dagger away in a fast, smooth motion, flipping it and Annabelle was moving before she was fully aware of it – because this was a child, no matter the pointy teeth and tiny claws. This was a child looking scared for its life, crying and trembling and she felt sick down to her core.

Pain burned bright and intensely sharp as the dagger sliced past the back of her hand, stretched in front of the kid protectively. The fingers of her other hand gripped the boy's collar tight, wrenching him away from the hunter's grasp.

The hunter's eyes were wide in startled, baffled surprise as she pushed the boy behind her, her own eyes wide and her breathing harsh and fast. She had half a second to watch fury take over, before the sound of crunching, crushing stone broke through the air like a miniature thunderstorm.

The hunter whirled around and Annabelle felt a scream getting caught in her throat as a large chunk of wall came flying, too fast to dodge, slamming into him and leaving a smear of blood and broken bones behind.

Everything became a little fuzzy and blurry around the edges, as she turned to see the vampire rip out another chunk of wall, tossing it after the now fleeing hunter below it, crushing the man into a pulp of red, wet flesh, broken pieces of bone poking out.

She heaved in a breath to avoid throwing up, gaze darting back to land on the vampire and the still injured werewolf it carried beneath one arm, braced against its gray, fuzzy shoulder. 

The boy's heaving, suddenly loud wail made her flinch, jolting back into her body. She took a step back until she could see him without losing sight of the monsters up on the wall.

"You're alright," she found herself whispering with a trembling voice. Hesitantly she reached out, fingers shaking as badly as the kid did and nausea was still roiling through her gut.

The moment she lightly touched his shoulder, he tipped forward, knees buckling. Annabelle just barely managed to catch him, awkwardly holding him for a second, before she took a deep breath and picked him up. He weighed as much as a regular kid did, largely looked like one too, if one discarded the obvious signs where he was not.

And yet, as she watched, the longer the sun shone on him, the more those signs faded. His ears became round and the fingers that curled into her shawl were now normal, his nails short and blunt.

The scrape of claws on stone made her flinch and when she looked up, the vampire was right there, standing where the dark ended and light began. It clearly couldn't cross over and Annabelle felt her breath caught in her lungs as she stared up.

For the first time in her life, she felt tiny and flimsy and utterly mortal. The werewolf was reaching out towards the boy, breathing labored and it clearly couldn't stand on its own two legs. The vampire's arm still around its middle was the only thing holding it up.

The boy lifted his head and sobbed, reaching back towards the werewolf. The cut on his throat wasn't bleeding anymore, but there were still black veins, even if they were slowly growing fainter. Silver poisoning, Annabelle thought faintly, remembering the books Dion had been given while training and that she had peeked at.

Annabelle carefully set the boy on his feet without looking away from the big vampire, its large ears flicking as it listened. The boy stumbled forward the moment she let him go and the second he crossed into the dark, the vampire swept him up too and after a last glance at her, took flight.

It clearly wasn't dumb enough to wing up into the sky, not with the rising sun, but it was still startling to see something so big move so swiftly and quietly down the street, maneuvering smoothly around the corner and then it was gone.

Annabelle stared after them, unmoving. She didn't dare look towards the crushed hunters, her heart racing painfully fast in her chest and her stomach still roiling. Her hand was bleeding, pulsing with pain and she reached up to numbly wrap the end of her shawl around it.

Two minutes later, the sun had risen far enough for her to walk on, stumbling away from the bodies. No one had been around to see her or what had happened, not that she had noticed at least. No one had come to check either, not when the houses along this part of the street were empty.

By the time she stood in front of the shop, she was still shaking and it took her two tries to get the door open. As soon as the door fell closed behind her with a click and the familiar scent of her workplace surrounded her, she broke down into tears.

Mr. Bell, when he arrived, made her sit down, cleaned and bandaged her hand properly and handed her a sip of brandy that burned going down.

"You will take it easy," he said in a voice that allowed no arguments and he muttered under his breath, "I should've known leaving home that early was too dangerous."

She didn't correct him, because then she didn't have to explain how she had gotten injured. Instead, she was quiet and worked as much as he let her, while trying to ignore any remarks their clients made regarding her subdued spirits. 

She was sorely tempted to throw something, however, when a particularly arrogant man told her to smile, for it made her look prettier than her current, glum expression.

When the evening bell rang, the one warning everyone to get home now or it would be too late, she felt a fierce jolt of fear race down her spine.

She was suddenly terrified to go out there, to see the night creatures again or to run into someone who had known the dead hunters. Who asked around if anyone had seen anything. Or even someone who might have seen her after all, but had been too far away and preoccupied to do anything.

But she couldn't hide here, the crossroads were filled sorely with businesses and hunters didn't protect areas where people didn't live, at least they didn't if the owners weren't rich enough. 

The rich and powerful were about the only ones who had stopped fearing the night. They had the coin to pay for all the protection they could ask for and sometimes, during particularly quiet, calm nights, Annabelle could faintly hear the music of their parties.

She knew she couldn't stay here unless she wanted to die. So she grabbed her things, wound the shawl around her neck and locked up the shop. Mr. Bell had left an hour ago after making sure she would be alright, making her promise that she would go straight home. 

The spreading shadows looked darker and more frightening than ever before and her steps grew faster and faster until she was nearly running.

No one stopped her, no one even looked at her more than usual and no monsters appeared. Not yet. 

Dion was chatting with another hunter, the woman's gear looking as banged up as his did, when Annabelle arrived at home. He glanced at her, only to pause and frown.

"Did something happen?" he asked and Annabelle plastered a smile on her face, hoping it looked convincing.

"Just a little accident at work," she answered, waving her bandaged hand around and tucking it against her side before he could get a proper look at it. "Nothing serious, but I'm tired."

His frown smoothed over a bit, even if he still looked worried. "I'll unlock the door."

He accompanied her to the front step and as she stepped inside, she couldn't help but turn around. "Please be careful."

"I always am," he answered, but she must've looked scared, as scared as she felt, because his face softened a bit. "I promise."

He never promised to come back in the morning, because they both knew there was a chance that he wouldn't. Annabelle suddenly felt fiercely angry and tired and there was a sting of self-loathing.

She had gotten two hunters killed and monsters had gotten away alive. What if those night creatures were the ones to murder her brother? What if that little boy grew up to become someone else's nightmare? 

She couldn't bring herself to regret saving him, not when she remembered that gut-wrenching fear on his face. But she couldn't help wishing the hunters had remained unharmed, no matter how nonsensical it was. Someone had to die when night creatures and hunters clashed.

She never again wanted a hand in deciding whose fate it was to be killed.

Dion locked the door and Annabelle managed to wave off the concern of her parents and older brothers and retreated to her room. She wasn't hungry and when she sat down on her bed, she could see the sinking sun.

Her room felt stuffy, so she opened the window, knowing she still had a few minutes to air out the room. Iron bars protected her window and she could still see Dion from here, waving at a hunter further down the street.

The memories of this morning resurfaced once again and would not let go. Annabelle started to tug at the bandage on her hand until a sharp pain made her wince. Glancing down she saw a bit of blood bleeding through and she took a couple of deep breaths.

What was done, was done, she reminded herself. Short of walking to the city guard and getting arrested and executed for mingling with the night creatures, there was nothing she could do.

Glancing up, she noticed that the sun had disappeared behind the city walls and while the sky wasn't entirely dark yet, she saw something big fly past. Flinching back, her heart suddenly hammering, she fumbled to slam the window closed.

She yanked the curtains shut as well, almost ripping them off, her fingers trembling as she clung to the thick fabric. It wasn't the same massive vampire bat, she told herself, there were many night creatures after all. Surely it was something else.

But Dion was out there and if he died because she hadn't been able to harden her stupid, soft heart against the face of a crying, terrified child, she'd never forgive herself.

It took a few deep breaths for her to calm herself and after long minutes of standing there while nothing happened, she got ready for bed. Tonight seemed to be a quiet night tonight and she laid in bed, listening carefully for anything horrible. When she heard Dion's rough, muffled laughter drifting up, she finally let herself relax.

Her eyes started to slip closed when a scratching sound on stone made her jolt upright so fast she briefly got dizzy. Heart racing once again she felt froze in place as a large shadow covered her window. She couldn't see anything through the curtains, but this size let her know what exactly was outside.

She didn't dare make a noise. She heard a muffled clack a moment later and then the shadow vanished with another quiet scratch of claws.

Annabelle sat in the silent darkness of her room, her breathing a little funny and when, at last, she managed to make herself move, her heart finally calmed down a little.

Pulling the curtains apart just enough to peek through, she blinked in surprise when she saw a folded page of thick paper on her windowsill, weighed down with a rock. She stared at it for a moment, then let go of the curtains again.

Annabelle wasn't dumb enough to go and open the window right now. So she backed up and sat down and stared. She didn't think herself capable of falling asleep again that night, but between one blink and the next, the sun was rising and she was lying crookedly on her bed.

Getting up and groaning at the crick in her neck, she approached the window once again. The sun was just peeking over the wall when she opened it and plucked the paper from beneath the rock. It was slightly damp from being outside and the move sent the rock tumbling down to the ground.

Unfolding the page, she blinked in surprise when the clumsy handwriting of a child greeted her first. The letters were clearly written with great care and as she read, it felt like a big hand was squeezing her heart. 

The kid was thanking her for saving his life and that of his mother and auntie. He said that he had been so scared, that he thought all humans were cruel and evil, but she clearly wasn't. He had added a sketch of her, childish and simple and cheerful.

Below that, in a neat and elegant hand, one of the night creatures had written that they owed her and she could ask for one favor. All she had to do was leave a note outside her window and if possible, it would be fulfilled.

Sitting down on the chair in front of her desk, Annabelle found herself reading the letter again. Then she slowly folded it and didn't know what to think or feel or do. In the end she hid the letter and got ready for work, mind still spinning in circles.

Dion looked tired but unharmed and he even smiled at her when he let her out of the house, going so far as to twirl the key around his finger. "Have fun," he called after her when she left with a little wave.

Nothing happened on her way to work and Mr. Bell looked happy to see that she was doing better today. He left halfway through the day, citing that he needed to take care of something, though Annabelle got the sneaking suspicion that he was looking for excuses to leave the shop in her hands for a while. To get her used to running it in his absence.

It was all going well and fine, until she heard the tinkle of the front door and when she stepped out of the backroom, she stilled mid-step. A curly haired kid with dark eyes was peeking over the counter, clearly on his very tip-toes.

A smile broke out over his face. "Hello," he said with a small lisp, as if it was entirely normal that a night creature was out and about in the middle of the day. Looking utterly human.

Oh. A cold realization washed over her. Of course night creatures looked human during the day. The hunters would have found a way to eradicate them all otherwise. There were only so many places they could hide before being found.

Then she frowned. Did that mean they could walk out into the sun too? Or only some of them?

"Did you get my letter?" the boy asked. "Mama said I shouldn't come here, but I wanted to make sure."

"Yes," she managed to answer. "I got it."

His face lit up. "Good." Then his face fell and he sank down a bit, eyes barely peeking over the counter. "Thank you. That was...that was really scary."

"I bet it was." In all honesty, his situation had probably been far scarier than having a large monster show up in front of her window for a second. She couldn't stop herself from adding, "You need to be more careful."

The kid shuffled a bit in place, looking chastised. "I wasn't supposed to go outside," he told her, fingertips tapping against the edge of the counter he clung to. "But Mama was gone longer than usual and I got worried."

"I bet she's worried now," Annabelle said and suddenly she couldn't get rid of the thought that another night creature was going to show up. A grown, dangerous one. "Unless you told her where you are?"

The kid looked caught. "Um..."

She couldn't help but huff and made a shooing motion. "Go home before she worries."

The kid was about to push away, when he suddenly looked worried. "You won't tell anyone, right?"

Annabelle knew the moment she gave a description of the kid to the hunters, they'd comb the surrounding area for him and his mother. It was forbidden to get tangled with the night creatures, always had been.

Though, now that she looked at the kid, she couldn't help but think that the hunters were just as ruthless. And they could be just as cruel as the monsters.

"I won't," she said at last. "Now off you go."

The kid stepped away with a relieved smile and hurried towards the door, only to pause. "If we can help you, we will," he said. "Mama says we owe you one."

With those words he slipped out, the bell tinkling merrily. Annabelle exhaled in a rush and leaned against the counter, watching the kid through the shop window as he left with quick steps. Rubbing a hand over her face, she shook her head and returned to work.

She didn't have time to think about the difference between monsters and hunters, not when it left her mind in a messy state. There was too much work to do.

Mr. Bell came back later than he had said, whistling when he saw how much she had gotten done. It helped keep her distracted and by the time she wrapped up the last order of the day and got a head start on the next one, the final bell was ringing.

To her misfortune, she found her usual way back home blocked by a tipped over carriage. Horses were panicking and people were shouting and crowding around, trying to fix the situation as quickly as possible. 

There was no way to get past and a nervous glance at the sky told her she couldn't wait until the situation got resolved, even if taking any other path meant a detour. Already the frazzled travelers were shouting how late it was and that they needed to get going now.

Tugging her shawl more firmly around herself, she turned to eye the nearby alley. It laid in shadow, but there was nothing else she could do. Even if she now knew that night creatures could look like ordinary humans, she was willing to risk the alley rather than stay on the main road until the sun had disappeared entirely.

Still, her heart was racing a bit and she was nervously glancing around. It got quiet as she left the hectic road behind and soon the only sounds were her shoes on rough cobblestone and occasionally voices drifting out of still open windows.

Some of the houses back here stood empty, broken windows and destroyed doors showing where night creatures had gotten through. Claw marks were visible where the monsters had crawled in and she saw bloody drag marks in front of one door, where someone or something had been hauled away.

It was dark by the time she emerged from the alley and the sight of the sun beyond the city wall made her breath catch. Home wasn't too far, however, surely she'd be fine.

She was about to rush ahead, when she heard the sound of claws on stone. For a moment she was about to just blindly start running, heart pounding, before she made herself look up. There it was, the nightmarish bat, crouched at the corner of the roof, wings folded primly.

They stared at each other for a long moment, until one of the vampire's ears flicked and it slowly moved one arm to point down the street. Towards her home. When she didn't move right away, it made a shooing motion, wings twitching.

Slowly taking a step and then another while not looking away, Annabelle started walking. The vampire followed her slowly, not even needing to leap across the alley onto the next roof. It just needed to stretch in order to reach.

Forcing herself to look away when she stumbled and nearly fell, Annabelle found herself walking faster and faster. When Dion came into view, waiting outside, visibly tense and worried, she looked up again.

The vampire was nowhere to be seen, but she heard the faint scratch of claws and realized that the night creature wanted her to hear it. She hadn't heard a damn thing until it had crouched above her, after all. It allowed her to track it.

"You're late," Dion said in greeting, checking her over for injuries while ushering her towards the house. "Get in, now."

She was pushed through the door before she could say anything and the lock clicked into place. Annabelle found herself swarmed by her family, all worried and scolding.

She ate dinner while barely tasting anything and retreated to her room as quickly as possible. The curtains were still open and when she reached for them, she saw the vampire, a few roofs away, out of view of the hunters down below.

She saw its dark eyes glint in the moonlight when it turned its head towards her, large ears perked. She found herself staring for a long moment, before she startled, remembering the warnings about getting thralled and lured outside.

But she felt fine, she realized as she was about to yank the curtains closed. Her mind was still her own. Surely she'd notice if it wasn't? She didn't feel compelled to go towards it – quite the opposite in fact. If anything, she wanted to stay right where she was, thank you very much.

Then the vampire's ears flicked and it was gone between one moment and the next, moving far, far too fast for a creature that size. Annabelle closed the curtains and took a deep breath.

She really needed to get some rest and hope that tomorrow made more sense again.

.*.*.*.

Over the next couple of days things made no more sense than previously and Annabelle resolved to just not think about it anymore. She had ended up saving a night creature child, they were grateful, no one had killed her in the process and now she'd continue living as she always did.

Sometimes she spotted the vampire, flying by or peering across the roofs towards her window. At first it frightened her worse, until she realized that it must be checking for any notes she might leave. In case she wanted to cash in that favor she was now apparently owed.

This, too, she resolved to not think about. There was nothing a night creature could give her, after all.

Right up until she waited at the door in the morning and Dion didn't open it. Her worry grew and she fidgeted, exchanging a glance with Rudi, who was peering outside the windows anxiously.

"I don't see him," her oldest brother murmured, shifting restlessly in place. After another moment he decided, "I'll go get the key."

He left and returned just as swiftly and the moment she had the door unlocked, Annabelle rushed outside. "Dion?" she called out.

"Over here," the voice of one of the other hunters answered and she ran, Rudi right behind her. Skidding to a stop at the small alley three houses down, she sucked in a sharp gasp.

Dion was lying in a pool of blood, breathing shallowly and two hunters were kneeling grimly at his side, doing their best to staunch the bleeding. 

"Get a doctor, now," one of the hunters snapped out and Annabelle was moving again, running past a worried Mr. Bell, who poked his head out of the window, looking sleep-ruffled.

Everyone knew where the nearest doctor was and how long it took to get to their clinic. Thankfully, the doctors all got up early, knowing the first thing they usually did was stitch up an injured hunter.

Dr. Under was a seasoned, experienced woman with incredibly steady hands and a cool composure and she was the doctor everyone on the street and the next ones went to. With her guidance they got Dion into her clinic and then all they could do was wait. Annabelle stared down at the blood on her hands and sleeves from where she had held Dion's legs beneath the knees.

Rudi had left reluctantly, promising to tell Mr. Bell that she wouldn't be in and to inform the rest of their family. Soon they all sat in the waiting room, silent and scared. Annabelle had to bite down on the accusations that crawled over her tongue like brambles. Her parents looked horrified and guilty enough as it was.

"He'll make it," Dr. Under said the moment she stepped out of the treatment room. "He's going to be out of commission for a couple of weeks, however. I'd recommend letting him rest and recover for a couple of months even, but he could work again sooner."

Meaning she knew their family didn't have the money to pay a hunter to replace him. Before Dion had protected them, her uncle had, who had died a few weeks before her brother had taken over.

They wouldn't be entirely unprotected, the other hunters looked out for the surrounding buildings since not everyone had a protector. Five hunters, Dion included, regularly protected the entirety of their street.

But if they had to choose between protecting their own home or Annabelle's, the hunters would choose their own families or employees. It was risky, not paying for or having someone guard the house. 

Her parents did not have the funds to pay for help, they all knew it. They would have to risk having no one and then Dion would have to go out the moment he was well enough, instead of healing up fully.

As she found herself ushered outside, Dr. Under promising that Dion would remain safe here until he could go home, she stared at her cold hands, finger knotted into her bunched up shawl.

She returned home with her family, swallowing down anger and fear with nearly every step. She hated all of this. Hated that night creatures wanted them dead, hated that her brother had to suffer, hated that they were never, ever safe when it was dark.

She had heard that the countryside was less dangerous, that night creatures preferred to flock to cities. They liked the amount of humans that lived there. She had heard rumors that someone had angered night creatures so much once upon a time, that they still sought retribution to this day. 

She just wanted it all to be over.

As soon as she was back in her room, blood cleaned off, she pulled out the letter the little boy had sent her. She hesitated for a long moment, then she pulled out a piece of paper and dipped her quill into her inkpot.

It took her a few tries to get it right, crossing out words and staring out the window to the spot where the vampire usually sat shortly before it left again. She wrangled with her thoughts, her distrust and fear.

Night creatures were dangerous, everyone knew that. They held no love for humans and most of the time not even for each other. It was foolish to trust one, to put her hopes in one.

And yet, as the sun set, she left a folded piece of paper on her windowsill, weighed down with the same rock the night creature had used previously. It had still lain where it had gotten dropped a couple of days ago.

She stared at it for a long while, then she took a deep breath and kept the window open, the curtains pulled back. If she was going to do this, she had to look the vampire in the eye. If she gave a night creature the information that their house would be unguarded, ready for reaping, she had to try to spot any possible deception before it got them all killed.

She saw the vampire appear a few minutes after sundown and how it paused, obviously spotting her and her note. It tipped its head a bit to the side and it remained still for a long moment. Then it moved. 

It arrived far too fast, nearly making her flinch back, hanging upside down from her roof. Hands the size of her head braced themselves left and right of her window and Annabelle had to force herself to not look away.

She had made precautions of course in case the vampire tried to thrall her. Her room was locked and the key dropped behind her big, heavy dresser, which would make a racket if she tried to move it. The bars in front of the window held shavings of silver and even if the vampire hypnotized her, it wouldn't get to kill anyone but her.

If that was the grim price for foolishly hoping she could trust a night creature, she'd pay it. But the vampire didn't do anything. At last it shifted its weight and pulled the note free with its clawed fingertips, thumbing it open to read it.

"Can you do it?" Annabelle found herself whispering, voice cracking and throat dry.

The vampire pulled itself up out of view and she saw its shadow on the roof across from her window, the house not built as high. She saw it change, turning from hulking and winged to something that looked human, crouching above her. She saw long hair move in the strong night breeze.

"I accept," the voice of a woman answered. "Consider it done."

Her breath escaped her in a big exhale and she had to grip the windowsill, knees suddenly trembling. "Thank you." Her voice shook a little.

The vampire hummed, then it asked, "Why did you not tell your city guards about my godson when he visited you?"

Annabelle knew what her family would have done, what Mr. Bell would have done. What the entire city would have done. But she hadn't been able to and she didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing.

"He's just a kid," she found herself answering honestly, watching the vampire's shadow. "It didn't seem...fair. To hurt him just because he's not human. Or to rob him of his family."

Nothing about this was fair. Not little boys nearly getting their throats slit open or her brother, brave and bloody, lying on dirty cobblestone. After what she had seen the hunters do to the boy, she couldn't even say anymore that only the night creatures were cruel.

"I see. You're a brave one, you know," the vampire said. "I've yet to meet a human who dared to look me in the eye when they knew what I was, not even your hunters do it."

Annabelle pressed her lips together, then she lifted her chin. She was sick and tired of being scared. She was sick and tired of fearing for her life and begging a god who might or might not be listening for her brother's safety. If a monster could do the job instead, she'd gratefully accept the help.

"You're not all that scary," she made herself say with more confidence than she felt. "You actually look kind of fluffy as a bat." And very frightening.

The vampire laughed, sounding surprised and darkly amused. "I think I like you," she said, a grin audible in her voice. "Brave, smart and sweet, you are quite something, I believe." 

The shadow shifted and it looked as though the vampire had sat down on the roof and Annabelle had no idea what to say.

"Sleep," the vampire told her, voice gentler than before. "I will not let anything happen to you and yours."

Annabelle walked away from the window on slightly unsteady legs, leaving it open. She wanted to hear it, if something happened. Even if she knew, rationally, that she couldn't do anything, she still wanted to know if the vampire would abuse her trust.

She dropped onto her bed, watching the bit of the vampire's shadow she could still see. Slowly, her pounding heart calmed down and she slipped beneath the covers, watching her curtains shift gently in the breeze.

That breeze actually felt pretty nice, even if every stray sound made her jerk upright. She only realized the vampire had started to sing softly when her eyes fell closed, lulled to sleep by a monster's soft voice.

.*.*.*.

Part Two and Three are up.

#my writing #vampire #dark fantasy #kind of #tw injury to a minor #blood #and some gore #I hope I managed to write this well enough! #part 2 will hopefully be done this week #but early next week at the latest #i genuinely don't know how to tag like usual #so I'm just rambling away #anyways I've been in a vampire mood as of lately #and this story is one of the products of that #hope you'll like it! #I tried but for the life of me #these two did not want to get squished into a short story #they demanded more time and space #so here we are #they be lesbians Harold #or however that saying goes

[darklydeliciousdesires]

London Will Burn - Chapter Nine.

As promised, better a little late than never! :)

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight

Tag list - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed

Words - 3,290

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Minors DNI.

London docklands. It was a different view than he was used to, but in the last three months after finally gaining some capitol back after the quick sale of his former home, splitting the profits of the townhouse mansion between himself, Billy and his mother, it was all his. Out of the four million he’d received from the sale, he’d spent three on the Canary Wharf penthouse, the view absolutely stunning.  

It was the first time he would be living alone, Sean considering moving Billy in with him purely out of the need to keep an eye on him, his elder brother refusing on account of the fact that he felt that it was long overdue he find his own feet in the world, continuing with his sobriety and being able to support himself, neither answerable any longer to the iron fist of their father, or the duplicitous deviance of their mother. 

Sean had meant what he’d said. He did not want a relationship with Marian going forward, so quite simply, had not sought one. Her continued protests to attain the contrary had fallen on the deafest of ears. He’d moved on, gladly without her. 

“Hello, mister Sean!” The bright chirp of Dara, the girl who manned the orders at the fairly local Thai takeaway he had a fondness for made him smile. She recognised his number instantly now, since he called almost every night to order dinner. It was nice to be remembered, even so casually. “The usual for you, yes?” 

“Yes please, darling. A bag of spicy crackers as well.” 

“Oh, I love when you call me darling! You such charming man, mister Sean.” At least somebody thought so. “Thank you for order, can I take card details?” 

They were about the only place he could think of that did not set themselves up with outfits such as Just Eat or Uber Eats, nor could you order online. Dara’s grandfather apparently did not believe in the internet as a viable option for ordering, only beginning to accept card payments at a push from his granddaughters who assisted in running the family business. Well, he was ninety-two, rather happy to be set in his ways at that age, Sean didn’t doubt. 

Ending the call, he stripped off his suit, turning the corner lamp on in the lounge and heading to the laundry bag, his boxers, trousers and shirt going in, ready for the woman who did his washing and ironing for him to collect a day later once the end of the working week rolled around. Hanging up his jacket, he then strode to the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping in, ready to wash away the long, arduous day.  

Schmoozing with investors was always the task which befell Alex Dumani, the man who had once been like a brother to him. He enjoyed it, had the patience and poise for it. For Sean, while it was true that he possessed the kind of charm that meant he was entirely capable of such, he loathed having to kiss arse to those effectively paying his wages. Very, very generous wages, returning him to the life of opulence he’d always been accustomed to.  

Life at the top. The echo surrounding it was unmatched in its vastness. 

Before, he’d had his family around him, mum, dad, brother, his sister too whenever the bitterness between her and Marian had allowed, Ed and Alex, Shannon and Danny. In his rising from the ashes, he was a lone phoenix. Sporadic contact with his brother and sister, and no real friends to speak of either. Dressing in his pyjama bottoms and a t shirt, he did consider calling Billy, hand reaching for his phone. He then remembered that Thursdays were his narcotics anonymous meetings. 

His old life had been fractured beyond repair, the bonds and threads pulled apart with such savage vigour, it was impossible to stitch them back together again. Too much damage come undone, he could succinctly coin it. He had both everything and nothing. 

Once his food had arrived, he ate while watching a documentary on the Roman empire, washing it down with a few glasses of good red wine before heading to bed at 11pm. He was then up at six, in the gym by half past, out of there at seven thirty and in his office by 8am.  

He often thought it was by Catherine’s obvious desire to remind him of his place that she’d hired new office space for the Wallace Corporation right in the direct eyeline of his old business premises, the large tower housing the offices of Dumani Finance visible clearly from his much smaller location. Her desire to rub salt in his wounds showed no sign of abating. 

“Coffee, a green smoothie and they had these there, too. Blueberry and peanut butter protein slices. They’re really very nice,” Minnie spoke, entering his office after knocking. Nostalgia had prompted him to hunt down his father’s former secretary, the woman who had gone on to work as his own too after Finn’s death and bring her back into the fold. That and she was the most well organised person he knew.  

“Appreciated, Minnie. Thank you.” He took the items with a smile, watching as she pulled out the iPad she’d juggled under her arm. “How is my day shaping up?”  

Consulting his diary on the screen with a few swipes, she began. “You have a meeting with Helen Ford and Omar Mand at 11am, preliminary discussions with the consortium for the new apartment complex in Richmond at 1pm, 2pm you’re scheduled for a telephone meeting and after that, your day is free.”  

A free day from mid-afternoon, and absolutely nothing to do with it. Again.  

It was as he was leaving his second meeting, passing by the gates of Richmond Park that afternoon and seeing an abundance of dog walkers that an idea suddenly came to him, a way he might both cure his loneliness and take up a little more of his time. After his 2pm meeting was finished, he called his driver, his destination Battersea.  

“And you say you’ve kept dogs before, correct?” 

“Family dogs, yes. This will be the first of my own, though,” he spoke to the girl showing him through the kennels there at the dog's home, Sean not impressed by the main variety of either gargantuan, hairy dogs, or small, yappy types.  

“And how much time do you have to devote to its needs?” 

“Plenty. I can take it to work with me so it isn’t alone during the day, save when I am in meetings. Suffice to say, the girls in my office will give it all the attention it needs when I am not present.” More dogs not to his liking passed by, the girl keen to stop and show him some kind of crossbreed chasing his tail in a circle when Sean moved to the next kennel. 

There he was.  

Sitting there upon a knitted blanket looking pissed off, his tail began to thump as he heaved himself up and trotted over, his lopsided underbite meaning a few of his teeth stuck out from under his floppy jowls, only one lower canine poking out prominently. That face. He was both handsome and hysterical, with the sticky out teeth. 

“Hello, big lad,” he spoke, the dog sniffing his hand as his tail began to speed up. “Bored stiff, are you? I know the feeling.” 

“So, this is Butch. Two years old, British Bulldog crossed with a Staffie, very well behaved but with a bit of a stubborn streak. He tends to sometimes be a little impulsive or has moments where he’ll only do things on his own terms or not at all, so he needs further training.” 

Oh yes. Sean had found his dog. With a home check passed, a generous donation made to Battersea and a plethora of dog necessities bought, it was just over a week before Butch was sniffing around his new abode, finding a patch of dust and succumbing to the most hilarious multiple sneeze fit Sean had ever heard in his life.  

“Fluff up the nose, fella?” he asked, Butch grunting at he looked up at Sean in an accusatory way, seemingly pissed off to have been laughed at. That only entertained his new human even more. “Shall we fire the cleaning lady? Come here, you have bits stuck on your teeth.” 

Cleaning him up, he scratched the crinkles upon his head, Butch leaning into the fuss. He then ambled off, springing up onto the sofa, circling before lying down. 

“Butch, get down. You’re not allowed up there.” 

Grunt. 

“Oi, get down, you ignorant twat.” 

Grunt. 

“Get down.” 

Grunt.  

He had to physically take him by the brand-new collar and gently steer him in the direction of the floor, the dog sitting at his feet as Sean took his place, resting his chin upon his knee with, yes, another grunt.  

The no Butch on the sofa rule lasted all of three days. The no Butch on the bed rule five, Sean finding himself awoken every morning by the presence of a large head coming to rest upon his neck. And a grunt. Always a grunt. 5am was his new time to rise, taking Butch for his hour-long stroll before going to the gym, heading home to collect the dog and then taking him along to the office, where just as he’d predicted, he was always greeted warmly by the girls who worked there. 

Warmly greeted and spoilt rotten.  

“Where did you get that?” Sean asked, watching the dog come pottering in with a treat in his mouth, hanging from under his snaggle tooth. “Has Minnie been spoiling you again, hm?” The dog ambled to his bed, happily chewing away while Sean conducted his first meeting of the day, a Zoom call Catherine had told him he had to partake in between himself and a couple of associates, before he would be out to meet with Luan to concentrate on less above-board dealings.  

“So, Catherine still has you by the balls?” the very Albanian himself asked, once their business had been concluded, walking along a narrow stretch of dockside where the clandestine meet had taken place.  

Sean’s eyebrows fluttered momentarily, attempting to find a way to put a spin upon it that at least marginally saved face. “Somewhat.” 

Luan snorted. “Bullshit. That woman will not stop with her venom. I know women like her well, my friend. Once wronged, they are like vipers. They will bite on hard and not stop until every drop of poison has seeped out.”  

If there was a better analogy of the situation, he was yet to hear it. Sean couldn’t help but note the trace of obvious affection for their new overlord in his voice, though. Well, at least one of them found the execution of her retribution entertaining. “Kevin would be nothing but proud of her, that is for certain.” 

“This is true,” Luan mused, scratching his beard. “He was the king of giving people what they wanted, but only on his terms.”  

Oh, how she had inherited that well. While the two men walked back to their waiting cars, the topic of their discussion was strolling down the small, gravel topped pathway through Hanwell Cemetery, her destination the Cavanagh family crypt. Both her grandparents were in there, as well as a man she truly, and with such a raw, aching heart still, wished was not. 

“Hello, daddy.” Her hand smoothed over the stone that interred his body, thumb stroking the white marble lovingly there in the crypt, Rin sighing as tears prickled her eyes. Twenty-five was truly no age to lose a parent.  

Fuck cancer. 

It was surprising to her, though, that it had been the mutation of cells which had sounded the death knell for her titan of a father, rather than a bullet or some other nefarious means of dispatch. “I know you said no fucking flowers, but I love the fucking flowers, so shut up. Happy birthday.”  

She placed the single tiger lily down upon the cold marble, sniffing as she wiped her tears away with her other hand. They’d always been her favourite flower, Kevin often buying them for her on his way home, and roses for her mother. Diane was a sucker for a red rose, hence why Rin had a bunch of two dozen long stems in the car as a surprise. She knew his first birthday parted from them could be painful for her.  

Her own pain washed a tide of grief through her insides all over again, Rin closing her eyes for a moment, her usual fortitude zapped away by the memory of losing him. It was still so fresh, only three months on. She then snorted laughing suddenly, remembering something crude, inappropriate and utterly hilarious he’d said in his final days. 

“I’ve got to improve a little bit. I need to reach my sexy sixties, innit? Go and knob your mother one last time!” 

“Dad!!” 

She and her brother had nearly died. He was another whose presence she missed, Christopher up in Glasgow at university, wanting a life as far away from criminality as he could get himself. Her sisters, Georgie and Jess where also absent, both at boarding school, their parents thinking it best and safest in recent years, with how much of a turbulent battleground London had become, all things gang related. 

That battleground had finally come to cease, with her leading it all, just as her father had helped her facilitate all that he could in his last months of life. “You’re tough, you’re mentally sharp as a razor, and you ain’t scared of shit. You’ll rise and stay risen, my girl. You ain’t no Sean fucking Wallace, ain’t about to fuck it all up without your old man there watching over you, like he did. You’ve bloody been arms dealing to some of the most formidable criminal fractions on this planet. Trust me, you’re a force to be reckoned with.”  

While they shared their similarities, Rin was thankful that her father saw the clear distinction. Sean was not on her level. Not any longer. 

Kissing her fingertips, she gently touched the marble. “Love you so much, dad.” Quickly checking her reflection in her power compact, she returned it to her handbag after making sure her face wasn’t tear stained, walking back out to her Range rover, where Sokoro was waiting for her. Luckily, the rest of her afternoon was planned to do something much more enjoyable than having to visit a crypt, to pay her respects to a man who should still have been there with her. 

A short way across London, and Sean was up to his own enjoyable pursuit, taking Butch out for an afternoon at St James Park. It took forty minutes to drive there, but it was a large, open space the dog seemed to very much enjoy, so in Sean’s mind it was worth it. Plus, it was beautiful, a very relaxing surrounding to walk through. Certainly, it was much less noisy and metropolitan than Canary Wharf, too.  

“Butch, don’t eat that. No... for fuck’s sake.” If it smelled good, he ate it, and to Butch, a discarded piece of sausage roll from British pastry giant Greggs was definitely worth snaffling as quickly as possible. “Look at the state of you now.” He brushed the crumbs from his dog’s face, entertained as ever at the single snaggletooth that stuck out.  

“He’s so cute! Look at him and his tooth!” A young woman gushed upon approach, Butch immediately entering flirtatious mode, tail wagging, the rest of his body joining. “Aren’t you a lovely boy, eh? Look at you, awww!” 

Sean smiled thinly while she made a fuss of Butch, asking all the usual questions. Age, breed, melting when she discovered he was a rescue.  

“Oh! A rescue baby! What’s his story?” 

His... what? Oh. The reason he came to end up in Battersea. “He was found as an unchipped stray.” 

“Oh my goodness!” she squeaked in disbelief, lavishing a very content Butch with even more fuss. “I can’t believe someone let such a lovely dog go stray! He’s gorgeous, just like his dad.”  

It was still something he was getting used to, the fact that his cute dog meant he now found himself engaged in small talk, something he’d never been all too fond of. He was so uncomfortable with the notion, the fact the woman had subtly been flirting with him before departing sailed right over his head.  

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he moaned, shaking his head. “She meant me.” He closed his eyes; glad it was only his canine companion there to witness the shame of it warming his cheeks. “I’m losing my bloody touch.” Looking down at his dog, Sean smiled, watching him stare back intently, his soft ears flopped backwards. It was as if he understood every word. “Apparently, I’m your dad. I merely assumed to be your mate, if I’m honest.”  

Woof. 

“Oh, we’ve progressed from grunts to soft barks, have we?” 

Woof. 

“Shall we work on your recall? Would you like to retrieve this if I throw it?” 

No barks followed him reaching into his pocket for a tennis ball, the dog instead pinging in a series of excited leaps. “No running off to hump bitches either. If I’m not getting any currently, then neither are you.” 

He could improve upon that quite easily; he knew he could. For a start, he could take up the offer of going for after work drinks with some of the men who worked for him, rather than remaining aloof and sequestering himself within his office until late. That would mean being social with people he didn’t especially like, though.  

Unclipping the lead from his harness, Sean watched Butch spring into action after hurling the ball across the grass, still contemplating his lack of human interaction. He knew in order to cure it, he had to be a little less standoffish and open himself up to the idea of building something of a meaningful life for himself. He would never be the suburban nine to five type, but there had to be some kind of happy medium for a man who walked the fine tightrope between businessman and gangster.  

Building was what he did for a living; rebuilding his life surely couldn’t be that unattainable. 

“Butch, come here!” he called, his dog becoming preoccupied by the presence of a pigeon. For once, rather than attempting to decimate the feathered critter, he listened, grabbing his ball and hurtling back across the grass, dropping into the outstretched hand awaiting him. “Good lad.”  

While walking the path, his eye was caught by the back of a familiar head, Rin sitting upon a bench across the other side of the park with her mother, both deep in conversation. He considered approaching them, but knew his attempt to be cordial likely wouldn’t be received well by either woman, loathed by Diane and her daughter alike.  

It was as Butch was running back again that he saw Rin stand, waving cheerily at a young child of around six years old who ran to her, the giant Sokoro walking along behind her, carrying a cardboard tray of hot drinks purchased from the nearby vendor.  

His feet firmly rooted to the spot as he watched her pick up the little girl, smoothing her silky, strawberry blonde hair and placing a loving kiss to her head. Grasping on around her mother’s neck, her gaze found his, and they were his own eyes looking back at him. 

In a heartbeat, a mere moment, his entire life had spun upside down. 

#sean wallace fanfiction #gangs of london fanfiction #sean wallace smut #sean wallace x ofc #sean wallace fanfic #sean wallace fic #gangs of london #gangs of london fanfic #gangs of london fic #joe cole #sean wallace #london will burn #sean and rin

[lullaebies]

Hi I don't know if this has been done yet as one of your helaegon prompts but I was wondering how you'd feel about writing one about the aftermath of the coronation but Jahaerys, Jaehaera and Maelor escape their nursemaid to see the iron throne and their parents are in the throne room. You can do whatever you want with it I just think we need more helaegon and kids fics and especially more Maelor (who I love how you write).

When I first saw this prompt I thought - wow that's adorable! and then I thought about the scenario and it actually ended up really really loaded. So this ended up more angsty - but everyone in the family went through A LOT that day, so what can we do 😭 Hope you'll enjoy this regardless!

-

It looms, that throne of iron, fire, and blood.

The coronation is over, and so is the exhilaration of a crowd crying out their name. The throne room is devoid of people aside from him and Helaena. Aemond has left for Storm’s End, and Mother has gone with the maids to clear out her chambers so they could take their place in Maegor’s Holdfast.

 “These are the chambers of the reigning king and queen,” she told them. “I’m no longer fit to occupy them.”

And we do? The crown is on his head, heavy as stone. Too much so, almost, but perhaps that was because of the remaining shake of his bones from the encounter with that dragon earlier.

“There was a beast beneath the boards,” Helaena says again. “I told you.”

She doesn’t seem nearly as shaken. Because she knew, perhaps, he thinks to himself, but her hands hold each other together tightly regardless. She is wearing Mother’s crown now, and it is as if she has a crick in her neck, making her cast her eyes down.

“You knew,” he says with a hollowness in his voice. “I didn’t know a coronation will be held until I’ve been dragged to the keep,” he tells her. “King, and I have never known a thing for it.” He carries the conqueror’s name, the conqueror’s sword, and the conqueror’s crown, but he’s no conqueror. War will come soon, for all to know this true; his knees are weak, only thinking of it.

Helaena finally looks at him, but only in uncertainty. And why would she? The crowd that cheered for him is all dead.

“Father?” A high-pitched voice calls. Both he and Helaena quickly turn back to look at the entrance. Jaehaerys looks tentatively at them; behind him stand Jaehaera and Maelor, each holding one of his hands.

Helaena is the one that steps forward first. “Why are you alone? Where’s your nursemaid?”

“She kept telling us to stay in the rooms and didn’t tell us why,” Jaehaerys says. Jaehaera comes forward, against her mother’s dress.

“Maely couldn’t sleep.” She says. Maelor is hidden behind Jaehaerys as if his older brother is a shield; his face is only slightly peeking from Jaehaerys’s side. His one shown eye is glassy, twinkling for incoming tears. Maelor has never been afraid to sob; he cried the loudest of their children, so much so that even Aegon couldn’t help but try to stop him from tantrums.

“Did the beast get grandpa?” He asks shakily, so fearful. He wondered why his children were not afraid to look at their grandfather when he was all but a living corpse. But how could they choose not to? He was the king; he was their grandfather.

Helaena’s face whitens, as it does when the children take her blurts to their heart. She does not cry in front of him often, but he vividly remembers her sobbing when she scared them before like this. She lowers herself, holding Jaehaera as she speaks to them three. “Your grandsire found his rest during the night, my love,” she says. “He didn’t meet any beast.”

“Is it coming here?” Maelor asks again, curling into Jaehaerys further. Jaehaerys turns to him and holds his cheeks with his hands.

“It won’t,” he tells him. “I’ll kick it.”

Aegon feels hollow as a whole, now. His own son of seven declares himself his brother’s protector, courageous and brave. Why did he take up this mantle? He’s just a child. He shouldn’t have. Aegon shouldn’t have let him. And Aegon…

Bears the conqueror’s name, bears the conqueror’s crown, and bears the conqueror’s sword. Despite his flaws, is king; despite it all, their father.

He unsheathes Blackfyre, the sword sliding out in a metallic buzz to catch the attention of the room. “The beast left,” he finally says when their eyes are on him. “And if it comes back, I’ll slay it,” he says, trying to not let his voice waver. “Your grandsire left me this sword not for nothing.”

His children, and Helaena, stare at him. His Father left him nothing, that much he knows, but he will lie until what he speaks, too, becomes the truth. And despite his misgivings, despite everything, Maelor runs to his leg and holds it. His children gather around him.

Perhaps a crown is all convincing. The way Helaena looks at him, it seems they all only want to cling to hope. But this is a crowd he cannot let die. That is the one thing he does know.

#helaegon #helaena targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #jaehaera targaryen #prince jaehaerys targaryen #jaehaerys targaryen #maelor targaryen #hotd #my fics #requests #answered

[duckiemimi]

we don’t see very many sorcerers who don’t come from sorcerer families, but some exceptions are yuji, yuta, and geto—all highlighted characters in the story who weren’t born into jujutsu society.

(slight disclaimer: while you can argue that both yuji’s birth circumstances and yuta’s familial ties with the gojo clan were invisible strings that in the end tied them to the jujutsu world, geto is the only character out of the three who was explicitly mentioned to come from a non-sorcerer family and background, only having his cursed technique, but i digress.)

this shared quality shows; all three characters value community (their fellow sorcerers, their friends, their “family”) but they position themselves outside of their circles, centering their lives around the people they care for. they all have a strong sense of responsibility towards others that often isolates them, sometimes to the point of self-sacrifice.

how this manifests in each of them:

1.) yuji and every single thing he’s done up to now;

2.) yuta and his promise to rika in exchange for her strength;

3.) geto’s teenage ideals and the way he took on a new ideal that still centered around other sorcerers.

guilt, love, spite—all three simultaneously selfless and selfish.

i’m guessing this commonality has a lot to do with how their respective introductions to jujutsu felt like a second chance in life; enrolling into jujutsu high gave them a purpose.

for yuji, it gave him something to work towards after the death of his grandfather. for yuta, it gave him newfound hope in life. and for geto, we know of his sense of purpose as a student—“the strong protect the weak.”

(all three of their introductions having something to do with gojo, too; ironic, considering he’s also felt “alone” throughout his life.)

all four also need therapy; by god, you are allowed to live for yourselves goddammit!! you don’t need a grand purpose or to be a cog to be worthy to exist!! you’re allowed to just be!!

although that might be too late for geto.)

yuji and yuta are the protagonists in their own respective stories and we got to follow their journeys from before they came into contact with jujutsu, but geto was introduced to us as a student in tokyo jujutsu high. we don’t know what he was like before his enrollment.

i imagine having growing up in a non-sorcerer family and in a non-jujutsu environment had to have taken a toll on a young geto; at one point, he probably realized there was no use pointing out the “monsters” he saw to anyone because nobody else could see them. perhaps his sense of purpose started from there, this burden of being the only one to see what others can’t.

this childhood burden regarding non-sorcerers, along with his downward spiral in relation to non-sorcerers later on, probably accumulated into a lot of frustration and resentment, anger and helplessness, which sent him to defect from jujutsu high with a new path, no matter how unachievable the destination.

to enroll in a school with people who were just like him must’ve felt like a breath of relief. but he’s a stranger to this society, an outsider—unlike his friends. i imagine he tried his hardest to fit in and belong as a student, going so far as to become gojo’s moral compass, a guiding light for someone who was born the pinnacle of jujutsu. maintain, maintain, maintain. before and after his defection, he’s always had to constantly remind himself of what he was working towards—“the strong protect the weak” and “kill all non-sorcerers”—as if he himself wasn’t entirely convinced of what he was saying.

this desire to make sense of his place in the world was ultimately what landed him on the opposite side of the spectrum—the jujutsu society doesn’t care for people like him, but it does take advantage of people like him (like yuji, like yuta).

aside from these three, there are other characters who come from non-sorcerer families/backgrounds, like nanami! he isn’t highlighted as much in that aspect, though. i wish we saw more of his high school experience, more of his thought process, but i can imagine being mixed in japan and being able to see curses was very isolating, so the school could’ve also been a safe haven for him at one point, especially considering how well he and haibara got along.

i think the main difference between him and the three i mentioned—and especially between him and geto—was that his life wasn’t contingent on the well-being of other people, there was no stated greater purpose that we knew of. alone after haibara’s death, his upperclassmen too busy, he left the school after graduating. that’s the difference, i think—his general self-preservation.

it’s probably why he was such a great mentor for yuji, too; the both of them have non-jujutsu backgrounds, but while yuji is so reckless with his life, nanami was more careful with his (he’s had first-hand experience with how detached and machine-like jujutsu society can be, how disposable yet indispensable sorcerers are in its jaws). yes, their general circumstances were different, but i’m sure nanami knew how yuji was feeling, being young and clueless, lost.

(though it does make me wonder about his family and how they treated him! i wish we knew more of his background!)

#jjk #geto suguru #itadori yuji #okkotsu yuta #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen #geto #yuji #yuta #gojo #should i put a —more—? is this too long?

[catofadifferentcolor]

Terrible Fic Idea #31: A Maiden Dark and Fair, but make it f!Jon Snow/Jon Arryn

Perhaps I've just not searched the darkest depths of AO3, but I've seen relatively few fics where it's The Vale that's key to Jon Snow gaining the Iron Throne. There are tons where he relies upon the might of The North, more than a few that join or replace it with The Westerlands or The Reach or even The Crownlands, but almost none where the primary stepping stone to the throne is the might of The Vale.

And because I have a slight obsession with female Jon Snow fics, my mind immediately went to what if Jon Arryn, in need of an heir, married f!Jon Snow?

Just imagine it:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an unmarried lord of a Great House, must be in want of a wife - and Jon Arryn is facing the end of his house if he doesn't produce an heir.

But now he's outlived three wives. Marrying a girl as young as Lysa was a mistake, but even he couldn't see his third wife throwing herself and her only living child out of the Moon Door after she was discovered to be cuckolding him with Peter Baelish.

And so, thrice widowed and eight decades old, Jon Arryn must marry and produce an heir before he dies lest The Vale tear itself apart over succession.

Shortly after Jon Arryn comes to this decision, he receives a letter from his foster son, Ned Stark, sharing all the usual information and expressing deep concern for his bastard daughter, Serena Snow, whom he fears his wife will force to marry the first man who asks for her hand just to get her out of Winterfell.

Jon Arryn, seeing a solution present itself, asks to marry Serena himself.

It is, perhaps, a stupid decision for the Hand of the King and Defender of the Vale to wed his foster son's bastard daughter. Except: 1) There are very few potential brides from the Vale he can chose without offending a significant faction of his bannermen, and those that remain are still objectionable for one reason or another; 2) Lingering resentment from the Rebellion means that no lord from Dorne, The Westerlands, or The Reach would offer their daughter to Jon Arryn, even if he's the Hand of the King; and 3) Of the remaining kingdoms, Ned Stark's bastard might very well be the best choice if he wants a wife from a large family of some standing with a decent head on her shoulders.

Plus, Jon Arryn genuinely feels guilty that he wasn't able to do more to prevent the Rebellion. He feels that it's partially his fault that Ned wasn't able to wed Ashara Dayne, Serena's presumed mother, and thus his fault the girl is a bastard to begin with.

The result is the same: Serena Snow becomes the fourth Lady Arryn of the Eyrie.

It is a remarkably successful marriage, given that Jon Arryn would be of age with Serena's great-grandfather had he lived. Other than the requisite attempts for heirs, they live more like uncle and niece than husband and wife. This is in part helped by Jon Arryn's role as Hand, which keeps him in King's Landing most the year, while Serena stays in the Eyrie managing the Vale in his stead.

Before his death, they have three girls: twins, Emma and Elys, and little Elena, who was no more than twenty-four hours old before a raven arrived from King's Landing saying her father was found dead in his bed.

And so as we come upon the events of canon, Serena Arryn, 18, is now a widow of a Great House and regent to her two-year-old daughter, Lady Emma Arryn.

In her time as Lady of the Vale, Serena has made herself beloved by the banners and commons alike by the simple act of being present. There hasn't been a Lady Arryn in The Vale for any significant amount of time in decades. Add to that Serena has a good head on her shoulders and support from The North and The Riverlands through her family ties and, well, she's much more secure in her position than Lysa was in canon.

As for what follows, I see the real meat of the story taking place after Serena is widowed - in fact, I see the message that her husband is dead being the opening scene of this theoretical fic. Rather than exploring the dynamics of a May-December relationship, it's about being a young mother and widow - about being a young woman in a more-or-less secure position of power, growing into that power, and coming of age despite being a mother thrice over already.

There's politics in the background, of course, with Ned unfortunately losing his head in King's Landing - but here Serena throws the weight of The Vale behind Robb early on and is on scene to provide much needed, peer-to-peer advice. This keeps the Red Wedding from happening, either by forcing Robb to keep his betrothal or keeping Catelyn from making it in the first place.

Additionally, the strength of The Vale makes The Reach decide throw their lot in with Robb rather than Joffrey after Renly is killed. As part of this, Serena agrees to marry Garlan Tyrell.

The combined forces of The North, The Riverlands, The Vale, The Reach - and those parts of the Stormlands that didn't go over to Stannis after Renly's death - defeat Joffrey.

Stannis holes up inside Dragonstone, in largely the same position Queen Rhaella was tactically shortly before her death. The island is eventually stormed and he choses to burn rather than be captured.

Shireen, the only legitimate Baratheon left alive, is made Lady of Storm's End. Robb, never raised to kingship, goes back to Winterfell. Jaime, never released from captivity, is sent to the Wall. Tyrion gets Casterly Rock - and marries Sansa Stark, which to everyone's surprise is one of the most successful marriages of the age.

And the Iron Throne? The next male-line claimant is Doran Martell, through his distant grandmother Daenerys, daughter of Aegon IV. Few would accept that, especially if he refuses to leave Dorne and abdicates in favor of his brother Oberyn. Robb could claim it by force, but he has no desire to rule and not even his allied Great Houses would accept that.

Except, while all of this has been going on, Serena has quietly learned the truth of her heritage - and the secret has slowly made itself known despite her best efforts otherwise. (I'm inclined to say she becomes the Mother of Dragons, finding a cache of dragon eggs either in the Eyrie from Daella Targaryen's time or in the crypts of Winterfell.)

Plus, Serena has distinguished herself as Lady and Regent of The Vale. During the war, all of Robb's allies saw how she was his most trusted advisor - and how it was she who brought The Reach into the fold, and negotiated peace with Tyrion. And The Reach has always wanted their blood on the throne.

And so Serena becomes Queen of The Seven Kingdoms as Visenya Targaryen I. Her eldest daughter, Emma, remains ruling Lady Paramount of the Vale. Her children with Garlan Tyrell take the Targaryen name, with the eldest named heir to the Iron Throne.

Bonuses include: 1) Catelyn and Serena fighting like cats and dogs at all opportunities, for all the expected reasons. This reaches peak drama around the time Catelyn tries to release Jaime Lannister as in canon, only for Serena to prevent it. They eventually reach an accord, dealer's choice how grudging it is. 2) So much family bonding. As Robb's alliance is basically held together through his mother and sister's marriages, it is family drama to the utmost degree. To which end, Robb is a doting uncle and Garlan a beloved stepfather to Serena's daughters. 3) Realistic travel times, depictions of the difficulties of medieval travel, and the breathless liberation of flying on dragon back and overcoming it all.

And that is... surprisingly more than I thought I had. As always, feel free to adopt this bun, just link back if you do anything with it.

Other Jon Snow Headcanons: Aegon the Unyielding | Aemon the Adventurous | Baelor the Brave | Lady Arryn | Lady Baratheon | Lady Lannister | Lady Stark | Prince Consort | Prince of Summerhall | Queen Mother

More Terrible Fic Ideas

#plot bunny #fic ideas #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #got #asoiaf #female jon snow #jon arryn #jon snow is a targaryen

[sylsoddsandends]

amphibia wc au?? 👀 👀

Yeah yeah! Lemme grab the info...

Here we go, under the cut!

We begin with three curious kittypets; Lotus, Gladys, and Printer Mishap; who wander into the woods together but get separated fleeing a fox.

Lotus winds up in marshy Frogclan, where two young cats, Sprigpaw and Screechkit, take to her. Their grandfather, elder Hopfoot, promises the leader Mushroomstar that he will keep an eye on her, and she joins the clan as Lotuspaw.

Some sketches of Lotuspaw, Sprigpaw, and Screechkit (who was originally a tabby but got turned into a tortie).

Lotuspaw is Large, strong, and unusually fluffy (causing detritus to constantly become stuck in her fur). She's also the only one who keeps her collar the whole time.

—

Gladys winds up in the rocky, hilly territory of Toadclan, where leader Houndstar rules with an iron paw. She sweet-talks her way into avoiding getting kicked out, and is renamed Heronpaw. She takes to the warrior lifestyle very quickly, and after she manages to kill a fox and send its mate running, she gets her warrior name: Heronfang.

Heronfang and Houndstar feature here. Heronfang is the smallest of the three ex-kittypets, because I think it's funny. However, she puts her stature to good use: she's very nimble and can quickly find her way to your weak spots.

—

Houndstar attempts to take Frogclan territory, and Lotuspaw and Heronfang clash. Lotuspaw manages to get a deep scratch on Heronfang's cheek, and creative strategies from the Frogclan warriors win them the fight. Lotuspaw earned her warrior name- Lotusheart- for her bravery in the battle.

—

Printer Mishap fell down a cliff of rocks directly to the beach where Newtclan makes its home. The leader Vaststar took a vested interest in her knowledge of Twoleg objects, and personally took her on as his apprentice, renaming her Cocoonpaw, and soon after Cocoonsight.

Eventually she met up with Lotusheart and family, who had convinced Mushroomstar to let them search for her, and together they went in pursuit of Heronfang (who fled with Houndstar, now Houndstomp, after the shameful loss to Frogclan).

Unfortunately the reunion of the friends was short-lived, for Vaststar revealed his allegiance to the Dark Forest- the time was right for the malevolent spirits to come down and give him such power he drove his whole paw through Cocoonsight.

Cocoonsight is a tuxedo cat, a little bigger than Heronfang. She has short, well-groomed fur- when she hasn’t just walked straight into some mess.

—

Starclan sent down its power to allow Lotusheart to fight Vaststar, allowing the others to flee. Unfortunately she could only fight for so long, and used the last vestiges of the power running to catch up with her new family and lead them to her old home.

Lotusheart, Sprigpaw, Screechkit, and Hopfoot took shelter in Lotusheart's old home, resting and recovering from the ordeal. Hopfoot did Sprigpaw's warrior ceremony and Screechkit's apprentice ceremony, and the two became Sprigleap and Screechpaw.

Heronfang stepped up as the remnants of the clans banded together, becoming Heronstar.

Lotusheart and co returned to discover something terrible; at the moment Cocoonsight was struck, the Dark Forest collectively possessed her, preventing her body from dying and trapping her spirit so it couldn't get to Starclan.

After this I don't really have much plot figured out; I'm trying to stick close to the canon plotline though, feel free to suggest your ideas!

Hope you enjoyed :)

#second times the charm (i hope) #syl speaks #syl's asks #amphibia au #amphibia #warrior cats #oh and #gore #gore tw

[atopvisenyashill]

i have decided to break down all the wild potential female line claimants to the iron throne thru the targaryen line because why not let’s go:

obviously there's our "modern" targaryen daughters: daenerys, rhaella, shaera, and rhaelle. that one is easy to explain in part because it's mostly incest, lol. it goes like so (mind you, i'm cutting out male siblings that don't inherit for now) -

Aegon V + Betha Blackwood -> Jaehaerys II, Shaera, Rhaelle (also Duncan & Daeron)

Jaehaerys II + Shaera -> Aerys + Rhaella -> Daenerys

Rhaelle + Ormund Baratheon -> Steffon Baratheon. Steffon + Cassandra Eastermont = Robert, Stannis, and Renly.

so rhaella & shaera's lines are the same as their brothers, and rhaelle is the grandmother of the baratheon kings, which means like the targaryen main line, all of their lines will be dead or illegitimate as well (rip myrcella, tommen, shireen, aegon vi, and daenerys tho).

that leads you up from aegon v to maekar’s daughters, and since we are at a time period where no main character was alive, i made a little graphic to explain easier. let's start with daeron ii (since he's maekar's father anyway) and work backwards:

there’s several ladies in this grouping: rhae, daella, aelora, daenora, and vaella. we know ‘recently’ a targaryen married the evenstar, and timeline wise, it can only be Rhae or Daella, likely to selwyn’s grandfather. which means claimant number one is selwyn & brienne as king & princess of dragonstone claimant. hell yeah.

there’s two “dead end” branches next. maekar has a granddaughter, vaella, but given she’s described as “simple” it’s likely she never married. daeron & myriah, meanwhile, had no daughters but their son rhaegel had two, aelora and daenora. aelora married her brother aelor but aelora killed herself several years after aelor died (it’s a wild story but not relevant). no children. daenora married into maekar’s line tho, to aerion brightflame and had a son, maegor targaryen, who was passed over for aegon v. we do not know if he married or had kids bc it’s not listed and it’s not like there’s a cadet targaryen house anywhere so if he did marry, probably all daughters.

even further back is aegon the unworthy who had one daughter: daenerys. yes that’s right, our second claimant for king and princess of dragonstone is doran and arianne martell (and then, haha, elia and aegon vi AGAIN, love nobility family trees). and then technically, because the martells are normal and don’t die off every two generations, probably a few offshoot martell cousins. and a reminder that minus mysterious maegor, we have no living male line descendants potentially hanging around either. but back to the targ line.

viserys ii had naerys who married aegon iv so their line is the same. aegon iii, his brother, had three daughters.

daena has daemon blackfyre and given that he was legitimized, you could make the argument that the blackfyres have a claim lmao, so any female line daemon kids could be fair game. then you have elaena targaryen who had several legitimate children: viserys plumm, & robin, laena, jocelyn, and joy penrose. that’s right my esteemed readers our third claimant for king and prince of dragonstone is phillip & dennis plumm!

*loud boos bc they’re not even a great house or a house that used to be kings, they’re just some random nobles in the westerlands* shut up i’m not finished!!

through elaena, the only targ pulling her weight out here to populate the family tree, we have our fourth claimant as well: Old Penrose of the Parchments for King on the Iron Throne!

there’s no reason laena, jocelyn, and joy did not marry but we have no info on them so just know if they married some random landed knight, we also have some random dude walking around the stormlands who could be the next king of westeros.

then we get JAEHAERYS but to keep with ignoring men in this post, i entitled it “alyssa’s line.”

baby visenya, who was a stillbirth & jaehaera, who died before having children, are the two “dead end” lines from the dance. before them is viserys, who had helaena but helaena’s heirs are aegon ii’s heirs.

now, jaehaerys had daenerys, alyssa, saera, viserra, daella, and gael. daenerys died before having children as did viserra. gael & saera had no legitimate children. that leaves alyssa and daella. daella had aemma arryn, who married back into the targ family tree to have rhaenyra. alyssa also married back into the family tree and had three sons, viserys, daemon, and aegon. aegon died as a baby, we know viserys, but daemon had two daughters with laena velaryon: baela and rhaena. laena herself is also a distant claimant through the female line - aemon, jaehaerys’ first born son, and jocelyn baratheon had rhaenys, the queen that never was, who had laena. through baela we get our fifth claimant for king of westeros, the literal toddler montereys velaryon! rhaena is kinda tricky - she had no children in her first marriage, and six daughters in her second to garmund hightower but he was the third son and his oldest brother had six kids so it’s not likely the hightower line descends from rhaena however it would be really funny if it did so for the sake of making myself laugh i give you our sixth claimant to the seat of house targaryen, king leyton hightower and prince of dragonstone baelor breakwind. this puts a lot of people in the running tbh, bc leyton has a million kids. his daughters marry and have kids with an ambrose, a tyrell, a cupps, and a redwyne (and a mormont but jorah and lynesse have no children).

(it would require all the hightower male heirs to die [not likely, there’s three of them] AND mad maid malora as well to get to alerie but king and queen mace and alerie tyrell with willas as prince of dragonstone is so fucking funny to me. hey daeron how olenna’s ass taste now.)

before jaehaerys, we have aenys, who had rhaena the boss bitch & alysanne. alysanne’s line is jaehaerys’ obviously, and rhaena married her brother aegon the uncrowned. they had two girls, aerea and rhaella, but neither lived to see adulthood. maegor never had living kids, which brings us back to aegon, who had only sons, and visenya and rhaenys, who married their brother.

i actually had a point to this which is that there is just no one sitting on that fucking chair at the ending because there is no one left alive to sit on it that the lords would choose. they’re not crowning a penrose or a plumm and they’re certainly not crowning my girls arianne and brienne however hilarious i think that would be. i think “westeros breaks up along weird new borders” makes sense just due to that alone - the north will push for independence (maybe parts of the riverlands will want to stick with the north), dorne isn’t likely to be thrilled about some random ass king, the iron islands is…the iron islands, so the only kingdoms that might actually want to stick together are the stormlands, the reach, the crownlands, the vale, and the westerlands, but also, all of these bitches hate each other right now & a lot of them are gonna bite it so who knows.

anyways tldr female line targaryen claimants include these wild choices for King & Heir:

Selwyn and Brienne of Tarth

Doran and Arianne Nymeros Martell of Dorne

Any female line Blackfyres

Phillip and Dennis Plumm of the Westerlands (so minor we don’t even know where their seat is lmao)

Old Penrose of the Parchments

Montereys Velaryon of Driftmark

Leyton and Baelor Hightower of Oldtown

Through Leyton, who has a whopping 10 children, we have House Ambrose, Cupps, Redwyne, and of course, the fat flower himself, House Tyrell as claimants eight thru like, fifty.

#house targaryen #valyrianscrolls #elaena targaryen #rhae targaryen #daella arryn #daenerys targaryen martell #daenerys martell #rhaena targaryen #baela targaryen #i had so much fun doing this it was so funny aksjdjd #getting on my soap box #secret targaryen theories #rhaelle baratheon #rhaelle targaryen

[quitealotofsodapop]

@dorothygale123; The Demon Bull King turning out to be the decendant of the Flame Emperor/Divine Peasant (more commonly known as "Divine Farmer") actually gives his side of the story some extra spicyness! It also gives the Jade Emperor + Queen Mother greater reason to have not wanted Iron Fan and DBK to get hitched - thats some "about to be overthrown"-level of political clout. It also gives DBK a really cool motivation to rebel against Heaven + rule over earth: in his mind, his ancestor deserved to be Emperor over mankind and heaven for the good he did.

Shennong/Divine Peasant appears in a collection of mythos regarding the ancient age of "Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors". Each being is different depending on who you ask, but Shennong is always one of the Sovereigns, alongside Nuwa, Fuxi, and rarely Gonggong (god of water). The Five Emperors include the Yellow Emperor and his more noteworthy decendants. Shennong is either depicted as the Yellow Emperor's brother, or his father (again sources issue), but I prefer to go with the "waring brothers" angle since it makes it a juicy conflict. Apparently around this era there was co-ruling Five August Emperors nicknamed; the Yellow, Black, White, Red, and Blue-Green Emperors. Jade Emperor's rule occurs a bit later since he was busy doing 327 millions years of meditation before the Big God Yuanshi Tianzun declared him God-Emperor over the others.

Shennong/Divine Peasant is said to have failed to overthrow his brother, but was still beloved by his people (aww). And he pretty much spent the rest of his life dedicated to helping humanity understand fire, edible vs medicinal plants, and agriculture. For the guy who taught humanity farming to be a bull-man is oddly poetic in a way. Also major chad move of him; fails to overthrow the big Emperor (like his decendant), and instead of whining gets to experimenting on himself with wild plants so he can take care of his people better. He is said to have died via a flower-eating experiment gone wrong though.

I actually tracked down your source so I could read it for myself, cus Nuwa's parentage changes quite a bit depending on the sources; some say thunder god dad, some say Emperor dad, others say she was a primoridal parasite on Pangu's body etc... From the book you have, it appears that Shennong/Divine Peasant named his youngest daughter after Nuwa the goddess. The same character also dies as a child and transforms into the Jingwei bird, making it rather difficult for this Nuwa to be the same one who created humanity.

It should also be mentioned that "Yan/Yangdi/Flame/Firey Emperor" applied to multiple kinsman deities who held power at the same time who weren't related genetically. Houtu (another suspect of creating SWK) is even mentioned as a "Yan Emperor". The idea of the Divine Peasant and The Earth itself (themselves ancestors/creators of DBK and SWK) being sworn bros seems very cool af.

In short: DBK and SWK aren't related, but their ancestors/creators def knew eachother and were buddies - so much so that Shennong named one of his kids after Nuwa. Also this means DBK holds a threateningly large claim to the Celestial Throne if he ever argued for it.

I feel like if Shennong ever appeared in the LMK universe (like via the Scroll of Memory or another artifact), he'd look like a massive auroch-like minotaur/bull demon holding farming equipment. Red Son probably meets him on accident while trapped in the Scroll, and it takes Red until afterwards to realise that the "peasant bull" was his many-great-grandfather.

Also, here's my silliest reaction to learning that Shennong/Flame Emperor/The Divine Peasant is a literal cow-man;

#lego monkie kid #lmk #lmk theories #lmk demon bull king #lmk dbk #chinese mythology #shennong #divine farmer

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Daenerys IX (Chapter 52)

Where is Vicky? I've waited long enough.

Jhiqui brought a soft towel to pat her dry. "Khaleesi, which tokar will you want today?" asked Irri.

"The yellow silk." The queen of the rabbits could not be seen without her floppy ears. The yellow silk was light and cool, and it would be blistering down in the pit. The red sands will burn the soles of those about to die. "And over it, the long red veils." The veils would keep the wind from blowing sand into her mouth. And the red will hide any blood spatters.

You have no idea.

+.+.+

At the base of the Great Pyramid, Ser Barristan awaited them beside an ornate open palanquin, surrounded by Brazen Beasts. Ser Grandfather, Dany thought. Despite his age, he looked tall and handsome in the armor that she'd given him. "I would be happier if you had Unsullied guards about you today, Your Grace," the old knight said, as Hizdahr went to greet his cousin. "Half of these Brazen Beasts are untried freedmen." And the other half are Meereenese of doubtful loyalty, he left unsaid. Selmy mistrusted all the Meereenese, even shavepates.

It's LOCUSTS TIME!

Who poisoned the locusts? I apologize, we'll need Barry's POV to help solve this mystery. Today we'll only be covering the three major suspects.

Starting with SUSPECT #1: the Brazen Beasts (the Shavepate).

Within the first few paragraphs of the chapter we learn 1) the Brazen Beasts are guarding Daenerys instead of the Unsullied, 2) Some have doubtful loyalty.

We're off to a good start.

Ser Grandfather, Dany thought.

I would do anything for her to slip and say this out loud.

+.+.+

"A mask can hide many things, Your Grace. Is the man behind the owl mask the same owl who guarded you yesterday and the day before? How can we know?"

"How should Meereen ever come to trust the Brazen Beasts if I do not? There are good brave men beneath those masks. I put my life into their hands." 

3) They're unidentifiable.

The Shavepate was absent as well. The first thing Hizdahr had done upon being crowned was to remove him from command of the Brazen Beasts, replacing him with his own cousin, the plump and pasty Marghaz zo Loraq. It is for the best. The Green Grace says there is blood between Loraq and Kandaq, and the Shavepate never made a secret of his disdain for my lord husband. And Daario … - Daenerys VIII, ADWD

x

If I wed Hizdahr, will that turn Skahaz against me? She trusted Skahaz more than she trusted Hizdahr, but the Shavepate would be a disaster as a king. He was too quick to anger, too slow to forgive. - Daenerys IV, ADWD

We don't know if the Shavepate is lurking under one of these masks.

I put my life into their hands.

Oop.

+.+.+

Dany smiled for him. "You fret too much, ser. I will have you beside me, what other protection do I need?"

Please oh please let him be there when she's murdered. I don't ask for much.

"Barristan the Bold, they call him. Twice he has saved me from assassins." - Daenerys III, ADWD

Three!!

+.+.+

"Your Grace. We set the woman Meris free, as you commanded. Before she went, she asked to speak with you. I met with her instead. She claims this Tattered Prince meant to bring the Windblown over to your cause from the beginning. That he sent her here to treat with you secretly, but the Dornishmen unmasked them and betrayed them before she could make her own approach."

Treachery on treachery, the queen thought wearily. Is there no end to it? "How much of this do you believe, ser?"

"Little and less, Your Grace, but those were her words."

"Will they come over to us, if need be?"

"She says they will. But for a price."

"Pay it." Meereen needed iron, not gold.

"The Tattered Prince will want more than coin, Your Grace. Meris says that he wants Pentos."

[...]

"Pentos belongs to the Pentoshi. And Magister Illyrio is in Pentos. He who arranged my marriage to Khal Drogo and gave me my dragon eggs. Who sent me you, and Belwas, and Groleo. I owe him much and more. I will not repay that debt by giving his city to some sellsword. No."

This must be here for a reason.

Let's see if she keeps this same energy when she learns about Illyrio and Aegon.

+.+.+

Ser Barristan inclined his head. "Your Grace is wise."

+.+.+

"Auspicious for you, perhaps. Less so for those who must die before the sun goes down."

"All men must die," said Hizdahr

Hehe.

+.+.+

When they caught sight of the palanquin emerging from the pyramid, a cheer went up from those nearest and spread across the plaza. How queer, the queen thought. They cheer me on the same plaza where I once impaled one hundred sixty-three Great Masters.

Daenerys rejecting a cheering crowd? Nothing will make this girl happy at this point.

+.+.+

A great drum led the royal procession to clear their way through the streets. Between each beat, a shavepate herald in a shirt of polished copper disks cried for the crowd to part. BOMM. "They come!" BOMM. "Make way!" BOMM. "The queen!" BOMM. "The king!" BOMM. 

The Red Wedding taught me to be wary of these noises.

+.+.+

Behind the drum marched Brazen Beasts four abreast. Some carried cudgels, others staves; all wore pleated skirts, leathern sandals, and patchwork cloaks sewn from squares of many colors to echo the many-colored bricks of Meereen. Their masks gleamed in the sun: boars and bulls, hawks and herons, lions and tigers and bears, fork-tongued serpents and hideous basilisks.

SUSPECT #1: the Brazen Beasts (the Shavepate) are name-dropped roughly 57 times at the start of this chapter. The author wants you to be aware of their presence.

+.+.+

Dany could hear her handmaids arguing behind her, debating who was going to win the day's final match. Jhiqui favored the gigantic Goghor, who looked more bull than man, even to the bronze ring in his nose. Irri insisted that Belaquo Bonebreaker's flail would prove the giant's undoing. My handmaids are Dothraki, she told herself. Death rides with every khalasar. The day she wed Khal Drogo, the arakhs had flashed at her wedding feast, and men had died whilst others drank and mated. Life and death went hand in hand amongst the horselords, and a sprinkling of blood was thought to bless a marriage. Her new marriage would soon be drenched in blood. How blessed it would be.

You are also Dothraki in mind and spirit.

And did a whole lot less bitching at all the barbaric shit they did.

+.+.+

BOMM, BOMM, BOMM, BOMM, BOMM, BOMM, came the drumbeats, faster than before, suddenly angry and impatient. Ser Barristan drew his sword as the column ground to an abrupt halt between the pink-and-white pyramid of Pahl and the green-and-black of Naqqan.

Dany turned. "Why are we stopped?"

Hizdahr stood. "The way is blocked."

A palanquin lay overturned athwart their way. 

Enter SUSPECT #2: House Pahl.

Why House Pahl?

There's a lot of bad blood between Daenerys and House Pahl.

It was true that there was blood between her and the House of Pahl. Oznak zo Pahl had been cut down by Strong Belwas in single combat. His father, commander of Meereen's city watch, had died defending the gates when Joso's Cock smashed them into splinters. Three uncles had been among the hundred sixty-three on the plaza. - Daenerys I, ADWD

It's now a house comprised of women who don't forgive or forget.

"You have no lack of enemies, Your Grace. You can see their pyramids from your terrace. Zhak, Hazkar, Ghazeen, Merreq, Loraq, all the old slaving families. Pahl. Pahl, most of all. A house of women now. Bitter old women with a taste for blood. Women do not forget. Women do not forgive." - Daenerys I, ADWD

Not the best situation to be abruptly stopped between a pyramid of theirs and Naqqan.

+.+.+

Ser Barristan glanced uneasily to left and right. Ghiscari faces were visible on the terraces, looking down with cool and unsympathetic eyes. "Your Grace, I do not like this halt. This may be some trap. The Sons of the Harpy—"

"—have been tamed," declared Hizdahr zo Loraq. 

Apparently Hizdahr knows the Common Tongue.

Or maybe the author is being ditzy again.

+.+.+

"Why should they seek to harm my queen when she has taken me for her king and consort? Now help that man, as my sweet queen has commanded." He took Dany by the hand and smiled.

I'm skipping ahead, but I have to make a point.

Introducing SUSPECT #3: Hizdahr zo Loraq.

I know what you're asking yourselves -

"Didn't she make him king? Didn't he get his fighting pits reopened? Didn't he successfully convince her to allow the slave trade to continue in Slaver's Bay? Didn't he get everything he wanted?"

Yes.

"What's his motive? Why would he want to kill Daenerys before they produce an heir?"

I don't know, ask the dumbfuck in white.

+.+.+

The Brazen Beasts did as they were bid. Dany watched them at their work. "Those bearers were slaves before I came. I made them free. Yet that palanquin is no lighter."

"True," said Hizdahr, "but those men are paid to bear its weight now. Before you came, that man who fell would have an overseer standing over him, stripping the skin off his back with a whip. Instead he is being given aid."

It was true. A Brazen Beast in a boar mask had offered the litter bearer a skin of water. "I suppose I must be thankful for small victories," the queen said.

How is that a small victory?

The Brazen Beasts are doing things!

+.+.+

"One step, then the next, and soon we shall be running. Together we shall make a new Meereen." 

Slly goose, why walk when you can fly?

+.+.+

Around them peddlers were selling dog sausages, roast onions, and unborn puppies on a stick, but Dany had no need of such. 

My Western brain is simply aghast at the cultural practices of these primitive uncivilized people.

The wedding feast began with a thin leek soup, followed by a salad of green beans, onions, and beets, river pike poached in almond milk, mounds of mashed turnips that were cold before they reached the table, jellied calves' brains, and a leche of stringy beef. - Catelyn VII, ASOS

+.+.+

Hizdahr had stocked their box with flagons of chilled wine and sweetwater, with figs, dates, melons, and pomegranates, with pecans and peppers and a big bowl of honeyed locusts. Strong Belwas bellowed, "Locusts!" as he seized the bowl and began to crunch them by the handful.

"Those are very tasty," advised Hizdahr. "You ought to try a few yourself, my love. They are rolled in spice before the honey, so they are sweet and hot at once."

"That explains the way Belwas is sweating," Dany said. "I believe I will content myself with figs and dates."

Boy, that doesn't look good for SUSPECT #3: Hizdahr zo Loraq.

Except, if he is trying to kill Daenerys, he's doing it in a way that would guarantee he's the prime suspect. Imagine how stupid it would have been if Olenna chose to hand Joffrey the glass of wine.

For the record, the locusts were already in their box when they arrived, Hizdahr was unbothered when she declined, and he will never mention the locusts again.

+.+.+

Across the pit the Graces sat in flowing robes of many colors, clustered around the austere figure of Galazza Galare, who alone amongst them wore the green. The Great Masters of Meereen occupied the red and orange benches. The women were veiled, and the men had brushed and lacquered their hair into horns and hands and spikes. Hizdahr's kin of the ancient line of Loraq seemed to favor tokars of purple and indigo and lilac, whilst those of Pahl were striped in pink and white. 

Random SUSPECT #2: House Pahl mention.

+.+.+

"Great Masters! My queen has come this day, to show her love for you, her people. By her grace and with her leave, I give you now your mortal art. Meereen! Let Queen Daenerys hear your love!"

Ten thousand throats roared out their thanks; then twenty thousand; then all. They did not call her name, which few of them could pronounce. "Mother!" they cried instead; in the old dead tongue of Ghis, the word was Mhysa! They stamped their feet and slapped their bellies and shouted, "Mhysa, Mhysa, Mhysa," until the whole pit seemed to tremble. Dany let the sound wash over her. I am not your mother, she might have shouted, back, I am the mother of your slaves, of every boy who ever died upon these sands whilst you gorged on honeyed locusts. Behind her, Reznak leaned in to whisper in her ear, "Magnificence, hear how they love you!"

No, she knew, they love their mortal art. 

Even "Mhysa, Mhysa, Mhysa" is not cheering up grumpy? Man oh man, these people are going to die a bad death.

+.+.+

Khrazz was Meereenese, of humble birth—a tall man with a brush of stiff red-black hair running down the center of his head. His foe was an ebon-skinned spearman from the Summer Isles whose thrusts kept Khrazz at bay for a time, but once he slipped inside the spear with his shortsword, only butchery remained. After it was done, Khrazz cut the heart from the black man, raised it above his head red and dripping, and took a bite from it.

"Khrazz believes the hearts of brave men make him stronger," said Hizdahr. Jhiqui murmured her approval. Dany had once eaten a stallion's heart to give strength to her unborn son … but that had not saved Rhaego when the maegi murdered him in her womb.

Ser Jorah had killed her son, Dany knew. He had done what he did for love and loyalty, yet he had carried her into a place no living man should go and fed her baby to the darkness. He knew it too; the grey face, the hollow eyes, the limp. "The shadows have touched you too, Ser Jorah," she told him. The knight made no reply. Dany turned to the godswife. "You warned me that only death could pay for life. I thought you meant the horse."

"No," Mirri Maz Duur said. "That was a lie you told yourself. You knew the price."

Had she? Had she? If I look back I am lost. "The price was paid," Dany said. - Daenerys IX, AGOT

+.+.+

Three treasons shall you know. She was the first, Jorah was the second, Brown Ben Plumm the third. Was she done with betrayals?

How is Brown Ben Plumm your treason for love? God, what a dumb person.

+.+.+

"Ah," said Hizdahr, pleased. "Now comes the Spotted Cat. See how he moves, my queen. A poem on two feet."

The foe Hizdahr had found for the walking poem was as tall as Goghor and as broad as Belwas, but slow. They were fighting six feet from Dany's box when the Spotted Cat hamstrung him. As the man stumbled to his knees, the Cat put a foot on his back and a hand around his head and opened his throat from ear to ear. The red sands drank his blood, the wind his final words. The crowd screamed its approval.

Some of these fights appear to be foreshadowing future events. It's possible the Spotted Cat might be hinting at someone.

If Arya is slitting someone's throat, it's not Walder Frey's.

+.+.+

"Bad fighting, good dying," said Strong Belwas. "Strong Belwas hates it when they scream." He had finished all the honeyed locusts. He gave a belch and took a swig of wine.

Daenerys loves it when they scream.

Because he drank wine, a ton of people question whether it was the locusts or the wine that poisoned him.

Why does it matter? We don't have to overthink this.

+.+.+

"This one shows much promise, my sweet," Hizdahr said of a Lysene youth with long blond hair that fluttered in the wind … but his foe grabbed a handful of that hair, pulled the boy off-balance, and gutted him. In death he looked even younger than he had with blade in hand. "A boy," said Dany. "He was only a boy."

"Six-and-ten," Hizdahr insisted. "A man grown, who freely chose to risk his life for gold and glory. No children die today in Daznak's, as my gentle queen in her wisdom has decreed."

That's considered fAegon evidence.

Aurane did not resemble Prince Rhaegar as much as she had thought. He has the hair, but so do half the whores in Lys, if the tales are true. Rhaegar was a man. This is a sly boy, no more. Useful in his way, though. - Cersei VIII, ADWD

x

He was a lithe and well-made youth, with a lanky build and a shock of dark blue hair. The dwarf put his age at fifteen, sixteen, or near enough to make no matter. - Tyrion III, ADWD

+.+.+

"A boy," said Dany. "He was only a boy."

"Six-and-ten," Hizdahr insisted.

"Slay the Good Masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip, but harm no child under twelve, and strike the chains off every slave you see." - Daenerys III, ASOS

Shut up, Daenerys.

+.+.+

Another small victory. Perhaps I cannot make my people good, she told herself, but I should at least try to make them a little less bad. 

Do you ever remember her thinking about the Dothraki this way? I don't.

+.+.+

It had been the custom to sentence criminals to the pits; that practice she agreed might resume, but only for certain crimes. "Murderers and rapers may be forced to fight, and all those who persist in slaving, but not thieves or debtors."

It's okay when we're doing Justice™.

+.+.+

Beasts were still allowed, though. Dany watched an elephant make short work of a pack of six red wolves.

The number six is a little troubling. Hopefully nothing.

+.+.+

Next a bull was set against a bear in a bloody battle that left both animals torn and dying. "The flesh is not wasted," said Hizdahr. "The butchers use the carcasses to make a healthful stew for the hungry. Any man who presents himself at the Gates of Fate may have a bowl."

"A good law," Dany said. You have so few of them. "We must make certain that this tradition is continued."

Has the novelty worn off?

+.+.+

After the beast fights came a mock battle, pitting six men on foot against six horsemen, the former armed with shields and longswords, the latter with Dothraki arakhs. The mock knights were clad in mail hauberks, whilst the mock Dothraki wore no armor. At first the riders seemed to have the advantage, riding down two of their foes and slashing the ear from a third, but then the surviving knights began to attack the horses, and one by one the riders were unmounted and slain, to Jhiqui's great disgust. "That was no true khalasar," she said.

Bwahahahaha.

First the snow, and now this? I'm starting to think these Dothraki might struggle in Westeros!

The man was no knight, but his courage had earned him that much courtesy. Khrazz did not know how to fight a man in armor. Ser Barristan could see it in his eyes: doubt, confusion, the beginnings of fear. The pit fighter came on again, screaming this time, as if sound could slay his foe where steel could not. The arakh slashed low, high, low again. - The Kingbreaker, ADWD

(Shoutout to @redwolf17 for helping me find the quote!)

+.+.+

The battle was followed by the day's first folly, a tilt between a pair of jousting dwarfs, presented by one of the Yunkish lords that Hizdahr had invited to the games. One rode a hound, the other a sow. Their wooden armor had been freshly painted, so one bore the stag of the usurper Robert Baratheon, the other the golden lion of House Lannister. That was for her sake, plainly. Their antics soon had Belwas snorting laughter, though Dany's smile was faint and forced. When the dwarf in red tumbled from the saddle and began to chase his sow across the sands, whilst the dwarf on the dog galloped after him, whapping at his buttocks with a wooden sword, she said, "This is sweet and silly, but …"

"Be patient, my sweet," said Hizdahr. "They are about to loose the lions."

Daenerys gave him a quizzical look. "Lions?"

"Three of them. The dwarfs will not expect them."

She frowned. "The dwarfs have wooden swords. Wooden armor. How do you expect them to fight lions?"

"Badly," said Hizdahr, "though perhaps they will surprise us. More like they will shriek and run about and try to climb out of the pit. That is what makes this a folly."

Dany was not pleased. "I forbid it."

"Gentle queen. You do not want to disappoint your people."

"You swore to me that the fighters would be grown men who had freely consented to risk their lives for gold and honor. These dwarfs did not consent to battle lions with wooden swords. You will stop it. Now."

The king's mouth tightened. For a heartbeat Dany thought she saw a flash of anger in those placid eyes. "As you command." Hizdahr beckoned to his pitmaster. "No lions," he said when the man trotted over, whip in hand.

And just like that, Hizdahr becomes a sadist.

That must mean someone is going to brutally kill him.

+.+.+

The dwarfs were herded off, pig and dog and all, as the spectators hissed their disapproval and pelted them with stones and rotten fruit.

Why must Penny be there? I'm not allowed to have one happy moment.

+.+.+

The boar was a huge beast, with tusks as long as a man's forearm and small eyes that swam with rage. She wondered whether the boar that had killed Robert Baratheon had looked as fierce. A terrible creature and a terrible death. For a heartbeat she felt almost sorry for the Usurper.

"Barsena is very quick," Reznak said. "She will dance with the boar, Magnificence, and slice him when he passes near her. He will be awash in blood before he falls, you shall see."

It began just as he said. The boar charged, Barsena spun aside, her blade flashed silver in the sun. "She needs a spear," Ser Barristan said, as Barsena vaulted over the beast's second charge. "That is no way to fight a boar." He sounded like someone's fussy old grandsire, just as Daario was always saying.

Sure, now you're a boar expert.

He sounded like someone's fussy old grandsire, just as Daario was always saying.

How do people read this and not see Cersei?

+.+.+

Shouting, she edged closer to the boar, tossing her knife from hand to hand. When the beast backed away, she cursed and slashed at his snout, trying to provoke him … and succeeding. This time her leap came an instant too late, and a tusk ripped her left leg open from knee to crotch.

A moan went up from thirty thousand throats. Clutching at her torn leg, Barsena dropped her knife and tried to hobble off, but before she had gone two feet the boar was on her once again. 

+.+.+

"Fighting pigs is brave, but it is not brave to scream so loud. It hurts Strong Belwas in the ears." The eunuch rubbed his swollen stomach, crisscrossed with old white scars. "It makes Strong Belwas sick in his belly too."

See what happens when you talk shit?

That's why I always have ipecac on hand.

+.+.+

The boar buried his snout in Barsena's belly and began rooting out her entrails. The smell was more than the queen could stand. The heat, the flies, the shouts from the crowd … I cannot breathe. She lifted her veil and let it flutter away. She took her tokar off as well. The pearls rattled softly against one another as she unwound the silk.

"Khaleesi?" Irri asked. "What are you doing?"

"Taking off my floppy ears."

There goes the pearly tokar. Forever.

Guys, I think she might be done with Meereen.

(Is she half naked? Lol.)

+.+.+

"Belaquo will win," Irri declared. "It is known."

"It is not known," Jhiqui said. "Belaquo will die."

"One will die, or the other will," said Dany. "And the one who lives will die some other day. This was a mistake."

"Strong Belwas ate too many locusts." There was a queasy look on Belwas's broad brown face. "Strong Belwas needs milk."

Hizdahr ignored the eunuch. 

SUSPECT #3: Hizdahr zo Loraq doesn't appear to know what's happening to Strong Belwas. Kind of strange when you're the one who poisoned the locusts.

The Dothraki girls loving the entertainment is a nice touch.

+.+.+

"Magnificence, the people of Meereen have come to celebrate our union. You heard them cheering you. Do not cast away their love."

"It was my floppy ears they cheered, not me. Take me from this abbatoir, husband." 

Look at how pouty she is over fake love.

+.+.+

A shadow rippled across his face.

The tumult and the shouting died. Ten thousand voices stilled. Every eye turned skyward. A warm wind brushed Dany's cheeks, and above the beating of her heart she heard the sound of wings. Two spearmen dashed for shelter. The pitmaster froze where he stood. The boar went snuffling back to Barsena. Strong Belwas gave a moan, stumbled from his seat, and fell to his knees.

+.+.+

Above them all the dragon turned, dark against the sun. His scales were black, his eyes and horns and spinal plates blood red. Ever the largest of her three, in the wild Drogon had grown larger still. His wings stretched twenty feet from tip to tip, black as jet. He flapped them once as he swept back above the sands, and the sound was like a clap of thunder. The boar raised his head, snorting … and flame engulfed him, black fire shot with red. Dany felt the wash of heat thirty feet away. The beast's dying scream sounded almost human. Drogon landed on the carcass and sank his claws into the smoking flesh. As he began to feed, he made no distinction between Barsena and the boar.

Won't be the last time we hear that sound.

Thunder!

+.+.+

"Oh, gods," moaned Reznak, "he's eating her!" The seneschal covered his mouth. Strong Belwas was retching noisily. A queer look passed across Hizdahr zo Loraq's long, pale face—part fear, part lust, part rapture. He licked his lips.

Will someone get Belwas some ginger ale?

I don't think she's projecting.

"Hot and sweet and poisoned. With mine own ears I heard you commanding the men in the pit to kill Drogon. Shouting at them."

Hizdahr licked his lips. "The beast devoured Barsena's flesh. Dragons prey on men. It was killing, burning …" - The Kingbreaker, ADWD

Hizdahr has suddenly transformed into a weirdo who fetishizes all violence.

+.+.+

Dany could see the Pahls streaming up the steps, clutching their tokars and tripping over the fringes in their haste to be away. Others followed. Some ran, shoving at one another. More stayed in their seats.

There goes SUSPECT #2: House Pahl. No other family mentioned.

Do I think the author is purposely misleading the reader? Yes.

+.+.+

One man took it on himself to be a hero.

He was one of the spearmen sent out to drive the boar back to his pen. Perhaps he was drunk, or mad. Perhaps he had loved Barsena Blackhair from afar or had heard some whisper of the girl Hazzea. Perhaps he was just some common man who wanted bards to sing of him. He darted forward, his boar spear in his hands. Red sand kicked up beneath his heels, and shouts rang out from the seats. Drogon raised his head, blood dripping from his teeth.

Say her name.

I know it's similar, but I don't believe the Jaime charging Drogon scene was real. It was too stupid.

+.+.+

The hero leapt onto his back and drove the iron spearpoint down at the base of the dragon's long scaled neck.

Dany and Drogon screamed as one.

Sansa couldn't help but smile a little. The kennelmaster once told her that an animal takes after its master. - Sansa I, AGOT

+.+.+

The hero leaned into his spear, using his weight to twist the point in deeper. Drogon arched upward with a hiss of pain. His tail lashed sideways. She watched his head crane around at the end of that long serpentine neck, saw his black wings unfold. The dragonslayer lost his footing and went tumbling to the sand. He was trying to struggle back to his feet when the dragon's teeth closed hard around his forearm. "No" was all the man had time to shout. Drogon wrenched his arm from his shoulder and tossed it aside as a dog might toss a rodent in a rat pit.

NOT A RAT PIT.

She called him a dragonslayer, I love it.

+.+.+

"Kill it," Hizdahr zo Loraq shouted to the other spearmen. "Kill the beast!"

Ser Barristan held her tightly. "Look away, Your Grace."

"Let me go!" Dany twisted from his grasp. The world seemed to slow as she cleared the parapet. When she landed in the pit she lost a sandal. Running, she could feel the sand between her toes, hot and rough. Ser Barristan was calling after her. Strong Belwas was still vomiting. She ran faster.

It's reverse Cinderella. Drizella lost her shoe while running towards her Prince Charming. Shoutout to @agentrouka-blog for the laugh!

All the Strong Belwas stuff happening in the background is so funny.

+.+.+

The hero was jerking on the sand, the bright blood pouring from the ragged stump of his shoulder. His spear remained in Drogon's back, wobbling as the dragon beat his wings. Smoke rose from the wound. As the other spears closed in, the dragon spat fire, bathing two men in black flame.

His flames are black? I didn't know that.

I'm not suggesting he's Black Flame from the Quaithe warning.

+.+.+

The Meereenese were screaming, cursing, howling. Dany could hear someone pounding after her. "Drogon," she screamed. "Drogon."

His head turned. Smoke rose between his teeth. His blood was smoking too, where it dripped upon the ground. He beat his wings again, sending up a choking storm of scarlet sand. Dany stumbled into the hot red cloud, coughing. He snapped.

"No" was all that she had time to say. No, not me, don't you know me? The black teeth closed inches from her face. He meant to tear my head off. The sand was in her eyes. She stumbled over the pitmaster's corpse and fell on her backside.

Lady would never.

+.+.+

Drogon roared. The sound filled the pit. A furnace wind engulfed her. The dragon's long scaled neck stretched toward her. When his mouth opened, she could see bits of broken bone and charred flesh between his black teeth. His eyes were molten. I am looking into hell, but I dare not look away. She had never been so certain of anything. If I run from him, he will burn me and devour me.

Ghost would never.

+.+.+

In Westeros the septons spoke of seven hells and seven heavens, but the Seven Kingdoms and their gods were far away. If she died here, Dany wondered, would the horse god of the Dothraki part the grass and claim her for his starry khalasar, so she might ride the nightlands beside her sun-and-stars? Or would the angry gods of Ghis send their harpies to seize her soul and drag her down to torment? Drogon roared full in her face, his breath hot enough to blister skin.

Of course she hopes for a Dothraki heaven.

+.+.+

Off to her right Dany heard Barristan Selmy shouting, "Me! Try me. Over here. Me!"

You have one job, demon.

+.+.+

In the smoldering red pits of Drogon's eyes, Dany saw her own reflection. How small she looked, how weak and frail and scared. I cannot let him see my fear. She scrabbled in the sand, pushing against the pitmaster's corpse, and her fingers brushed against the handle of his whip. Touching it made her feel braver. The leather was warm, alive. Drogon roared again, the sound so loud that she almost dropped the whip. His teeth snapped at her.

Summer would never.

The whip kills me every time.

+.+.+

Dany hit him. "No," she screamed, swinging the lash with all the strength that she had in her. The dragon jerked his head back. "No," she screamed again. "NO!" The barbs raked along his snout. Drogon rose, his wings covering her in shadow. Dany swung the lash at his scaled belly, back and forth until her arm began to ache. His long serpentine neck bent like an archer's bow. With a hisssssss, he spat black fire down at her. Dany darted underneath the flames, swinging the whip and shouting, "No, no, no. Get DOWN!" His answering roar was full of fear and fury, full of pain. His wings beat once, twice …

… and folded. The dragon gave one last hiss and stretched out flat upon his belly. Black blood was flowing from the wound where the spear had pierced him, smoking where it dripped onto the scorched sands. He is fire made flesh, she thought, and so am I.

I'm going to have to stop there, because Drogon's about as well trained as Nymeria.

+.+.+

Daenerys Targaryen vaulted onto the dragon's back, seized the spear, and ripped it out. The point was half-melted, the iron red-hot, glowing. She flung it aside. Drogon twisted under her, his muscles rippling as he gathered his strength. The air was thick with sand. Dany could not see, she could not breathe, she could not think. The black wings cracked like thunder, and suddenly the scarlet sands were falling away beneath her.

Thunder!

Why am I not getting a description of Barry's charred body? These god damn Targaryens and their dragons can't do anything right.

+.+.+

The lash was still in her hand. She flicked it against Drogon's neck and cried, "Higher!" Her other hand clutched at his scales, her fingers scrabbling for purchase. Drogon's wide black wings beat the air. Dany could feel the heat of him between her thighs. Her heart felt as if it were about to burst. Yes, she thought, yes, now, now, do it, do it, take me, take me, FLY!

Look, they're consummating the marriage.

This is so much funnier when you realize she removed clothing.

Final thoughts:

Don't you love how the show turned the Second Coming of Satan chapter into a scene where baby boy Drogon gets to heroically save his mommy from the evil ambushing Sons of the Harpy?

Great stuff, guys.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #daenerys ix

[stromuprisahat]

Hi! I saw you read fire and blood, and i really like your commentary on books, so i wanted to ask what you think of the "theory" that the targaryen women are curse or that the have the some of the worse fates of the book? Cause i see that on tiktok a lot, i dont think it is very true.

Any way, hope your having a good end of year and a lovely new year! Ps. English is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes haha

Well, their fates are not exactly rosy, but tbh woman's fate in most of Westeros rarely is.

What makes it more prominent is that Targaryens are both ruling family- therefore theoretically closest to possible change- and foreigners with different customs at the beginning. Customs they abandoned to better fit in and because *cough* Jaehaerys is a dick, who got sick of listening to his personal babymaker *cough*.

It's a gradual loss of importance.

Rhaenys and Visenya ruled alongside Aegon. They made decisions in his absence, they sat the Iron Throne just like him.

Alyssa lived in the shadow of the Queen Dowager and her own weak husband. Later she got married off to an abusive prick, who fucked her into her early grave. That's certainly a horrible way to go.

And the long reign of Jaehaerys "Viva La Patriarchy!" came.

You can trace plenty of what went wrong to him.

The original Heir was his older brother Aegon. Perhaps "Uncrowned", but he had heirs of his own before he died- twins Aerea and Rhaella- girls, but heirs. What's more- their mother, Rhaena Targaryen, was three years older than her brother-husband. There's the question how does Valyrian succession really work, since Targaryens always liked to marry the oldest "couple" to keep the line "pure", but more than man/woman, they seems to care about whether you're a dragonrider or not. Even if we accept Westerosi law, where son comes before daughter, Rhaena should still be Regent to her children. Instead they're skipped in favour of a third son of their grandfather, their uncle. Apparently, Andal and First Men's laws can be ignored as long as it strengthens patriarchy.

At first, Jaehaerys claimed he'll rule with Alysanne, but then she started to get unpleasant ideas and it got more comfortable to sidetrack her to cradles and children's rooms. Once wifey was out of the way, it was unlikely daughters will fare better. Especially since there was so many of them. Their value shrunk to their maidenhead, Jaehaerys' interest in them to how to get rid of them before they lose their worth. Although one could argue (I totally would.) he didn't see daughters as "enough" even before there was so many of them.

Jaehaerys was a sexist pig, who shouldn't even sit the Iron Throne.

Next on the list of his dick-enforcing deeds, is the Great Council. His Heir died- again, uncrowned-, but with a granchild on its way. Instead of naming Rhaenys, or even waiting for her firstborn to arrive, so they can check for appropriate parts, Jaehaerys names his own secondborn- Balon- and after his death, poor Jaehaedick has no idea, who else should rule after him. It's not like the rule above says it's clearly Rhaenys- at that point with a son of her own for fuck's sake-, so he figures the fate of the kingdom should be decided by a bunch of MEN, and summons the Lords to choose their next liege. Surprise, surprise! They pick a weak man, instead of "a fiery maiden".

There's not much positive to be said about Viserys, but his insistance on succession would certainly be the no. 1. Rhaenyra could've been Targaryen's way out of stiff patriarchy. Feminine, adored by masses, supported by her spouse, leaning to her Valyrian heritage... that could've changed Westerosi society from up, but the Dance killed that hope. Even though her children ruled eventually, neither the Broken king, nor his wife-less brother were likely to do anything.

Targaryen or not, a woman is a walking womb now.

Their "curse" is patriarchy and shitty men with power.

Their fates fit their "importance".

Rhaenys and Visenya died as conquering Queens- in a battle and lucky to die of old age.

Rhaena was sidelined by her weak father, by her younger brother, she lost too much and never learned to let go. It killed one of her daughters- ironically the skipped Heir.

Alysanne was killed by her brother-husband's sexism. He was at least partly to blame for the fates of all his daughters (and I count Aemma here too, because her marriage was his doing too). Only the most strong-headed one managed to escape.

Rhaenys died as the Queen she was- perhaps uncrowned just like her father-, but she went out in a battle, mutilating her foes, leaving grandchildren in the line on the Throne behind. If only they'd live long enough to get there. She might have died relatively young, but she played important part in her side of the Dance and she's one of few, whose death I'd call good.

Rhaenyra had particularly cruel life. Ironically, it was work of a woman working within the confinces of patriarchy that kept ruining her life, and said woman's sons, who eventually took everything from her, including her life.

No curse's necessary.

P.S.: Neither is it mine, so as long as we figure out what we mean... 😉

#reply #ASoIaF #valyrianscrolls #House Targaryen #Let's point a finger at the guilty party: #Jaehaerys I Targaryen

[4uru]

Yet To Be Named

Chapter 1: Zimo and the Singing Angels.

Enjoy

Taglist: @thevagabondexpress @faithfromanewperspective @light-wayland @what-ho-christopher-put-in @alastairstom @tleeaves @fangirlghost-19

(comment if u have any story name ideas bc I sure don't.)

It was a cold night. Zimo was breathing through his mouth, his nose was blocked. His lips were cracked and his throat was dry. The cold was making his eyes hurt. At least Hell had central heating.

If you're wondering how he knew, well it's a long story actually.

You see, Zimo's mother was the antichrist. And his grandfather is the devil. You know from The Bible. His antichrist of a mother left him in front of an orphanage as a baby, with just a piece of paper with his name written Ha Zimo and nothing else and somehow passed the mantle of the Antichrist on to Zimo. Which was shitty of her. And she didn't even leave him outside a nice childless couple's house like those movies. No, she left him outside “Singing Angels Orphanage for boys” and boy, wasn’t that ironic as fuck. There are no angels in that godforsaken place.

Zimo, being born with a biblically accurate misfortune, was the punching bag for the other boys until he hit his growth spurt and became taller than the other boys and also learnt how to hold his ground.

Before he learnt how to fight the universe would fight for him, some tree branches would conveniently fall, and sometimes the light wouldn't quite fall on him, helping him melt into the background of the dreary halls of Singing Angels.

He didn't get adopted in the beginning because he was too round, And later because he was too old. They don't pick the older one. Especially not a 6’2” Chinese Giant. Zimo did not fit the white suburban dream family. And no Asian couples wanted him because he was too much of a British orphan, he didn't know the formality that they wanted. He didn't fit any of their moulds.

Zimo learned to make a corner of the orphanage home. From the back room loft in the church, nobody could see him there. But he could see everything. Only the face of one of the angels statues was faced where he would set up camp. It was a nice cozy space just big enough for Zimo to settle in with his comic books that he stole that one time they let the children roam the city.

But don't get your spirits down. Because, one day, a man in a very expensive suit walked through the doors of the orphanage. And adopted our young protagonist. Things were looking up for Zimo. The man was filthy fucking rich. Zimo packed up his 2 t-shirts, 1 jumper, and 3 comic books and sat in the passenger seat of the Ferrari.

The man was nice. Too nice. He had a smile that didn't quite reach his dead dark eyes. But who was Zimo to complain? He was out of that hell hole. He was out of reach of the bullies that roamed the halls of Singing Angel. He would never have to hide in the dingy cupboards and the dark classrooms. He would not have to eat the shitty food with a secret ingredient (hate). Zimo was free. And filthy fucking rich, baby.

So it turns out, the old man had a mansion. Which was cool. But you see, Zimo had a rule, good people didn't live in palaces. He quickly checked his skill set. If this man turns out to be a tosser, Zimo was big and competent enough to fight his way out. He had nothing to lose anyway. He might be 14 but he could easily pass for an adult. The man was alright. For the most part. Zimo ate good food three times a day. They talked and he didn't hit Zimo. It was all fine and dandy. Well…until the portal to hell, Zimo stumbled upon in the library.

It was all going so well before the portal to hell in the library! So yeah. Turns out the mansion is a portal to hell; the man is his grandfather, The devil, From the bible. Judging from Lucifer's big evil monologue he performed in front of Zimo at the library, Zimo was the anti-Christ. And also Merlin, the greatest Warlock to walk the earth. And it's his responsibility to bring Armageddon (how does one even do that?) yada yada yada. Just when Zimo thought he got out of the god-forsaken hellhole. He literally drove into the literal god-forsaken hell in a fucking Ferrari.

Now before you judge Zimo for staying in the mansion that had a portal to the actual hell. The food was good and the mattresses were even better. The devil had good taste… and he was family. Zimo liked the mansion for the most part. But he avoided the library (the blood-curdling screams of the tormented souls brought the vibe down, you know?) It was all good.

Until Lucifer drugged him and brought him to a different mansion that looked the bloody same but had a red ambience (The devil was dramatic)

Lucifer demanded that Zimo learn magic and get ready to well, bring armageddon. Zimo went with it. (Hell also had good food and a good mattress) and there is not much Zimo won't do for a comfortable life. So he learnt magic.

He liked the fear in Lucifer's eyes when his magic would go overboard and give good ol Satan a run for his money.

So turns out, Zimo had an insane amount of Magic. Which he pulled from his surroundings. Hell being Hell, it amplified his magic. Which was…fun. Zimo liked that he felt weightless when the magic flowed through his veins. It tasted amazing. The air smelt like burnt wood. It was intoxicating. The force of it would make him close his eyes. But he would become much more aware of his surroundings. Like he was connected to everything around him. Zimo decided that he liked magic.

Then good old Grandpa Satan busted out the Tome of Evil™, it contained the most powerful spells in all the realms, but it was also a key. Without it, Lucifer wouldn't know how to travel between the realms and would be trapped inside his red mansion. And who could blame Zimo when he took the big Evil™ tome and ran away with it? He is the grandson of the devil. It's on Grandpa Lucy that he didn't see this coming.

If you're asking Why Zimo ran away, well dear readers, it's because Zimo did not have a fucking clue about how to bring on the end of the world. And it was pretty clear that the only reason Lucifer was keeping him alive and around was because he thought Zimo did. And it was only a matter of time before he would realise Zimo wasn't the big bad Antichrist. He was just a British orphan from Singing Angels who liked reading comic books and the genealogy chapter in his biology textbook.

The tome was heavy. And the evil™ book was leaking magical energy. It took Zimo a stupid amount of time to realise that the magical energy could be used for heat.

The night was bearable. He settled under a bridge. It smelt terrible. But beggars can't be choosers. Zimo used his magic to make the boulder he was leaning on softer. He made his jumper warmer, and let sleep take over him.

#original story #Ha Zimo #arthurian mythology #yet to be named

[umbrellamedic]

Character Info Sheet

name: Michaela Schneider BERTHA

name meaning:

Bertha: Bright One

Michaela: Who resembles god

Scneider: tailor/one who cuts

alias/es: None Homewrecker/Slut that one time she was accused of thought crimes...

ethnicity: German

one picture you like best of your chara: //her using a zombie as a body shield is so good, so iconic for her

three h/cs you've never told anyone:

Bertha doesn't know how to roller blade and has never been bowling

She hates/cannot handle spicy food (i honestly don't remember if i've told anyone this before)

Bertha does not often celebrate holidays; her grandfather though things like that were a waste of time and it did not much occur to her to celebrate anything when she was no longer with her family. This suits her employers just fine, as she will never complain about having to run a mission during the holidays.

three things your character likes doing in their free time:

She likes to work out- the weight room is her favorite

Reading

Torturing people; doesn't matter who.

eight people your character likes / loves:

Nikolai (grudging main/not grudging dbd) - priceofeverything

Jill Valentine (dbd) - alphateamsfinest

Carlos (sometimes ironically, sometimes not main/openly dbd) ubcs

Riddick (post Racoon) primitiveside

Gear 547 (main / grudging respect dbd) thegear

Wesker (dbd verse) manufacturedxbyxdesign

Copperhead (dc verse) cxpperhead

Beltway (main) iinkribons

two things your character regrets:

Unsatisfactory performance in Raccoon City

Being born Not killing her father and grandfather

two phobias your character has:

Atychiphobia

Slight fear of sleeping

tagged by @primitiveside

tagging @manufactoredxbyxdesign @iinkribbons @cxpperhead @corvidamned @lettherebemonsters

#thank you this was fun xD #the headcanons one was pretty difficult #normally the second i think of one i tell everyone for the next week and a half