#this was drawn right after kings tide

[notllorstel]

Bell aka Warrior against chronic pain.

^^^this inspired this vvvv

*pov you have a migraine*

Bonus new doodle addition when finally finished

#the owl house #toh #darius deamonne #eda clawthorne #eberwolf the huntsman #toh oc bell #bell the palisman #fanart #llorsdood #this was drawn right after kings tide #where there was a lil calm before the storm moment after the unity day events #my ideas for bell able to provide support and to manage chronic pain and fatigue #in the similar sense how bumps palisman able to assist in vision #are we projecting here maybe a lil

[apricia]

For ever by your side / Aemond Targaryen x reader // Part X

Chapter 10 - Loose tongues, empty promises 

The next day was the Driftmark Succession Hearing. Aemond promised himself an entertaining spectacle, which would result in Lord Vaemond Velaryon becoming the new Lord of the Tides and little Lord Strong finally being seen for what he was: a bastard.

This exit would be exactly to his liking.

Little Luke would probably burst into tears in the great hall at being robbed of his inheritance, hanging by his mother's skirts and swearing at how terribly unfair the world was. Aemond grinned. That bastard deserved nothing less. Not after taking his eye.

The hall was already full. He stood in front, next to his siblings. His mother was speaking to his grandfather, who would lead the petition and also make the decision. The decision was made long ago. Otto Hightower would give Vaemond Velaryon Driftmark. A new ally for the Greens.

"I hope this matter will be resolved quickly. I'm already exhausted," Aegon complained next to him and yawned.

Aemond gave his brother a reproachful look. He probably should give Aegon credit for even being out of bed at this early hour. Let alone bathed, dressed and halfway sober.

As so often, Aegon's and Aemond's desires were not the same. Aemond was sure that Aegon would also enjoy a good show. It would be a welcome change at court.

Aemond's gaze swept over the onlookers present. Positioned in front of the throne on the right was Vaemond Velaryon. Behind him stood Princess Rhaenys Targaryen and her granddaughter Baela Velaryon. Yet they stood apart from Lord Vaemond, as if they were not on his side.

On the left, the team had gathered around his half-sister. The black haired Strong boys stood behind the adults with their cousin Rhaena and whispered. They all looked nervous. Especially little Luke. He looked like a fawn among wolves. Or like a goat among dragons.

Rhaenyra was rubbing the bulge of her stomach, his uncle standing behind her. Daemon looked bored, but kept looking at the door.

As if he were still waiting for someone. And Aemond knew who, too, because the person he craved the most wasn't there yet. Alyssa was nowhere to be seen and Aemond found himself getting restless. He'd been happy to see her again, even though he'd only seen her last night. He wanted to ask her how she liked the book. Absolutely certain that she had already started reading yesterday. And he wanted to ask her what his fool of a brother had said to her just before she left the room. 

Otto Hightower stepped forward and cleared his throat. At that moment, Alyssa darted through the door. Aemond was drawn to the sight of her, like he would know instantly when she was in the room and couldn't help but follow her eyes.

Today she wore a simple red dress with black embroidery on the sleeves and neckline. She wore her hair in a simple braid. You wouldn't have guessed from her clothes that she was a princess, but she was still the most beautiful woman in the room. By far. Aemond stared at her. She stood next to her father, who exchanged a few words with her. Daemon Targaryen seemed less than pleased with his daughter's lateness.

Alyssa just shrugged and stood next to her sister Rhaena. Then she looked up and immediately found Aemond's eye. They looked at each other. Unabashed.

Alyssa raised an eyebrow as if to silently ask him what he wanted from her.

Aemond's mouth twitched. Everything, he would have liked to have answered her. He wanted everything from her. Anything she could give him.

Alyssa gave him a challenging look one last time before looking away and looking at the king's hand instead.

"Though its the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds, we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of driftmark. As hand i speak with the king's voice in this and all other matters." With these words Otto Hightower sat down on the Iron Throne.

Aemond looked at his grandfather silently. Aemond looked at his grandfather silently. The King's Hand was enjoying all this far too much. He spoke on his father's behalf that Aemond did not laugh. Otto Hightower had always spoken only on his own behalf, for his own benefit and that of his family. Just like he would do now. 

As if the throne were his own, his grandfather makes himself comfortable there. "The crown will now hear the petitions. Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon." 

Ser Vaemond stepped forward, dressed in the colors of his house. He bowed his head humbly to Alicent. "My queen," then he turned to Otto. "My lord hand. The history of our noble houss extend beyond the seven kingdoms to the days of old valyria. For as long as house targaryen has ruled the skies, house velaryon has ruled the seas. With the doom fell on valyria our houses became "The last of their kind. Our forebearers came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name. I have spend my entire life on driftmark defending my brother's seat. I am Lord Corlys's." Closest kin, his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins."

"As it does in my sons, the offspring of the Laenor Velaryon," Princess Rhaenyra interrupted.

Aemond looked at his older half sister. She couldn't really try to keep up this lie after all these years. Did she think everyone present was blind, like his father? He might only have one eye left, but it was obvious that the princess's sons looked neither Targaryen nor Velaryon. They look like Ser Harwin Strong. If the knight were still alive and present, everyone could see the resemblance and the proof that his sister was unfaithful would be visible to all. But present or not, Luke and Jace were bastards, sons of the House of Strong. And with that, they had no right to either Driftmark or the Iron Throne.

"If you cared so much about your house's blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No, you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition."

"You will have chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra. Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard."

With a wide grin, Ser Vaemond spun around to face the princess. "I hold House Targaryen in high esteem, Princess. I fought side by side with your new husband, as well as your late husband, my nephew Ser Laenor. We defended the Stepstones together. Both our houses still fight side by side to this day. My brother was injured in the fighting on the Stepstones, but first the bond between our houses was reforged at the hands of Princess Alyssa, who joins forces with Vermithor to aid House Velaryon in battle.“

At those words, Aemond snapped his head at Alyssa. You fought on the Stepstones? Had she gone mad? Did she want to be killed?

Alyssa looked blankly at Ser Vaemond, then at her father, who shook his head. He didn't seem to know how his daughter was spending her time. That she was putting herself in danger. But Daemon didn't seem to mind this new insight. A grin appeared on his face and he gripped the hilt of his sword tighter.

Just the thought of Alyssa being part of the bloody and brutal battles on the Stepstones made Aemond cramp. She could have been dead already. Without him knowing about it. She could have been killed in battle and he wouldn't have been there to protect her. For years he had trained to one day have her by his side, to defend her against her enemies, but here stood Alyssa, fighting from the back of her dragon while he trained in the palace's training yard. He clenched his hands into fists.

Alyssa had been willing to take risks since she was a child. She had been fierce, determined, and ready to fight. Had always defended him and fought his battles. But those times were over. He wouldn't let her put herself in danger any longer. At least not when he wasn't with her to protect her from others and her own recklessness.

"As much as I appreciate the bond between our houses, but what do you know of velaryon blood, princess?" Ser Veamond continued. A knowing smile on his lips.

"I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still wouldn't recognize it."

The corners of Aemond's mouth twitched in amusement at the knight's words. Finally someone was telling the truth. Even if it was stupid to make such allusions in front of the assembled court. He looked at Alyssa, who was glaring at Ser Vaemond as if she wanted to slit him open herself to spill the precious Velaryon blood. His fiery princess.

"This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours." Vaemond eyed the dark-haired princes. Dislike was in his eyes. The same dislike that Aemond viewed his nephews with. Vaemond was the second son of driftmark and loyal to his house, but now his inheritance would be stolen from him by a little boy who wasn't even a true Velaryon. Luke stole Vaemond's birthright while stealing Aemond's eye. So he could understand the resentment the knight felt for the bastard.

"My Queen, my Lord Hand, this is a matter of blood, not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brothers successor. The Lord of driftmark, the lord of the tides."

Aemond never thought he could identify with the words of Ser Vaemond so well. He too was the second son who had no inheritance to expect but did everything for his house and his family. But unlike Vaemond Velaryon, Aemond would get what he deserved.

"Thank you, Ser Vaemond," Otto Hightower dismissed the knight.

Aemond looked expectantly at his sister. How would she undermine Ser Vaemond's demands? The lord had hinted at what everyone in this room already knew. Would his sister lie again and claim that her three sons were Ser Laenor's descendants?

"Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon," said the king's hand. 

Rhaenyra stepped forward. She seemed annoyed and tired of it. "If I am to grace this farce with some answer, I will start by reminding the court that nearly 20 years ago, in this very-"

She fell silent as the heavy doors to the hall were opened. Aemond's eyes also wandered to his father, who was accompanied by two king's guards. "King Viserys of House Targaryen, the first of his name, king of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the first men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

Aemond grimaced at the sight of his father. He was no longer a king, no protector as the title claimed. His father was now sick and old and frail. He barely made it out of bed, let alone to the meetings of the small council. Aemond didn't remember the last time he spoke to his father.

Using his cane, King Viserys made his way out to the throne, succeeding Otto Hightower, who looked anything but enthusiastic. When the king was present, he alone decided who would inherit the title of Lord of the Tides. And Viserys Targaryen would always speak for his daughter and her illegitimate sons. Aemond clenched his fists. Aemond looked at Alyssa, who was staring at the king, startled. Disbelief and concern were on her face and she had a hand over her mouth. She looked at Viserys and shook her head. She probably hadn't known about his ill condition. Aemond's heart ached at the sight of her. He knew she liked Viserys. He took her in and made her what she is today. Thanks to him she was a princess.

He wished he could go to her and pull her into his arms. That he could give her comfort, but he wasn't allowed to. She probably wouldn't accept it anyway. He had wanted to apologize to her yesterday, finally wanted to clear things up between them. When he was so close to her in the library, he'd finally wanted to put it right. But then Jace showed up and spoiled everything.

Aemond barely paid attention to his father's words as he listened to what Princess Rhaenys had to say and as they discussed the engagement between Rhaenyra's sons and Lady Laena's daughters. He wasn't particularly interested in his cousins, although he would be interested to know if Alyssa had befriended them over the years. Had the two girls become her new confidants? Had Alyssa filled the space at her side with her sisters?

As Aemond expected, Princess Rhaenys spoke in Luke's favor and King Viserys supported Luke's claim to driftmark and named him the next Lord of the Tides.

But what he didn't expect was that Ser Vaemond would step forward. "You break law and centuries of tradition to instull your daughter as heir. Yet you dare to tell me how deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No, I will now allow it."

Aemond raised an eyebrow in surprise. Perhaps this gathering would be entertaining after all.

"Allow it?" the king asked confused. "Don't forget yourself, Vaemond."

Vaemond spun angrily at Rhaenyra and her children. "That is no true Velaryon." Aemond enjoyed how Luke flinched at the Lord's words and stepped closer to his mother. Like a little child. "And certainly no nephew of mine."

There they were, the words Aemond had hoped for. The truth, plain for all to hear.

"Go to your chambers," the princess instructed her son, then turned to Ser Vaemond. "You have said enough.“

"Lucerys is ma trueborn grandson and you no more than the second son of driftmark."

Aemond took his father's words personally. He too was no more than a second son. He might be a king's son, but this king didn't give a damn about him.

"You... may run your house as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine.  You allow your brother to whore around and father illegitimate children who you then legitimize and raise to the status of a princess“, Vaemond harsh words hit Aemond. He stared at the knight with disgust in his eyes. He didn't care if he insulted Rhaenyra or her sons, but if he said another word about Alyssa, Aemond would cut out his tongue and feed him to Vhagar.

But Ser Vaemond had spoken out in a rage. "You allow your daughter to behave unnaturally and break the marriage bond. My house survive the Dom and a thousand tribulations besides. And the gods be damned I will not see it ended on the account of this… „

„Say it“, Daemon provoked him and Aemond saw Alyssa step closer to her father and shake her head warningly.

Aemond had always admired his uncle when he heard about his success in battle and his audacity. He hated him for what he had done to Alyssa, but Aemond saw a real Targaryen in Daemon, he wouldn't deny that.

They had just insulted his daughter, himself and his wife. Had it been otherwise, had these things been said to Aemond and his family, Ser Vaemond would have been reduced to ashes.

For a brief moment there was absolute silence in the room and Aemond already believed that it was over and Ser Vaemond accepted his failure. But the man was dumber than Aemond had thought.

"Her children are bastards," Ser Vaemond shouted across the hall. Some members of the court flinched, others gasped and widened their eyes. "And she is a whore." 

Aemond looked at Alyssa, she had flinched at the last word and he saw her swallow. She had both arms wrapped around her and looked strangely lost. A stab went through his heart. Even after all these years, that word still bothered her. A word he had thrown at her. She opened her eyes and immediately found Aemond's gaze. He thought he could see tears in it, but he couldn't say for sure, she was too far away from him for that. Alyssa met his gaze, but there wasn't the familiar fire in her eyes. She averted her eyes far too quickly in embarrassment. She had the same look on her face as she had six years ago when he had called her names. Aemond felt like the little boy again who had hurt his best friend and pushed her away forever. Alyssa might be in the same room as him, but she was miles away.

His thoughts were interrupted when his father struggled to his feet and drew the dagger on his belt. "I will have your tongue for that."

But that didn't happen anymore. Screams rang out as Daemon Targaryen cut off Ser Vaemond's head.

Startled, Aemond backed away, grabbing his own sword and pulling his sister behind him in the same movement. Helaena had her hands over her ears and looked disturbed.

When he lifted his head and looked at Alyssa to make sure she was alright, he saw that she just shook her head. She didn't seem startled, disgusted or surprised. As if she had already expected such behavior from her father.

"He can keep his tongue."

The assembled knights in the hall drew their swords and charged at Daemon, his grandfather demanded that he be disarmed, but his uncle just wiped the blood off his sword and sheathed it as if nothing had happened.

Aemond stared at his uncle. He almost applauded. For his harsh words and the pain Vaemond had inflicted on Alyssa, he wanted to kill the cunt himself. Daemon had believed him, and Aemond couldn't tell he was mourning the man. Maybe Daemon had finally learned to stand up for his family.

Murmurs grew louder as the king groaned in pain. Aemond wasn't paying attention to his father, however, but continued to look at Alyssa. He saw the concern on her face. She used to worry about him, but not anymore. Wanted her to be there for him. Just like in the past.

The king refused any painkillers, but allowed the guards to take him out. "I will be expecting my brother, wife, son and niece in my private chambers. There are matters that need to be discussed."

Surprised, Aemond raised an eyebrow and exchanged a confused look with Aegon. His brother shrugged oblivious.

"Who are you talking about, my husband?" Alicent demanded, equally confused.

"From Princess Alyssa and Prince Aemond. You will come to my chambers in a moment, no arguments."

Aemond felt his body tense. He had not been in his father's chambers for a long time, and now he was summoned there. He looked at Alyssa who was already staring at him. Confusion was visible in her eyes, but when she saw that Aemond was also looking at her, she lifted her chin defiantly and left the room.

A grin spread across his face. No matter what his father wanted, he would have the opportunity to be close to her and that was all that mattered.

"What do you think he wants from us?" Alyssa asked Daemon as they walked towards the king's chambers.

"I have no idea. I don't like the presence of the queen and her idiot son."

Aemond was no idiot, but Alyssa didn't contradict the prince. She didn't want to defend Aemond, not in front of Daemon.

"I never thought he was in such bad shape. It was horrifying to see him like that." Alyssa fiddled with her sleeve. King Viserys had always been a little sickly, but not like this. Not like today, when he looked more dead than alive.

"It surprised me too. The Queen has kept us in the dark about his condition." Daemon looked angry, and Alyssa knew his anger was aimed at the queen, but she frowned.

"Have you inquired about his health? Have you written to your brother over the past few years? Have you inquired about him, as you have inquired about me all these years ago?“

She doubted that. So she didn't think it was fair that Daemon was now blaming Alicent. The queen was not to blame for the king's condition. On the contrary, she devotedly took care of him, you could clearly see that today. But Daemon hadn't been a caring brother. He hadn't given a fuck about Viserys for the last few years.

Daemon glared at her. "You know very well that we were otherwise occupied."

"Writing a letter to your brother takes five minutes. You could have taken the time if you really cared, so don't blame the queen for your ignorance now. Blame yourself, you and yours lack of concern."

Alyssa glared at the prince before the doors to the king's bedchamber were opened for them. 

She deeply regretted that she had hardly written to her uncle. A few letters had been exchanged between them, but only on occasions such as name days or special celebrations. Alyssa blamed herself for not being there for her uncle. 

"Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince Consort to Crown Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ruler of Dragonstone, and his daughter Princess Alyssa Targaryen," a servant announced them.

Alyssa immediately saw the miniature replica of Valyria her uncle had been working on for years. Thick layers of dust lay on the small houses. How long had he not been able to work on them?

Her uncle lay in his bed, two maesters around him, handing him tea. There was still no sign of the Queen and her son. Alyssa took her time and approached the king's bedside.

"My king," she greeted Viserys and curtsied.

The king groaned in pain, but raised a hand when a maester offered him a cup of tea. "I need a clear head."

"Alyssa, my dear niece," the king ground out and reached out his hand to her. Alyssa grabbed it. His hand felt cold. And paper-thin, like his fingers would snap from too much pressure, like they'd melt between her fingers like sand.

"You look well, a true Targaryan princess. A beautiful young woman."

Alyssa smiled. "Thank you, my king."

"You used to call me uncle."

"You are still my uncle, Your Majesty. I will call you what you please."

Viserys laughed, but his laughter gave way to a cough and then a groan. "Then call me uncle."

"As you wish."

The doors opened and Alicent and Aemond entered the room. Behind them walked Otto Hightower, the King's Hand, who was not invited to this conversation.

"Otto, it seems to me I didn't hear your name in the king's enumeration before," said Daemon, staring at the lord darkly.

"Prince Daemon, how good to see you again."

"I'd rather never see you again. Or better yet, at your own funeral."

"Daemon," Alyssa hissed, glaring at the prince admonishingly.

"Otto may stay", groaned the king and grabbed his forehead.

"My dear, please finally take something for the pain"; Alicent begged her husband, stepping over to the bed beside him.

Aemond stood in the middle of the room, waiting. His eyes were on Alyssa, but she refused to look at him.

"Maesters, give His Majesty some Milk of the Poppy," demanded the Queen.

"No, not until I've set things right," Viserys disagreed.

"What is the matter you wanted to discuss, my king?" Otto asked interested and looked from Daemon to the king.

Alyssa got up and stood next to Daemon. On the other side of the bed were Alicent and Otto. Aemond hadn't joined them. He stood at the foot of the bed. But his gaze kept gliding to Alyssa.

She, too, was curious to know why Viserys had called this meeting.

"It's been a long time since this family lived together peacefully. I miss that time."

Alyssa frowned. Had there ever been such a time? She had been happy here once, yes. But the whole family together.. no, there had always been tensions and conflicts. Always starting from the princess and the queen, egged on by Otto and Daemon.

"I have not forgotten the day we recorded Alyssa. I remember it clearly. I always knew that one day she would be part of the family."

Alyssa tensed at the words. As if she wasn't already a part of his family, after all she was his niece and connected to the king by blood.

Alyssa is breathing heavily, she had a bad feeling. Her gaze darted to Aemond, who was watching his father with wary eyes.

King Viserys coughed and immediately Alicent was at his side. "I wish for a marriage between Alyssa and Aemond."

Alyssa held her breath. Her blood rushed through her veins and she felt like she couldn't breathe. What just happened here?

She looked over at Aemond, who looked just as amazed as she did. But he quickly got his facial expression under control and looked at her. There was a silent question in his eyes. Alyssa didn't know the answer to that.

"No way," Daemon said while Alicent clapped her hands happily. "That's an excellent idea, my love."

"No, Alicent. Under no circumstances will any of my daughters marry any of your sons. Did you hear me?“ Daemon took a step towards the bed, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "She fled from you and your kin years ago, remember? I doubt she would want to return now."

Why did Daemon talk about her as if she wasn't there? And why didn't Alyssa say anything about it herself? She felt a lump in her throat that prevented her from speaking. She couldn't find words for what was going on inside her.

Alicent glared at her brother-in-law. "No, I haven't forgotten that. It was the first time you even realized she was your daughter. It was the day you took her from me."

Alyssa closed her eyes and wished herself far away. She felt like she was a little kid again, scared and insignificant. Someone was making decisions over her head that she couldn't do anything about.

Viserys groaned and immediately the banter between the queen and the prince ceased. "Stop fighting. I will not force anyone into a marriage. I want my son and niece to consent to this marriage of their own free will.“

Daemon laughed. "Why would Alyssa agree to that, brother? What's in it for her?"

Visery's eyes wandered to Alyssa, who stood frozen. "She loved him once, Daemon.“ At the king's words, Alyssa's head jerked towards Aemond. He stared at her. Embarrassed, Alyssa averted her gaze and looked at the floor. “They had such a strong bond. A bond that should never be broken. No matter what happened, they must work this out. For the good of our family."

Alyssa felt the tears in her eyes, felt a weight settle on her heart.

"Leave," said the king, and everyone looked at him in confusion. "I want to talk to my niece alone."

Alyssa swallowed and bit her lower lip. Would he ask her to marry Aemond even if she didn't want to?

Alicent smiled at Alyssa, put a hand on Aemond's shoulder and walked into the next room with him and her father. Daemon stared from his daughter to his brother, shaking his head but walking away.

"You have nothing to say, child?"

Alyssa swallowed, trying to find her voice again. "What should I say to that?"

"Is that what you want? I remember you asked me to do it once."

She remembered it. It was her ninth name day and Viserys had asked her what she wished for. "Aemond," she had answered her uncle. "I want Aemond."

"And what else?"

"Nothing. Just him."

A lot had changed since then. She was no longer a little girl with naive desires. Those were the words of an innocent child who was now grown.

"You have nothing to say, child?"

Alyssa swallowed, trying to find her voice again. "What should I say to that?"

"Is that what you want? I remember you asked me to do it once."

She remembered it. It was her ninth name day and Viserys had asked her what she wished for. "Aemond," she had answered her uncle. "I want Aemond."

"And what else?"

"Nothing. Just him."

A lot had changed since then. She was no longer a little girl with naive desires. Those were the words of an innocent child who was now grown.

"But I don't love him," Alyssa whispered through tears in her voice. It tasted like an ugly lie on her tongue. "And he certainly doesn't love me."

"You are wrong, child. You loved each other before you knew what love was. You will learn to love each other again."

"Then the decision is made? Without me having a say?"

Viserys gasped and coughed heavily. Alyssa handed him his tea and waited for the king to calm down. "I said I won't force you into this marriage. But do this favor to this old man who wants his son and niece to be happy."

"Is that my king's wish?" Alyssa asked in a low voice.

"No, it is your uncle's wish, who loves you dearly.“

Alyssa looked at Viserys, he looked so frail that she was afraid he was going to die at any moment. He asked her something for the first time ever in Alyssa's life. The king took her in when she was a baby. Gave her food and drink, a roof over her head and clean clothes. He had given her a family. That was so much more than Alyssa could ever give him back.

"Do you really think we'll be happy together? After everything that's happened?"

Viserys patted her hand. "Yes."

Alyssa bit her lower lip. "Then I will comply with your request, uncle."

"Thank you, Alyssa. At least that way I know one of my children will have a happy marriage."

Alyssa wasn't so sure, but she didn't contradict the king. Instead, she got up and took a few steps away from the bed.

Just what had she done? She agreed to marry Aemond? That was the last thing she had hoped for from her trip to King's Landing.

As Alyssa got up, the others rejoined them. Alyssa felt their questioning looks on her and looked away.

"The princess has agreed. She will be the wife of my son Prince Aemond.“

„Excellent“, said Otto. Triumph crossed his face. „The marriage should be within this week in the Light of the Seven."

"No," Alyssa cut him off sharply.

"No?" Otto asked with a raised eyebrow. "I thought you made your decision, Princess."

Alyssa swallowed hard. "I did. But we are Targaryens. We are the blood of old Valyria. I will not marry under the Light of the Seven, but according to ancient Valyrian tradition. I will marry Aemond this way or not at all, My Lord Hand. The choice is yours."

Otto looked at Aemond. He in turn only looked at Alyssa and nodded. "Whatever my bride desires."

It was the first time she looked at him since they were certain they were getting married. His feelings could not be seen, he skillfully hid them behind a mask. When they looked at each other, however, she saw him frown. He couldn't understand why she had agreed to this. But he didn't seem snubbed or disgusted by the engagement.

Alyssa glared at him and stepped towards him. They were so close to each other that the others couldn't hear her words. "Don't think that this is done out of affection. I'm doing it because my king requires it of me. And what your bride desires is something totally else."

Aemond narrowed his eyes but leaned in and planted a kiss on her cheek, as was expected of him. "You could have declined the offer. What did my father say to you?"

"That's none of your business. I've complied with my uncle's wishes, that's all you need to know."

Aemond looked at her silently, but nodded. He had one hand on her waist, the other behind his back. "Then it looks like our oath will come true after all. Syt mirre ondoso aōha paktot."

Alyssa froze at those words. For ever by your side. She could clearly feel Aemond's hand on her waist. Like if he was setting her skin on fire. She shook her head. "Just stop grinning, Aemond. Syt mirre ondosa aōha paktot... those words mean nothing to me anymore."

His eyes narrowed and the pressure of his fingers on her waist increased. "ȳdra daor ivestragon bona." 

"Why shouldn't I say that? It's the truth."

"Issi pōnta drēje?" He wanted to know if she was really telling the truth.

Alyssa lifted her chin. "Hen rhinka issi," she confirmed. They were true. Somehow at least. She hadn't forgotten her oath, but it had lost its meaning. Not just for her, but for both of them. He had left her as she had left him.

"Nyke ȳdra daor pāsagon ao“, he wispered. His lips were right over her ear and she felt the warmth of his breath.

"I don't care if you believe me or not. Jiōragon hen hen issa ñuhoso", he should go out of her way, she was done with him. She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. But Aemond didn't move. He was still standing right in front of her looking down at her.

"Dīnagon!" Alyssa demanded. He should move. Alyssa let out a frustrated sigh. "If I have to spend the rest of my life with you, at least until the wedding I have the freedom to avoid you. So move!"

Aemond clenched his jaw and stepped aside. "Īlon should ȳdragon nūmāzma bona."

She had always loved it when he spoke to her in high Valyrian, but right now Alyssa wanted to punch him in the face with every word.

"Yes, we should talk. But not now. I've had enough of you for now."

She stormed out of the room. She didn't care that she hadn't been formally dismissed or that she hadn't said goodbye to her king and queen. She even heard Alicent calling her name, but Alyssa ignored it. Alyssa needed time to herself to think about her new engagement.

But she didn't get very far when she heard footsteps behind her.

"Alyssa, stop!“ Daemon grabbed her upper arm and forced her to stop. He looked her in the face, but Alyssa looked away. „If you don't want this marriage, just say a word and I'll end it all."

How exactly did he want to prevent this marriage? By taking her back to Dragonstone and imprisoning her there? By ignoring his brother and his wishes? Or by killing Aemond?

Neither was an option that Alyssa wanted. She stopped, clenched her hands into fists and took a deep breath. "I'll tell you what I told you many years ago: I know what loyalty means, what responsibility means. My king has asked me for something and I will comply with his wishes."

Daemon narrowed his eyes and put a hand on her shoulder. "It has nothing to do with loyalty and responsibility."

Alyssa shook off his hand. A laugh escaped her. "Yes it did. I will not run from my duties like you did."

"You don't know what it's like to be stuck in a loveless marriage. Do you really want to go through this for the wishes of a dying man? My brother wouldn't want you to be miserable like I was with Rhae."

Alyssa hadn't known Daemon's first wife and knew absolutely nothing about her. Still, she didn't think Lady Rhae was at fault. Her father took what he wanted. And just because he didn't wanted Rhae, his wife had suffered. She also didn't want to be trapped in a loveless or unhappy marriage, actually she hadn't wanted to get married anymore. But she couldn't refuse Visery's request. She owed him everything. It was the least she could do for him. She glared at Daemon. "I don't think your brother wanted you to fuck his daughter either, and yet you do it. Let this marriage be my concern, understood?"

Daemon laughed hard at her words and shook his head. "Alyssa, you don't know what you're getting yourself into."

"Maybe, but it's my decision."

It was a decision that would either break her heart forever or fix it.

___________________________

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[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Younger Gods: Chapter VII

Master List Chapter 6

Morpheus x fem!reader

The chaos of younger gods brings old horrors to the Dreaming.

Warnings: suggested PTSD triggers, the most awkward beans alive, Taliesin and Matthew being little shits

A/N: Getting this chapter on the page was like getting the last of the ketchup out of an old glass bottle - holy SHIT. I know the readership for this fic has dropped sharply, but I love each and every one of you (especially when you take the time to comment/reblog <3). Much love as we move towards the final chapter!

Chapter 7: Dangerous Thoughts

“Lucienne.”

She knew his voice, and she opened her eyes to see her lord returned, whole and hale. Alive. She could not remember being so happy to see him, not even after his imprisonment over the past century. While he was gone she had hope, but in the horror of the last hours her fears overtook all sense. Panic stole her reason and informed her the Dreaming had fallen, and she’d known it to be true – because she’d seen it. Heard it. Tasted it.

Her friends had abandoned all they held dear. Her king had perished.

A sob caught in her throat as she seized Lord Morpheus’s proffered hand, and though she’d come back to herself just enough to feel humiliated by her behavior, she hadn’t rediscovered enough pride to stop it. She needed that hand – alive, alive, alive – to anchor her.

“I am sorry, my lord.”

“There is nothing for which you need apologize.” Both of his hands closed over hers, hiding her trembling from the world. His aspect turned dark, and only that grip assured her his wrath had other targets. “You were attacked. Can you tell me what happened?”

“The Dreaming fell. My lord – you were – everyone had deserted the palace, and the gates had fallen.” She rambled, failing to stop for breath until Lord Morpheus set a hand on her shoulder, hushing the lingering panic with his touch, his clear and very real presence.

“How did it begin?”

He looked at her like she’d grown fragile in the hours since they last spoke, and she finally felt enough hurt pride to clear her throat and sit up. When she reached instinctively to straighten her spectacles, she found her face bare. That couldn’t be right. Had they fallen off? Were they broken? What would she do –

Merv – standing at her elbow – cleared his throat. “Got your glasses here, Luce.”

She cleared her own throat, banishing the sticky tears fogging her tongue, and swept the pair up to their right and proper position. The instant they framed her face, she felt better. The world looked correct, and she – and all she cared for – was well.

One deep breath banished the fading screams from her lungs. It brought balance, awareness, focus. A safe, important pattern. She was herself. She was Lord Morpheus’s royal librarian. There was a threat to her library, and she must inform her lord.

“I thought I saw dreamfolk entering the palace after an attack.” She glanced at Mervyn, who’d been in the library when she first heard their guests. “Was that illusion or fact?”

“No one came in that I saw,” the pumpkinhead said. His sounded contrite, apologetic even. “The guardians didn’t see anything, either, but a couple a’ dreams said the sky went weird.”

Morpheus’s frown creased his entire face. “How so? What did they see?”

“More like what the didn’t see, boss.” Merv scratched the back of his orange head. “They said it moved, like they knew they should see somethin’ that wasn’t there. Kinda the way a mirror plays tricks on you. Sorry, like I said, I didn’t actually see anything.”

The King of Dreams sat back in his chair, going cold and still as his fury mounted. The tenderness in his eyes sank below a marble mask as his rage swelled like the tide. The nuisance had become a threat. The trespassers had drawn blood. Lucienne’s cuticles were ringed red, though someone had already bandaged her scalp.

“None of you are at fault.” Morpheus’s eyes flicked to the nearest window, a long slit in the wall offering a splendid view of the green hills and flowering fields rising behind the palace. But the bright sun did not warm his face. “They ride their father’s chariot. Even Aries hopes to see the Dreaming at war, even if it is only with itself.”

Merv grumbled under his breath, fidgeting, expressing all the anxiety his master could not. “What do we do?”

“Watch. Wait. They pile evidence against themselves by the day, and once I have seen them meddle in the affairs of my realm with my own eyes, I will have just cause to retaliate.” The lord of the Dreaming closed his eyes, resigning himself to an unpleasant decision. “The strategy remains. I must let them build their own gallows, though they grow more daring.” Outside, the sky turned dark, and the grey sky growled with the king’s displeasure. “To strike at my librarian within the palace… rest assured, Lucienne, they will be punished.”

He met her eyes as he made the promise, and she wondered if the world would soon be short two gods.

“I have no doubt, lord.”

Never a fan of tension, but still reluctant to leave the room, Mervyn crossed his arms and asked, “Where’s the new kid?”

Morpheus rose from his seat beside Lucienne, offering a final, reassuring touch to her shoulder, and turned away, summoned by all the chaos he must arbitrate, the defenses he must build.

“Matthew is with the bard and his storm god. There have been complications.”

“If I may be of any assistance –” Lucienne rushed to offer.

“You have more than enough work to consume your time.” The king made to leave the room. The burden of his title and crown giving weight to every resounding step. “And I would rather you rest. Recover, Lucienne.”

It wasn’t up for debate. He was learning to listen, yes, but he did not take threats well. He did not take loss well, and this came close. If she hadn’t collapsed, if she’d run into the waves instead, they might’ve never had this conversation. And in addition to all that, she couldn’t help suspecting he’d nearly lost something else. He would not leave Matthew to watch over the storm god in her own home if he wasn’t concerned, and Lord Morpheus rarely showed concern without great reason.

She wanted to ask, but she didn’t.

Once their liege had left earshot, however, Mervyn turned with squinted, hollow eyes. “Think something’s up with that?”

Lucienne tsked, brushing herself down as she swung her legs over the edge of the narrow bed. She would recover best on her feet. In the library. Surrounded by her books with a task or twelve in hand.

“It isn’t our business to ask.” It was never their business when their master lost his perfect control. It wasn’t their business when the stars glowed like proper suns or – later – when the clouds turned noon dark as night. Safer that way. Tidier, at least for his librarian. “If the situation with Matthew’s savior were to impact us in any way, I’m sure our king would tell us.”

“Yeah?” Merv’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How sure?”

----------------------------------------------

After her flight from her home, the torturous months without sleep, and everything that happened with Dream while she slept, she found herself becalmed.

She’d been racing towards something – death and freedom sat shoulder to shoulder in her world – and now? Nothing.

The attacks on the Dreaming kept Dream busy in his own realm, and until he and Taliesin found a new approach to her problem, there was nothing to do.

Nothing to do, and nowhere she could run from her troubles.

So, she drifted. Picking up one project, then another, sometimes finishing a new scarf or improving on a potion before she moved on, sometimes leaving shawls half-knitted and cups of tea half-full around the cottage.

She felt adrift, caught in the vast nothingness between goals without a wind to propel her. Although she had a destination in mind, it was still much too far away to see, and nothing could close that distance unless forces outside her control made it so.

She hated it.

At least she wasn’t alone. Matthew stayed, and he got on alarming well with Taliesin. Thick as thieves, those two.

Minutes ago, the raven fluttered to the bard’s head and whispered in his ear. Then they both suddenly had somewhere else to be, and they rushed out the door like something was actually wrong. If it weren’t for the poorly-veiled smirk Taliesin worked too hard to wipe off his face, she might’ve been concerned.

She was still concerned, just for different reasons. Apart, each one was trouble. Together? The world wasn’t ready.

By pairing off, the two also made her a third wheel in her own home. Besides the uncomfortable stirring of unwelcome jealousy – Taliesin was her friend, damn it – their partnership gave her entirely too much time alone to think. And she mulled entirely too much about things she shouldn’t, things she’d never wrestled with before. If Taliesin wasn’t so busy conspiring with Matthew, and if Matthew wasn’t really Dream’s mobile spy cam, she might confide in him. But no. Not when someone might overhear. Especially him.

Sticky little visions and insidious questions spun through her head, and she found herself helpless to stop them as they hooked into interesting places where they could grow and blossom into something painful to ignore.

When she thought of their conversations, her imagination wandered to his pink lips, wondering they were soft, what they might feel like if she dared to brush over them with the tips of her fingers, whether they’d welcome her own lips – which she suddenly realized were NOT soft after all her nervous chewing and went hunting for balm.

Even memories of their early acquaintance took on new shades. He’d been frightening, but beautiful, too. Statuesque, a monument to things beyond desire. He contained worlds. Impossible and untouchable.

And yet.

He sat with her in the rain.

That night when things went so wrong, when she’d been so vulnerable she couldn’t stand her own skin, he showed her tender patience she could never have asked for.

When he might’ve handed the duty to someone else, given her orders, or simply left her to come back on her own, he chose to wait. He lowered himself and showed he was vulnerable, too. The Endless empathized with her suffering because he’d lived through his own, and in the tangle of wind and wet loam, he’d shared it.

There were few understandings so potent as showing each other your scars and discovering they matched.

He accidentally propped open a door that evening, and she stayed vulnerable ever since, against her wishes and better sense.

At least she didn’t dream. She shuddered at the imaginary horror of the Dream King sensing – or even seeing – the warm sparks glowing in new and strange places when she thought of his hands hold up her hair, brushing her neck, carrying her home.

Yeah.

No.

Taliesin was talking about brewing a milder version of the potion she took to avoid Dream in the waking world, and she was more than onboard with the plan. It was a temporary solution until they had time and opportunity to further investigate the curse, but she’d take it.

Dream must never know.

Never ever.

The kettle sang, and she lifted it away from the fire, muttering under her breath as she filled the two waiting mugs. She set it all up to share with Taliesin, and then he’d swanned off with the raven. Ungrateful shit. She could just put the tea bag back, but she was feeling left out and spiteful, so she set it to brew.

If he didn’t come back before it went cold, it could stand like a tepid modern art installation. She’d call it something melodramatic, like Forgotten Conversations or some such shit.

She was two sips into her own drink when a knock came at the door.

Her frustration popped like a bubble, and she sprang up in a swirl of skirt and shawl, mug clutched in one hand to let her friend back inside. Had the silly, over-protective thing tried locking it and forgotten his key?

She was safe here. He should know that by now.

Or maybe he was waiting on the other side with a funny face to try to scare her, or he had his hands full with a basket of blueberries he’d found growing in a swampy patch between the hills. Always a surprise, that man.

She yanked the door open, still trying to decide whether she wanted to chide or tease him more, and froze.

Dream stood there, eying the top of the doorframe, and every inappropriate thought she’d suffered in the past weeks crashed through her psyche at once, leaving no room for speech or movement or manners as his gaze dropped down to hers.

He had gorgeous eyes, even when he was pretending to be more human than he was.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, shit.

Had she even brushed her hair that morning? She’d gotten much too used to Taliesin’s relaxed approach to everything, and she was in full gremlin chic. Fucking hell.

And he was looking at her.

And there was no one else in the house.

Fuck.

What did one do when the object of their quiet fascination arrived unannounced?

“Would you like some tea?”

Yes. Tea was good.

Leaving the door open for him, she hurried back towards the table by the fire where the second mug stood in all its judgmental splendor. Still warm, too. Thank gods.

Having a task made it all better. She didn’t have to guess at what to say, how to behave. They’d officially reached a point in their acquaintance where her urge to be a good host outstripped any screaming anxieties by a mile. She would give him tea no matter what he said, and if he stayed too long, she’d start fussing over dinner, too.

“I was steeping this for Taliesin, but he wandered off with Matthew just a few minutes ago.”

“Thank you, but –”

She shoved the mug into his hands before he could refuse. Shrugging off the baffled eyebrow creeping up his face, she said, “It’ll just go to waste. Might as well warm your hands. If you don’t drink tea.”

He didn’t, she noted, immediately set the cup aside. He arranged his grip just so, long fingers arranging themselves to cradle the cheap porcelain like something that mattered, even if he clearly didn’t understand why. She could imagine him weaving a new dream like that, a small, shapeless thing held close as he spun it beat by beat from the first pulses of a warm heart.

She doubted he’d had much time for new dreams lately.

While he always looked a little gaunt by human standards, the Dream King looked haggard in the firelight, peering into his tea. Shadows hung in pockets under his cheek, ringing his eyes, even curling in little wisps along the fringes of his shadow. The pallor glowed at odds with his feverish eyes, and she wondered how long it had been since he had a chance to stop and breathe.

“You look tired.”

His gaze snapped to her, catching her watching, sending her rushing headlong into an apology before she could even process how the thought escaped her lips in the first place.

“I’m sorry.” She looked down into her brew, genuinely contrite. There were a thousand better ways to ask if she could lend a hand. This wasn’t something she knew how to do. It’d been ages since she developed any kind of relationship outside of her friendship with Taliesin.

And her traitorous tongue wasn’t through humiliating her yet. “Was that rude? I only meant – I mean, I know there’s nothing I can offer someone like you, but – The people you love are hurting. Someone attacked your home. If there’s anything I can do to… help? I’d like to. Help, I mean. I’d like to help.”

Her initial insult had startled the lingering frustration from his eyes, and she barely had time to notice how they warmed by inches throughout her stumbling explanation. He shook his head, nearly smiling through the faint haze of steam wafting from between his palms.

“Thank you.” He gave the words far more gravitas than she deserved, and the weight of his lordly gratitude dragged her low in her seat. “But I believe you’re right; there’s nothing you can do at this time.” Finally, he set the mug on the side table, still full and fairly warm. “I came to check on you. Has the collar caused any more problems in your waking hours?”

Ah, so it was a serious medical consultation. She couldn’t make it a social call even if she tried. At least she’d foisted the tea on him. Briefly. And with this clear purpose maybe she could keep all those dangerous dreams of hers safely locked down.

Setting her own cup aside, she traced the edge of her scarf. The bandages were long gone, but she had plenty of new scars. It was awful – to look at and to feel.

“My neck aches, but it’s healing, and Taliesin hasn’t found any fresh wounds, so… Looks like there’s nothing you can do at this time, either.”

He nodded slowly, a thousand tasks and anxieties rushing behind his glittering eyes.

“Then I will not disturb you.”

“You don’t disturb me.” She said it so fast she nearly yelped it, and he looked at her so sharply, so attentively, it was like he’d never been tired at all. A hint of burning stars flickered in his blue eyes, and she a jolt of fear interrupted the butterflies that had been so merrily swarming her gut. Her secrets weren’t safe at all. If she kept holding his gaze…

She looked down – coward – into her empty hands and wished she hadn’t given up her tea. Now she had nothing to fiddle with, no excuse to fill her mouth with drink and buy herself more time to think of a suitable, reasonable, and not at all embarrassing explanation.

He held the silence. She couldn’t even see if he was breathing, and in the end she had to keep wading across the river she’d so blindly jumped in.

“I’m glad to see you,” she said, oh so carefully as she met his eye, “and I wish there was something I could do. You’re always welcome here, just so you know. If you ever need a quiet moment, my home isn’t grand or inspiring, but it’s a good place to rest.”

This time, she saw when he smiled. Barely more than a smirk, it lifted his eyes as well as his lips, and the butterflies escaped her stomach to swarm her chest.

“Thank you, little storm god.”

A deep breath pulled in all the smells of home. Woodsmoke and drying herbs. Fresh tea and bread baked early in the morning. They told her more than anything that she was safe, no matter how embarrassed, and that confidence gave her a little power.

“I’m serious you know.” She pulled herself up straighter, wanting to be believed, not pitied. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to be what you are, to manage everything you shoulder, but I understand exhaustion. If all I can ever offer you is a quiet place to gather your thoughts, I’m happy to keep the door open.”

Ah – she’d nearly forgotten. She’d talked it over with both Matthew and Taliesin, and they’d enthusiastically agreed with her. Very enthusiastically. They almost made it weird.

“I even –” She wrestled through her pockets, remembering slipping it into one after she added a black ribbon the day before. Heaven help her if it fell out and the couch ate it. But – no – there it was. Cold metal touched her palm, and she triumphantly yanked out a delicate silver key strung on a long ribbon for safekeeping. It twinkled in the firelight, as she held it up for her guest to take. “I made you one, like Taliesin’s, so you can come and go with a little less effort. Consider it an official invitation. You’re always welcome, Dream.”

The Lord of the Dreaming accepted her gift, studying the craftsmanship. When he peered back at her, he looked through his lashes. She was sure he didn’t do it on purpose, but her stomach flipped, and she wondered if she hadn’t set herself up for trouble with this offering.

“An invitation from the master of one realm to another?”

The tension burst again, and she laughed in relief. “I’d hardly call this a realm.”

He tucked the key inside his coat, in some pocket or universe hiding behind the left side of the fabric, around the height of his heart. He finished his task with care before returning all his attention to their conversation.

“And yet, without you, it would cease to be. Perhaps you do not give yourself enough credit.”

She felt the heat bloom over her entire face, and looked desperately for an excuse to busy her hands. “I don’t know about that.”

No excuses presented themselves, and she was trapped in the full power of the Dream Lord’s stare as it wandered from her eyes to her neck. He couldn’t see through the scarf, but she was sure he remembered the damage he’d seen that night in the rain, when he sat beside her on the couch and helped Taliesin stitch her back into a single, functioning piece.

He was invested in her problems, but she wasn’t sure if he cared beyond that. She was careful with her life because she knew Taliesin would grieve if she lost it, and he’d lived so long, he’d lost enough. The Dream Lord was different. Would he be hurt if this went badly? Would he blame himself if he couldn’t fix her?

What, if anything, did he want from her? Did their connection begin and end in the collar?

She swallowed, and he met her eyes again. Something new hid there, but he masked his emotions so well she couldn’t read him. All she had were his words. His actions. Her choices were her own, and she knew her life hung by too fine a thread to let him even imagine he was responsible for them.

“You can’t save me, Dream of the Endless,” she murmured. “I saved myself a long time ago.”

His eyes flicked to the scarf. The barest glance. It spoke volumes. Regret and hope effused the concentrated frown his face fell into when he thought too deeply.

“Not entirely.”

His voice dropped into a rumble, and it nearly distracted her from her goal. But he was the focus of that goal for the moment, and her blooming affection for the Endless brooked no risks she could divert. She’d said she wanted to help, and despite his insistence, this was something she could do. Fresh resolve stiffened her spine.

He had enough burdens at the moment without trying to struggle under her own struggles. His guilt wouldn’t protect her, but it would sap his strength, pull his attention from critical matters of the Dreaming. That would hurt them both in the end.

She heaved a sigh big enough to lift her shoulders.

“I hope I escape the collar someday, but even if there’s no solution, even if I never dream peacefully, I’m content with my life. I might be miserable sometimes, but I learned to live with it before you decided to… what? Rescue me? If I’m content, why can’t you be?”

Dream took one step towards her. There wasn’t much space between them to begin with. Her home was cozy, not large. Celestial fires raged behind the thinnest scrim of blue, evidence of a struggle against passions he wouldn’t share, and his expression shifted like his sand. Determined and stiff, soft and nearly open.

He took another step, and she feared if she breathed too deeply, she’d touch him by accident. He was, by virtue of his nature, intimidating, but it felt like she’d grown a magnet in her chest that begged one of them to close the delicate gap, like it was the most natural thing in the world to plunge headfirst into danger.

Decisions yet to be made fluctuated in the pull of his lips, trembled along his tense jaw. His hands clenched and stretched open at his sides. But none of that was for her, only the starlight that called across endless miles and lifetimes with a song she’d echoed in a bower of saplings under the storm.

When he spoke, his voice was the softest she’d ever heard. It still filled the room, but the fire and the light from the open door dimmed so the shadows could swaddle his words, keep them for her and her alone.

“Maybe I am not content to see you miserable.”

The stars swept her face like searchlights, looking for something, or gathering a sacrifice she gave without knowing. The gap between them no longer mattered. It wasn’t there. Not really. He stood in her space, and she welcomed him, every dream and terror he possessed. She met him with hurricanes and gentlest showers under soft grey skies. They saw. They understood.

A thread stitched them together, the ties still loose, but undeniable.

This was more than pity. It wasn’t guilt or grief or the mere drive to cut out the foreign magic from her dreams.

It… he might –

“We’re back, darling! Why is the door open?”

The moment shattered, and they both turned to see Taliesin and Matthew sweep inside. The bard’s face lit up when he spied their guest, and he hurried to throw his wet coat on the rack as the raven shook himself dry.

“Hello, Lord Morpheus! We had no idea you were coming today.” A touch too excited. A little too loud. Projecting, like he was performing on stage.

Matthew croaked. “Hey, boss.”

Dream’s eyebrows crept up as he stepped back from the warm place in front of her. She mourned the loss, but schooled her features, because Taliesin was in the room, and he’d never let her hear the end of it.

“Did you not?” Dream asked. He addressed Matthew second. “Since all is well here, and you’re struggling to maintain your post, I think it best you return to the Dreaming.” He looked at his raven with the stern eye of a ruler. Or a disappointed parent.

Matthew ducked. “Of course, sir.” He only sounded a little ashamed.

Dream slipped his hands into his pocket as he circled the couch, his wry voice trailing after him like a cloud.

“Thank you again, little storm god, for the tea.”

He strode through the open door, into a misting rain, down the path, and through the gate with Matthew flying over his shoulder. The sand consumed him as he climbed the first hill, and both entities of the Dreaming were gone.

It took Taliesin less than a second afterward to pull her back, push her down in a chair, and set the kettle to boil again. He didn’t stop to refill it, and he didn’t give her time to warn him. With a clap of his hands, he squatted to her level and pinned her with a wild, delighted glare.

“Spill. I want to know everything. Right now. Spill the tea. Please. Or I may cry and it will be all your fault.”

She puffed out her cheeks, gripping the arms of the chair against his onslaught.

She didn’t know what to tell him. She didn’t really want to tell him anything. After all, it wasn’t like he knew her feelings, the little whispers of fantasy and possibility that plagued her, and he’d missed the rest of the show because he preferred the bird’s company.

Fine then. That’s what she’d say. Nothing.

“I think,” she said slowly, leaning into his desperately curious gaze, “that you’d better not burn my kettle, bard.”

----------------------------------------------

A month. Two.

But when the moment came, no one had to bring a report.

Dream knew.

Before the screams and the creeping shadow, he felt the two intruders descending over his palace. Their call to panic pricked over his skin like needles, pressing on his equilibrium with the unspoken demand that it crack, that he let his unrestrained essence flood his realm, drown it with every dread collected over eons of existence. But their flimsy hooks couldn’t pierce deep enough to draw more than his ire. They didn’t touch his mind or strike his heart. It would take power beyond their fantasies to lance his bones and make him scream.

He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and breathed in the rising stink of fear as his people’s terror curdled the light of his throne room. It was a terrible thing, but beneath his frustration and pain for his dreamfolk, an ember of satisfaction smoldered.

At last.

He rose from his throne, descending the twisting steps with dark intent.

Already, he could feel their suggestions, their subtle magic twining close, seeking open wounds and half-forgotten agonies. But he was King of Nightmares, and he’d long since tired of their games. He’d send Ares’ children crying back to their father. The Dreaming was no chessboard, no gaming green or bright field for challenges of skill, and they would regret mistaking it for such.

They would bleed for Lucienne’s tears and for every whimper they inspired from one of his creations.

Time to end this. And then to rest with the rain on the window and –

He quickly banished the thread of longing.

The little storm god had been right; he was tired. Remaining on guard over so many weeks, with so many of his creations in need of care and restoration wearied him. He had no doubt the invaders planned it that way. But they had grossly underestimated their opponent.

He must focus.

Stepping outside, he found the sky as Mervyn had described. A warped reflection of the clouds hung over the palace’s spires, and all the dreamfolk fled from it, all but the gatekeepers. Even as panic crackled into madness, they could not leave their posts. The Griffin tore at his own feathers, shrieking against something he imagined under his flesh. The hippogriff screamed and bucked, striking at imagined enemies with its hooves, and the wyvern mistook its master for an intruder. Dream pushed the snapping jaws aside, incandescent with rage.

They would not trick him into harming his own. He’d repay every broken wing, bruised face, and quiet limp the refugees had brought to his attention on Phobos’ hide. He’d gift Deimos with the cost of shattered hands and mangled bellies carried to his palace by weeping friends who blamed themselves for the horrors inflicted.

Beyond the gates, he saw baskets upended, a few dreams who’d fallen or stood in the way of giants pulling themselves to illusory safety behind trees and carts and houses. The gates stood fast, keeping the desperate crowd locked away from the greater danger of the seas beyond.

Matthew, shuddering but still sane, alighted on his shoulder.

“What now, boss?” The raven twitched, dodging something only he could see, and Dream ran a hand down his familiar’s back – from the crown of his head, between his wings, to the base of his tail. His loyal friend, determined to do his duty even in the face of his greatest fears. Matthew cawed, shuddering under the second pass of his master’s fingers, and Dream glowered at the ___ in the sky.

“Now, I give them reason to regret ever setting foot in my realm.”

But he would not risk his raven. Not again.

“I need you to stay here. Guard those who’ve lost themselves, and inform Lucienne that I have left for battle when you find her.”

Perhaps he said it too carefully, too gently. Matthew shook himself so every feather stood on end. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

“I will not leave the Dreaming for this fight.” He pet the tuft of feathers at the top of Matthew’s beak, assuring them both that the raven stood there in one piece, unbroken and breathing. “Do not fear, Matthew.”

A tall order, but the bird rallied to meet it. Dream’s request cut through the phantoms, sharp with purpose. Matthew scoffed, fluttering down from Dream’s shoulder only to stare up with every bit of force and determination a raven could contain. “Be careful, okay? Lucienne will turn me into a feather duster if anything happens to you on my watch.”

Dream did not smile, but Matthew’s faith swelled within him, a boon to arm him against the greatest terrors – which he would face alone.

“My brave raven.” Once again, he must order him to stay. Once again, everything that made Matthew a good and reliable aid also complicated Dream’s plan. He buried his affection deep, letting the cold authority of his office shade his next command: “Do not follow me.”

Matthew croaked, lifting his wings to emphasize an impending retort, but Dream didn’t wait for disobedience. He donned his helm, lifted a handful of sand, and left his subject cawing at thin air.

He saw the chariot, a shivering blight in the blue sky, eating up the sunlight with its invisible shadow. More realm than transport, it could house an army. Or a single room. Whatever a visiting mind feared, the space held. Once Deimos and Phobos knew a victim’s weakness, it became their world.

He moved into the stolen space over his palace where Aries’ chariot hovered. It came to his kingdom without invitation, and therefore he needed none to enter.

As his sand bore him across the short distance, he wondered what horrors the invaders might summon to save themselves. When the shimmering grains fell away, however, only darkness greeted him, a consuming silence echoing itself into infinity.

Terrifying for a mortal, perhaps, but he didn’t even need light to see within the bounds of the Dreaming. He, like the night sky, was as much depthless shadow as starlight.

Such a meager effort to unbalance their opponent. He must teach these younger gods the meaning of panic and fear.

Smirking, he strode into the emptiness, searching for the brothers who surely recognized their error now that he stood in their haven.

What had the King of Nightmares to dread?

He paced deeper into the hollow realm, empty hands closing into fists as he summoned to mind all the harm the feckless immortals brought to those in his care – to dreams and dreamers alike. This ended here. Now. They may delay their fate by minutes or hours with their games of hide and seek, but retribution came for them with the inevitable draw of the cosmic tide. The eyes of his helm glowed, and the dead air warmed in lurid shades of red.

“You cannot hide from me.” He watched simple shapes appear as from a black fog. Walls and ceilings manifested from the floor upon which he stood. Doors grew along them and empty arches promised new spaces beyond. “I am the Dreaming, and you intrude in my realm.”

He sensed them – waiting below. He must go to them. They would not be called.

One door, firmer and brighter than the rest, creaked open, inviting him down a flight of stairs. It had the grandiose showmanship of an obvious trap, but Morpheus had no fear of any surprise the two may spring, and he stepped through, pulsing with malicious intent.

He wouldn’t deny the fools his attention when they courted it so eagerly.

The steps led deep, past logic and into something more akin to nightmare than reality. Dreamers sometimes encountered stairs like these – an endless descent they followed in desperation and confusion. The ultimate liminal space they raced through en route to a destination they’d never reach.

At first, he didn’t notice his footfalls growing heavier. The echo and shock of his feet against stone crept over him like the daybreak, a rising and unwelcome awareness. More of his anthropomorphic body burdened his hunt than he’d intended, and he felt his power drawing in, wrapping close. It left him feeling strangely small as he lowered himself a step, a step, a step at a time. Though he could see far more than he had at the top of the stairs, some senses dimmed, went blind, and his waking sense of caution whispered in alarm.

But he continued.

He had faced far worse than this mild discomfort – his people had – and these invaders must be stopped.

Deeper still he trod, and then deeper again.

Cold, musty air enveloped him. He tasted the stale rot of forgotten centuries and smelled a blend of old candle wax and lingering mildew. Artificial light in a place that never escaped the damp.

A basement.

He hesitated. Only for a moment, but long enough. The waiting claws of Deimos’ and Phobos’ power pierced his defenses, hooking deep in his marrow with a surge of anxiety beyond fear. His corporeal body’s heart stuttered, and he fell to a knee as the stairs folded up into a familiar room. The walls feel back into endless pillars, studded with lights too dim to combat the shadows beyond the golden circle.

Collapsing, he felt his power drain away as the shackles of ancient magic bound him once again in his weakest state. A prisoner. Physical anguish warred with his distress, and he groaned, reached for the edge of the circle with a shaking hand.

A sandaled foot pinned his fingers to the stone, almost gently, and Dream looked up through the eyes of his helm to find Deimos and Phobos towering with sated grins. Deimos – easy to mistake for a human youth – crouched down, following the bidding of Dream’s fears. As his brother – Phobos, identical to his brother apart from his leonine head – kept their hostage from breaking through his terror, Deimos plucked his bag of sand out of his grip, tore away his cloak, and seized the helm with the same awkward malice Roderick Burgess employed.

He had no ruby to lose, but Deimos stole everything he had including…

Deimos lifted the key to the storm god’s cottage, examining it in the harsh white electric lights the younger Burgess installed many years after he failed to keep his promise. “What does this open, I wonder?”

A knot seized Dream’s stomach, and he curled in on himself, gasping against the wave of piercing terror conjured by the mere idea of the brothers using that key, slipping into the storm god’s home and taking her apart through the horrors of her past. As he once had. But worse. Without escape. Without a hand to pull her back out of the nightmare. It would destroy her.

He groaned, and the sound reverberated.

Flinching upright, he reached for the edge of the circle, frantic, only to crash against glass. The lights danced in his eyes, mockingly bright when the rest of the world was so dark.

They’d put him back in the glass cage. Or his fears had. It didn’t matter. Now as then, he was powerless. And this time his captors knew their work, had access to realm, and would not need any gift from him to achieve their aims.

It was everything he feared, the worst thing he could imagine.

Deimos moaned, pressing his hand flat to his belly as his eyes rolled back in his head. “The fear of an Endless truly is a potent thing. Bless the fool mortals who taught you such dread.”

Phobos rumbled, his lion’s voice filled with impressions and sensation rather than words. It rang in Dream’s ears like a chant.

Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

It wasn’t true. It wasn’t real. But he felt the cold, curved floor sapping heat from his bent legs, smelled the cheap coffee the guards used to wash down their damned pills. More solid than any nightmare. And he did not dream.

Sighing, like he’d finished a grand meal or enjoyed an orgasm, Deimos said, “Facts don’t change fears.” He looked around the room, eating it all with his gaze. Gloating. Sated. For the moment. “You are the Dreaming, but it’s taken so long to taste your fears, Lord Morpheus. Your creations only held whispers, full of their own worries and visions of darker days. But those tastes sustained us. Strengthened us. And they told us much in the end.”

They told his absence, of the slow rebuilding. Some of his own hopes and fears always went into his work, and his new creations sang of freedom, whispered of imprisonment.

He closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to call for help – from Lucienne, Matthew, Death, anyone. It would not, could not happen again. The Dreaming would not survive it. He would not survive it.

Phobos took the bundle of clothes and tools from his brother, rumbling the worst promises with the voices of the dead as he retreated from the illuminated circle.

Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

#morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x oc

[sailorshadzter]

some more jonsa because i continue to have inspiration & will run with it until it fades again. i just hope it's good 😅😅

When she sweeps into his rooms, he can see at once she’s agitated. 

She says nothing as she takes to her usual spot- a chair which he never moves- in front of the fire, sinking into it with a long, drawn out sigh. “Long day?” He asks as he approaches, smiling apologetically at the glare she shoots him. But she accepts the goblet of wine he offers without complaint, taking one long sip before those blue eyes settle back upon him. Those eyes he could drown in, a gaze which he loves to see, even when the blue is clouded with storm clouds. “Tell me…” He encourages, softer now, and her stony features crack with a smile. 

“Your dragon queen only wishes to starve us all,” she reminds him, not in anger, but with a touch of sarcasm. “She seems to think that because she’s come all this way to fight your war, her dragons can do as they please.” A roll of those blue eyes and she takes another sip of her wine, draining the goblet. “You know we cannot last much longer with her presence here.” She’s sober now, a real world worry coursing through her veins as their eyes meet, as Jon’s hand reaches out to gently touch her knee. “The fight with the Night King is over, so she must go, Jon.” 

“Aye,” he admits, nodding, knowing this as well as her. “It won’t be much longer,” he goes on to say, a sigh of his own escaping. “She means to go South,” he says the words he’s been holding onto since that early morning meeting, the one Sansa had skipped, all so she might meet with the family of the local farm that had been decimated by Daenerys’ dragons earlier that week. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” She echoes, straightening her spine, eyes widening. “Well that is just as well, let Cersei deal with her now.” 

“Sansa…” Jon releases the breath he’s been holding, his hand twitching in it’s wish to reach for hers. “I must go with her.” 

At once, her world stops. 

“Go? Why must you go with her? It is not our war to fight.” Sansa blinks back at him as if she does not understand. “Men in our family do not go South, Jon.” They both remember the stories of childhood, of what happens to Stark men in the capital. “Let her go and fight for the crown she wants, Cersei will find a way to win, she always does.” They could deal with Cersei after the dragon queen was gone, that much Sansa was certain of.

Now he knows he must tell her, he must tell her the truth. “Sansa, I…” He begins, leaning forward so this time he truly can take her by the hand. “I must tell you something.” He’s got her attention now and she focuses her gaze on him, strong and true, her hand gripping his back with the most tender of squeezes. “It is about my mother… And my father.” She opens her mouth to speak but must think better of it, for she remains silent, waiting for him to say whatever it was he wished to tell her. And so he begins, weaving for her the very same tale that Sam had told him the night before the battle with the Night King. He tells her the truth of his birth, that his father had been Rhaegar Targaryen and his mother, her own aunt Lyanna Stark. He tells her that he was born from a loving wedding, not a violent kidnapping, a secret wedding it was true, one which still yet sparked the beginnings of a war, but it was all from love. 

When he’s finished, she’s staring back at him with wide, glossy eyes, her rosy lips pursed together as she must take in all that he’s said. “So now… You understand, right? Why I must go?” She nods. He had no choice, he had to go South, not to fight alongside Daenerys for her place on the throne, but for his own. 

“You will take our fighting men,” she says a moment later, swallowing down every rising tide of emotion. “Winterfell is yours.” Jon smiles and shakes his head. “It is, Jon. I mean it.” It was his home, it was their home. Once she had spoken those very same words to Daenerys, but they had crumbled like ash in her mouth- this time, she felt the meaning behind them. Felt the triumph of them in her heart. “We will stand behind your birthright… I will stand behind it.” The Seven Kingdoms belonged to him and she would fight for him to have it- truth was, she would fight for anyone else but the dragon queen to have it. 

“The North will always be yours, Sansa.” He says softly and she smiles, not keen to argue the point any further. “And so will I,” he speaks, saying the words that have lived deep within his heart all these months, feelings that have only grown stronger in their time apart. She blinks, staring back at him as if she’s not quite heard him, though her hands remain entangled with his own. “If you would have me, I’d like to stay beside you, Sansa.” King of the Iron Throne or not, his place was always going to be at her side; he’s known that a long time now. A single tear slips past her lashes, tracing the curve of her cheek until he frees his hand simply to catch it before it falls. “Say something, anything,” he whispers, true fear creeping into his heart, that cloud of darkness that tells him she’s never felt the same way about him as he’s felt about her. 

Despite him saying the words to her aloud, she dares not to believe them to be true. 

All this time… Perhaps since that very first day even, all the way back in Castle Black, she’s wanted to hear him say such a thing to her. Familial ties or not, she’s never been able to escape the feelings, so she’s done her best to keep them locked away, hidden in the deepest parts of her heart and soul. “I want nothing more,” she finally finds the words to say and Jon is grinning wildly as both of his hands reach out to cup her cheeks, drawing her closer than ever before. He’s so close now she can feel the rough stubble of his beard just before his lips close over her own, a kiss so soft and warm she thinks surely she’s imagining it. 

But just as he’s breaking free, she’s realizing it is real- everything about this moment was more real than any other moment has been thus far. “I will fight to keep you safe,” he promises, forehead to forehead, one hand sliding into her vibrant red hair, the soft strands threading between his fingers like silk. “And when I come back from this last fight, it will be to make you my queen.” From this moment on, they both know everything will change, that they never could go back to how it once was. But truth be told, neither of them would ever want that. 

“I will be here waiting,” she says, a promise of her own. 

#jonsa #jon x sansa #actuallyjonsa #my writing #i wrote this

[bisexualwannabewriter]

“The Great War” - Part Eight, Aemond Targaryen x female reader

Summary : Before Aemond Targaryen was the man he is today, he used to be a young boy, innocent and hopeful enough to fall in love… But the years would not be kind. Not to him, his family, or the one and only love of his life.

In the previous chapter, Corlys Velaryon returned from the Stepstones, severely injured and on the brink of death. As the years have shaped the Lady y/n into someone different from the little girl who once had to leave the Red Keep in a hurry with her Lord father... it is time for her to return there, to fight for Lucerys’ right to inherit High Tide.

You can find the previous chapters and all the chapters to come here.

Chapter Summary : Lady y/n is well aware that returning to King’s Landing means she’ll likely run into her first love again, Aemond Targaryen. But as of now, she has a mission : she needs to find out as much as possible on the current political climate at court. After all, Daemon did warn her : she was on their side now, and there is no room for nostalgia...

Everything was so different.

The Lady y/n could barely find her way around the imposing castle of her youth. The Red Keep had indeed changed quite a lot : symbols of faith were found everywhere now, and made it hard to recognize anything. Lady y/n was certain the Queen Alicent was to thank for this. But if this felt odd for her, she wondered just how strange it would feel to the Princess Rhaenyra and her family.

King Viserys barely had the strength to climb the steps to the Iron Throne now : more often than not, it was his Hand, Ser Otto Hightower one could find sitting there. It was hard to believe this same man had once managed to ride Balerion, the largest of all Targaryen dragons since Aegon's conquest. The King actually ruled the Seven Kingdoms in his bedchambers now, surrounded by maesters and septons. Although 'ruled' was perhaps too generous of a word, as he left most of the important decisions in the care of his small council and his Queen.

Y/n found herself in the courtyard, drawn to the rumor of a fight. She was dressed in plain clothes, not to draw too much unnecessary attention to herself. She could've been anyone, and in many ways she was now. Just... anyone. Not a Princess' childhood companion. Not an important Lord's daughter. Not a Prince's lover. She only appeared to be some pretty maiden in dull colors, fading into the background of a courtyard, watching some knight.. (Wasn't it Ser Criston Cole ?) train with... No. It could not be.

Facing Princess Rhaenyra's former protector, was a tall, slender man, with long hair so fair, they were silver. The man moved so quickly and gracefuly, it was almost hard to follow his movements, which was even more impressive given his eyepatch. Everything around the enchanting creature y/n was observing seemed to disappear, until there was nothing left but him. There was no sound, no smell, no sense of reality in that moment. A volcano could very well have erupted and wiped everything out : she would still be standing there, watching him. King's Landing could've suffered the same fate as the old Valyria, and the Lady wouldn't have noticed anything but Aemond.

She couldn't help it, even after all those years, even after everything. She hadn't realised she had in fact stopped breathing altogether, like she couldn't properly function in his presence now.

The Lady closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Time had passed, and things had changed. Yes, coming back here was a shock, but she had to regain some form of control over herself. She was better than this now. Her past was locked away, in the deepest pits of her soul, and it had no power over her anymore; it couldn't hurt her. It wasn't love, not anymore : only its persisting ghost. When she opened her eyes again, she quickly walked inside of the Red Keep.

As she entered the castle, she could've sworn Aemond's remaining eye was on her.

(...)

It didn't take long for y/n to understand the odds weren't in their favor. Vaemond had already presented his case to the Queen and the Hand. Otto Hightower had always claimed to put the good of the realm above all things, but what he deemed 'good', didn't necessarily align with the interests of others. "The threat of war" was an argument the Hand apparently enjoyed using, but where did the real threat come from ? King Viserys had named Rhaenyra his heir, and had approved of Lucerys as Corlys Velaryon's heir. The whole realm witnessed it. So who was threatening anything ? More importantly, who was really threatened? The greatest fleet in all Westeros would belong to Lucerys, making him - and by extension his mother - more powerful than ever. It was understandable for Vaemond to seek that power for himself, but not only. Should he become the next Lord of the Tides, the Greens would have the advantage.

Ultimately, it was more than likely Ser Otto would lead the debate around the matter. He had to pretend it was his great hope Lord Corlys would survive his wounds, but the Lady y/n saw the ugly truth.

So far, she had also learned a bit more about Rhaenyra's siblings, and who they had grown up to be. Aegon was actually worst than what she had anticipated. He was a lazy and sulky young man, known to fondle any serving girl who had the mischance to find herself too close to him, and to drown himself in ale and strongwine whenever he had the chance. Rumors had it he had actually sired a couple of bastards already. Helaena had given him twins named Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, but the children were tiny and slow to grow. As for the Princess Helaena herself, her peculiar charms hadn't changed much. She was known for speaking in cryptic language at times, but she was much beloved by the people of King's Landing nonetheless.

As for Aemond... he was known for being a dangerous and proficient swordsman, under the guidance of Ser Criston Cole. And by the looks of it, he had even surpassed his tutor. He was known for his hot temper, and his unforgiving nature. Neither him nor Aegon were very popular at court... unlike their youngest brother Daeron, who had been send very early on to Oldtown to squire for ser Otto's older brother. Y/n had never seen much of him.

The Lady quickly found her way back to the Rogue Prince and the future Queen when they arrived a bit later, and dutifully told them everything she had learned, under their approbative gaze, like she had passed a particularly tricky test they weren't sure she'd pass...

Chapter Nine in the making...

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond fic #Aemond x Reader #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon #game of thrones #the dance of the dragons #Daemon Targaryen #criston cole #lucerys velaryon #corlys velaryon #high tide #friends to lovers to strangers to enemies ? #rhaenyra targaryen #angst #fire and blood #lovers reunited #targaryen #the great war #taylor swift #midnights

[ridiasfangirlings]

munashiro au where everything in the 1st season didn't happen but Munakata actually gets to meet Adolf.

Imagine AU where Munakata decides to light a candle on the Hirasaka building rooftop just because he’s rather curious about the man in the airship (this is something I could see him even trying to do in canon, just out of curiosity right after he becomes King, but maybe Weismann wouldn’t come down for another King since he doesn’t want to be drawn into that world at all). Say even though S1 doesn’t happen Kokujouji still dies — since he likely just died of old age, so the events of S1 had nothing to do with that — and Munakata as the responsible King decides someone should convey the news to the Silver King. He’s aware of the rumors about lighting a candle on a building so he puts on street clothes and goes on his own to wait, and is only mildly surprised when the airship actually lands for him and the door opens. Munakata steps onto the ramp and boards the ship, not hesitating at all even though he’s well aware that he’s entering the sanctum of another King.

Weismann is waiting for him and imagine Munakata just sizing him up, the mysterious Silver King, noting that the rumors of the ‘immortal’ King are true. Weismann laughs ruefully at that, wondering what other rumors have been spreading about him. Munakata smiles thinly and apologizes for his rudeness. He doesn’t sound particularly sorry, just polite, and Weismann is rather amused by this Blue King that he’s never met before. Munakata says he’s come to give Weismann tidings of the Gold King’s death and Weismann’s face gets a bit melancholy as he says he’s aware. Munakata wonders if Weismann regrets not being present for His Excellency’s passing and Weismann laughs softly, supposing he truly is a shabby King who couldn’t be at his old friend’s side at the end. Munakata just takes that in and wonders in that case if Weismann intends to take over for his ‘old friend’ — things will be precarious without the Gold King there to provide balance, and having the Silver King nearby could be a valuable asset.

Weismann shakes his head, he’s long promised to no longer involve himself with the surface world. Munakata frowns, his demeanor becoming somewhat cold as he says it’s unfortunate that Weismann has chosen to abdicate his duty this way. Weismann isn’t insulted by that, he’s well aware that he’s been running away, and he’s too far gone to stop and turn back now. Munakata says in that case he will take his leave, having delivered his message. Weismann agrees to drop him back off but then before Munakata leaves Munakata asks if perhaps they could talk again. Weismann is surprised, it’s been a long time since he’s spoken to anyone from the world of Kings after all, and his initial impulse is to decline. Munakata’s eyes are so intense though and his demeanor so unshakeable that Weismann finds himself nodding — he might like that, if Munakata were to light the candle again, and Weismann will surely come speak with him once more.

#Munashiro #Talking K #it felt weird calling Weismann Shiro is an AU where he was never Shiro so to speak #but then I kept writing Shiro and having to delete it XD #I think this could have been interesting though #the two of them getting to meet and discuss under less harrowing circumstance

[magnusmodig]

@mischiefmodig / drabble ! (bc i sure don't trust tumblr to not eat this in submissions)

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 taken to the skies above, lighting the darkness with streams of light, Thor had  known well that it was a sight he wanted to behold with his brother. So certain was he, after all, that Loki was sequestered away in some far off corner. Likely with his nose in mountains of tomes, toiling away at a chance for breaking their enchantment, and for escape; utterly blind to the beauty of this realm, from the mountains to the snow to the very stars above. Especially for all of his many castigations of the seasonal festivities.

            Of course, it was not as if Thor could truly blame him.

            The mountains of this Arcanus Isle and their distant snowy peaks reminded him of the highlands of Asgard. Only it was that Thor's eye, for what sight it still bequeathed him, could no longer marvel at the distant heights of their homeland from the tallest spire of the palace. (It nauseated his soul that the marvels of such things were naught but scattered stardust somewhere beyond time, and beyond space.)             For this, the gaiety that surrounded them perhaps was but a shallow, fleeting tide. It was not as though it rectified the great gravity of the truth of time. Nor the deep urgency that cut like wind through both sovereign, knowing their people were long elsewhere, traveling across stars that neither could yet reach...

            Yes, as Thor found himself surrounded by the festivities of this realm, beckoned into the fold of this planet's people, he found Asgard's absence a thorn that stabbed and ached in his heart. In the faces of the Aercon, he saw the faces of their people that had survived. In the music and boisterous wonder of the surrounding revelry, he found himself reminding himself once and once more again that Asgard remained, even as a pale penumbra of its former might.             Perhaps someone wiser might be at peace with that. For had Father not said, as all wise kings (or perhaps as all wise men) might, that Asgard was not a place, it was a people?             Thor had once supposed, as the stars had beckoned light upon this realm, that Odin was right.

            Yet still did the newest king find himself yearning for more than their lot. His primordial heart beat with the defiance and the pride of an achronic monarchy. One as old as the very farthest reaches of time. And so he found that he was not satisfied with what a wise man might. It was not peace that had drawn what spare fragments of old to his chest with his hands shaking. For although Asgard was a place and a time finite, dead in a shattering of light and cosmic dust.... There were pieces of it that remained.

            Loki had been beside him that day.

            But what the prince did not know (nor did Thor wish to tell him, so unnerved by the revelries as Loki seemingly remained), was that, unbidden and unspoken, Thor had returned to the Traverse Trove. For Thor had found his ire whet by the fires of a new hope that sparked. He had searched, and in his search he had found small scraps and shambles of Asgardian make. Like lost things, they had found their way back to the hands born to hold them. Mangled and broken, dirties and just barely a form of itself... yet Thor still recognized each piece as his own. (Like him, it had survived. It now persisted.)

            It was in this defiance of fate, foolish or impractical as it was, that Thor took up the mangled pieces. In the earliest dawn of the days, he had taken flight to the Trove and searched through the wreckage and rubble. At the end of these long hours, his hands bore the dust and grit and grime of searching high and low through the remnants of distant realms. His knuckles and fingers bore dried blood from the nicking of mortal skin upon twisted scrap metal, but his palms were filled with the sparks of hope that lit his own heart aflame.

            It was in a labor of love that his nights had long been spent toiling over the small pieces of Asgard that had defied the odd late into the midnight hours. His hands straightened twisted things, mended shattered wreckage through the heat of flame and sparks of a hammer. His fingers untangled the twisting knots of this once beautiful thing, restoring it to its glory and pride as best as he could. With each passing hour, each cut and bruise, his humble offering.

            It was on the last of the nights the stars fell from the sky, as the revelries that had taken the Isle came then, to their swan song, that Thor found the object of his long labor restored.

Thor looked upon it, and saw that it was indeed, good. (And what joy it was to create anew what Death had stolen. —Was that not the nature of rain? To cleanse? To heal? To begin life anew?) Satisfied with at least this small work, Thor had wrapped it carefully and hidden it well, tucked securely in a small satin pouch, and nestled in the sanctity of his inner coat pocket.

            ...To wrangle the God of Mischief from his abode on this such cheery night was no small fear unto itself. But some small effort of painstaking argument and countermeasure was far worth the strain as Thor beckoned Loki not to the isolation of their rooftops, but to the highest peak of a hillside that overlooked The Clearview District. Here, the wind blew with a cheery fervor, carrying with it the brisk scent of the cold snow that lay in mounds all around them. From here, as vines tangled up the walls of the nearby stairs and overhanging ruins of an age long passed, the skies were clear and theirs to behold.

            Blazing lights streaked across the sky, bright even to Thor's eye, and carrying with it the colors of the many galaxies. There was no greys or browns in the display above, but swirling circlets of golds and greens, and such wonders of the universe, unchanged and infinite, balmed the heart of wayward sovereign. (And what more was that, despite all odds, despite all reservations, he shared this sky with Loki at his side. A wish lost over a decade of tribulation now granted as though the stars had heard heart's desperate pleading.)

            ❝ Loki, ❞  Thor said, turning to his brother as the comets continued their display, ❝  I have something for you. ❞  

            It was near comical how younger brother's brow did furrow, surprise dawning across his features and nestling deeply within the crease above his nose. "...You have something... for me?" he asked, and Thor found his teeth snagged at the inside of his cheek as he nodded in turn.

            ❝ Yes. ❞ It was with some childish effort that Thor tried not to smile, and yet the corners of his lips tugged upright into the ghost of it, lingering just a moment as the weight of the gift burned against his breast. ❝ You see, this realm has something of a tradition.  One of granting gifts... Or, so I have heard. ❞

            "Ah. Yes. That asinine tradition. Something to do with glad tidings and all of this frivolous nonsense. Of course you would want to partake."

            For just a second, just a small, inconsequential moment, Thor found his next words tied and knotted in his throat. A tangled web of things yet to say, and within the wake of such reproachful sentiment, Thor found that his words all but unraveled upon his tongue entirely. Sensing Thor's disquiet, Loki settled the bristling quills of himself with a short huff and scuffing turn of his heel through the snow.

            "... I said it's asinine not insufferable," he scoffed, and his breath fogged in the space between them. A gesture in the swift, rotating flair of his wrist. "Come then. Do not leave me in suspense, Brother."

           Haltingly.  ❝ Ah. Yes, ❞ and with the word, his hands procured the small velveteen pouch, just barely as large as the size of Thor's palm, and tied closed with a thin silver twine. No words then were spoken as the weight of the object within was passed from Thor's hands to Loki's. Only a watchful, attentive eye that followed the dip of Loki's gaze as it settled upon the pouch, the slight bounce of the bag as it was weighed with some small curiosity, and the careful undoing of the string as the bag was opened to finally reveal its contents.

            A golden sphere surrounded by nine rings, simple in design but ornate in its fixture, for the rings were embossed only with the etchings of runes. One for each of the Nine Realms.             To tap upon this sphere was to cast it to unfurl, with each ring rotating above and beside and within one another, each orbiting the center-most sphere - Midgard - at the pace of each  of the realm's solar rotations.

            The largest ring - Asgard's - was what held this small design securely in place, and upon this outer ring, a fixture where a strong chain should be, but a silver cord (matching the drawstring of the pouch it was kept in) was strung instead.

An Asgardian time keeper.

            Pride bloomed in the chest of the brother to bequeath such a fine (and more importantly: working) object. So small, yet it was in itself now a rare and valued treasure. A sacred thing. One that Thor found was enough to find that his breath caught squarely in his throat at the sight, and his eye flickered from the time keeper to the face of the one who could now call the relic its owner.

❝  It was all I could find in the rubble. ❞ He didn't need to state which rubble, or where. ❝ Nor were all of the pieces there in the first place, but it is here, reforged and whole, Brother. And, now yours. ❞ a pause. Finally, finally, Thor allowed his lips to curl upright in something of a small grin, teasing and perfectly placed that even his brother could not steal.

❝ To keep you from losing yourself completely to your studies here.  ❞

#( ic . ) — son of odin . the crown is a heavy burden for thee . #( closed . ) — locked in father's vault . #aevum drabble #mischiefmodig #hearths rising / 2023 #(//lays down over how long this got aaa)

[chopper-witch]

I think the fact that people want to see the greens burn and all potential devastation bc of Rhaenyra’s grief while so many were opposed to and felt betrayed by Daenerys’ ultimate choice of burning King’s Landing to the ground after an unimaginable amount of trauma and grief is an excellent case study of writing (and directing and acting and costuming and and and…) (also this solely references the shows)

I’m too tired to get into it now completely, but it really is beyond just time spent with the character (10 weeks versus 10 years). It’s the choices we see each character along the way, the varying emotional states in reaction to loss and trauma (Daenerys ultimately has a pattern of emotional response whereas how we see Rhaenyra react to the loss of her mother which is different from the loss of a friend which is different from the loss of a lover which is different from the loss of her father which is different than the loss of her premature child which is different from the loss of her son; all while clearly being apart of one human instead of just different reactions bc they are difficult situations), and the ultimate consequences from those choices + emotions.

Also, GoT likes to act like most people are gray, and their moral stance is not always right or always wrong, but how can you look at Daenerys who, as Tyrion (unfortunately this was a moment of good writing) points out that, “Everywhere she goes, evil men die and we cheer her for it.” Or Jon Snow, who literally only ever does things for the good of all he can. Or Joffrey, who is purely a sadistic, egotistical king with no sense of anything. I could continue, but the line between good and bad is drawn with a titanium wall, rather than stick drawn in the sand only to wash away when the tide is too high. In HotD, we watch as everyone makes questionable choices at every turn; as circumstances force people to do bad things or good things; as the consequences of the people who try to be truly good rock Westeros (yes this happens in GoT too, but the differences are distinct and astounding).

I really need to sleep. Or at least move to mindless scrolling. I hope I can finish these thoughts in the morning.

#house of the dragon spoilers #house of the dragon #game of thrones #house targaryen

[inky-for-a-bit]

Thanks to Them last minute theories! Put it under the cut because it got long and it mentions a few of the leaks

General character/thematic theories:

-Hunter and Luz won't reveal their secrets this episode

-Dealing with guilt and protecting loved ones by keeping secrets will be a big theme

-Hunter will be accepted by the Noceda family (well this one's pretty much confirmed by the review lol but still)

-Halloween/Scooby Doo vibes

-This episode will be largely focused on exploring the Wittebane brothers and their backstory

-We won't get any scenes on the Boiling Isles/the gang won't return there this episode

Part 1:

-So we know that the episode opens right after King's Tide, with the gang catching Camila up on what's happened and getting ready for bed

-Then the montage!!

-Luz goes to school, struggles to adjust to human school again, misses Eda and King, maybe gets teased/bullied by the kids there

-Meanwhile, the others are working on the portal back at the old house. The first part of the episode jumps back and forth between school and the witches. Flapjack makes a hole in the boards, where they find the box thing that Amity holds in the trailer.

After a while they figure it out, revealing this clue to the Wittebane brothers' past that we see in this promo pic:

Could this paper be the one we see with the grimwalker hand and a few other symbols? My guess is this paper was something left behind by either the Wittebanes or Caleb's wife before Belos lost the portal.

It looks about the same color and shape, and we see Amity, Gus's, and either Hunter or Willow's hands here- all people who are in the above scene. They're also pointing at the hand, which could be the grimwalker hand reach??

Just to continue this train of thought, we also see Hunter with a rake in the old house with a bandaged finger:

Perhaps grimwalker blood could be used to open a portal?

-Anyways, moving on with the plot. We see Vee's friends, maybe Luz meets them, Vee flirts with someone (!?!?)

-Then we have some fluff and angst slice of life stuff. We get some costume/human clothing stuff:

Over the evening and next day we get some character-focused scenes that Jade King mentioned:

Hopefully we'll get some information on Luz's dad! And halloween stuff here!

Part 2:

-I think in the second half of the episode the Hexsquad will split up. To continue the theme of keeping secrets, Luz and Hunter decide to investigate the old house and test the grimwalker theory without telling the others. Meanwhile, the others take a trip to the library and zoo to do research on Gravesfield's history and giraffes to see if either could help.

-I also believe it will be in this part of the episode that we get Wittebane flashbacks, due to that creepy witch hunter promo. These flashbacks could be just plain old flashbacks, an illusion Gus conjures up (after seeing Belos's memories in King's Tide), or done in a hand-drawn narrated story sort of way based on what the characters discover

-Fire might be involved in opening the portal, because of the fire in the witch hunter promo and what could be smoke in this crew art:

-As Luz and Hunter investigate, they stumble upon Goop Belos (which is why they have their trusty bat, rake, and masks!)

-While Luz and Hunter find and fight Belos, the others find out some important piece of information while doing human stuff and rush back. Camila joins them as they find Luz and Hunter to help get rid of Belos

-During the climactic battle they manage to open the portal. Just a wild theory here- maybe the opening of the portal is connected to Halloween night/full moon/something spooky like that, and Belos confronts them then not only to get revenge, but to get back to his human form (with help from the energy of that night) or return to the demon realm.

-The gang manages to capture/scare off Belos as the portal opens, and the last shot of the episode is them staring at the opened portal. Cliffhanger!

Questions I have

-not quite sure how Hunter saying "did you know that he was here?" fits in. I think he's either talking about the statues or Belos goop

-why didn't Hunter bring Flapjack to the mission??

-unsure of what will happen to Belos at the end of the episode. I doubt they'll kill him off this soon though

-Luz's Azura cosplay- where does that fit in?

-That leak with Hunter and Belos. Idk if it's real or how it will play out for sure

#the owl house #thanks to them #thanks to them spoilers #toh season 3 #toh spoilers #the owl house spoilers #toh season 3 spoilers #the owl house theory #toh season 3 speculation #theory #rtwae

[armchairaleck]

Chapter three of three for the magma titan whump - voice loss..

Viren has to perform his first great spell after the magma titan, but the boundaries within himself have changed.. idek..

Chapter one, Chapter two

Teen and up, no major warnings trauma/angst

There seems to be a certain inevitability to all things, a way that they simply come to pass without anyone making any sort of conscious momentum towards them.

It was possible to start with ideals, to say this is what I will do and it will be good. There is a strength in that.

That was Harrow, absolutely. He was always so sure of himself, so certain his reign could be burnished and bright, so full of conviction that it was hard not to get swept along with him. It was almost impossible not to believe the words that fell from his lips, each promise that he made. He was a man of high principles, of ideals, he believed in justice and there was a goodness in him that was hard to resist.

There had once been a time when Viren had thought that nothing could bend his will or break him.

Yet it seemed that principles became like a weapon tempered on the blacksmith’s forge, here they were hard and resolute, the cold sharp edge of their steel. Here they were held to the bellowing flames, white hot and pliable, as the hammer rained down its blows upon them.

Perhaps under different circumstances it would have been possible to keep the blade cold and sharp. Perhaps they might have lived in a time of peace where fortune smiled upon them and famine and conflict and plague were unknown. A king might have been able to hold to his principles then, and he would have been right and honourable and just. They would cover the pages of history with his glory and he would be above all things a fortunate man.

They do not live in such times though.

Viren has always known this, has known since his birth the low, mean ways of the world. The small injustices that fester and grow.

They live with the shifting tides of politics, the fragile peace of human kingdoms so recently at war, and the threat of the border always biting at their backs.

It is a difficult time for principles.

Sometimes though it is just an act of the heavens themselves that seems visited to mock them. The crops fail in Duren, and there is no easy solution and a king who believes absolutely in the inviolate justness of his choices is quenched like a blade in water, becomes hard and brittle and easy to break.

Decisions seem to slip beyond them and make themselves. A thing that Harrow would never have wanted Viren to do has to be done. There is no real choice in it and it happens all the same.

Now it is happening again. This is how they have ended up here in the shadow of Mount Kalik, deep in the wheat lands of Katolis.

This is the first great spell he has been asked to perform since the Magma Titan. A line had been drawn after that, and it was a line he had been almost glad to keep to. As if a hand had been placed on his shoulder to stop him falling over a precipice.

It doesn’t take much to shift it though.

A messenger riding post haste to the castle, a wet spring, a dry summer, a cloud of locusts appearing like a shadow of death in the sky.

All their careful planning is undone, becomes useless against the sheer force of nature. Of course it is just one spell and he will perform it. There is no question of that, he has to, it is a matter of balance.

Here is a simple matter of economy, if the crops are destroyed, the people will suffer, if the people suffer the kingdom suffers, it is good for no one. Here is the simple maths of the problem, a swarm one year becomes a plague the next and covers the kingdom in death. Here balanced up against that there is only himself, one person. He can measure his worth, his position on the council, he is a man who can fix things, he is the High Mage. It makes him indispensable. If his heart quickens at the thought of a spell now, he has to ignore it, a mage without magic is nothing at all.

He can count all the things he has lost in pursuit of magic and the strange hold it seems to have on him now. Desire and fear intermingle, become almost hypnotic, they change the very rhythms of his being.

So he rides with the king and the crown guard to the borderlands of the mountain. He is prepared, he will serve his monarch once again. He and Harrow are coiled so closely together that there are times he doesn’t really know where the king ends and he begins. Where do his beliefs and assumptions become Harrow’s, where do Harrow’s become his own?

He veers further and further from the things he has been taught because he wants to keep this man in the light, he wants to believe in him. He wants to believe in himself, that he has a purpose, that he can hold the kingdom together and be a man the world remembers.

So he finds solutions, bends the bounds of creativity the way he learned to as a boy. He walks towards the precipice in the dark.

Yet it would be a lie to say he is not afraid.

The fear is not unexpected, he has bound it up before and locked it away. It always comes back.

He tries not to think of the magma titan, he forces those dreams away in the morning, pushes away the coil of terror, the feeling of his own body helplessly out of control. The explosion ripping through him. It had been a thing of unimaginable force, it had almost destroyed him and it never really seems to leave.

He tries not to think of the three queens, the fearless way they had ridden out against the force of Thunder, the way they had been shattered like so many shards of glass. It had been his fault, all his actions somehow seem to drift from their intended path, and he can feel himself getting lost.

Most of all he tries not to think about Sarai, the darkness of her absence has settled over them all though. The castle seems to have lost something of the life it had held, the loss is palpable, it has covered over Harrow and himself like a shroud.

He is forced to think of all these things now though, and they tighten in his throat.

They stand surrounded by the dark horde of insects that swirl and drone around them, there is something somehow horrifying in the endless mass of their bodies. Harrow is watching him, eyes wide, face blank with the nightmare of it.

He has no doubt in his abilities and yet for some reason all he can feel is the pounding of his heart, the burn of the dark magic that has coursed through him so many times before and the holes that it has left in him.

He is prepared for this, prepared to unleash the apocalypse, to counter the destruction of the swarm with his own and yet still he feels dizzy with the anticipation of it.

He kneels, lights a candle for death, its purple flame rises cool against his palms, he sprinkles over it the venom of vipers and the sting of scorpions and devastation is there at his fingertips ready to be unleashed.

He opens his mouth and the words don’t come.

There is a moment of confusion when he searches for them, when he almost chokes. The words that have always been there seem stuck now. A peculiar panic grips its fingers around his throat, his body goes tight with it, betrays him. The noise of the locusts sings in his ears and he kneels there among them, mute.

He can see Harrow watching him, the confusion on his face, and the world spins around him, time lengthens and fades, becomes meaningless. The buildup of the magic pounds behind his eyes, again and again he tries to form the spell, again and again it dies on his lips. It is like a nightmare he cannot wake up from and the air is a carpet of death.

#febuwhumpday9 #febuwhump #voice loss #alright I was really short on ideas so shit went biblical

[anistarrose]

Hii I saw your theory and was like 'cool. Time to think about this a whole lot' and I did so. I compiled screenshots of my thoughts into this - the formatting isn't great, but I made it in like 5mins on my ipad. I'm not sure what you would get from this but it was based on your original theory so it's only right you see it, I think. https://docs.google.com/document/d/111Og8K7BITc4Au480_XoC3uVVDJnQuCBibbhEQsygVA/edit

Yes yes yes, I strongly agree with all this, thanks for showing me!! To add on about your point about the portal missing someone needed for operation, the direct quote from Luz was:

"According to Philip's instructions, the hardest part to making a portal was finding someone who knew how to build it."

So I think all evidence points to a member of King's family!

And I'd like to pitch one more sub-theory to this theory, while we're here:

Dana has drawn art associating King with spiders (and at the same time, drew Luz in a bat costume, which is a running motif for her and heavily foreshadowed to become her palisman).

We see a spider palisman depicted in Philip's diary, in the same section as a lot of info about the portal's construction — it seems to be right after a section where a lot of Philip's notes and calculations got scribbled out, suggesting maybe he was having a hard time building the portal on his own before the spider palisman became relevant?

I usually see the spider palisman presumed to be Philip's, which is absolutely a possibility — but on the flip side, this show's bird symbolism almost always comes in pairs. Not just Eda and Lilith, but also the Emperor's Coven logo, and the Gravesfield logo from which the EC logo was probably derived, and even the two birds seen paired with the brothers' statues...

If the spider palisman belonged to one of King's ancestors, though, Philip could still have an avian palisman, and that would reconcile all the bird symbolism! (And strengthen the case for Luz with a bat palisman, as an aside.)

Anyways this is all just my long-winded way of saying yeah, I think King's family helping Phil make the portal would explain a lot!

Circling back to King, though — I can't help but wonder if the king tide and/or the Day of Unity, both corresponding to astrological events like the full moon that heralded his birth, could trigger the next phases of King's demon puberty?

After all, if his birthplace (and above-average horn size, compared to other demons of his type from the teaser) are anything to go off of, he might be royalty. So like his relative with comparatively large horns (the same one associated with the portal eye), he might be on pace to... grow wings 👀👀

#the owl house #toh spoilers #the owl house spoilers #toh theory #the owl house theory #king clawthorne #philip wittebane #emperor belos #rosalia answers #long post #id in alt

[hobidreams]

june 1869.

you’ve never been able to hide from him.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: smut, angst, fluff? words: 2.3k contains: choices, consequences.

moonlit throne index. this is drabble 21. start from the beginning?

The moment you reach your private chambers, you collapse against the door. Your heart softly shudders with strain as you finally let the first tears fall, trickling steadily down your cheeks. The bundles you carried in fall to the floor as you cover your face with your cold hands, trying to stifle the quiet sobs that seem so determined to come.

You had gone into town after your work today. Walked down, escorted by a guard that you pretended wasn’t there. (The king now insisted upon such a thing whenever you left the palace walls, but you could tell the guard thought the job much beneath him.) You had just finished picking up a few ingredients from the market traders and was on your way to see if the bookstore had received new products when your attention had been caught by the sizeable crowd gathered outside the town clinic.

“Please, please, give me medicine for my daughter!” The peasant woman clutched a child that couldn’t have been more than two years old. The babe’s crying was as raucous as the yelling, the noisy mix of voices all clamoring with want.

“I need to see someone! My side— It hurts every day. I can’t work anymore. My family’s going to starve. I need treatment!”

The physician’s assistant stood on the clinic steps with folded arms and a bitter, hard look on his face. “Are we running a charity? We need to eat too! If you can’t pay, you can’t see the doctor!” He slammed the door in their faces, leaving them out in the sweltering heat, crying out that they could pay next week or as soon as they could, they just needed help right now, but the door remained shut.

Your chest felt stiflingly tight at the sight, compassion’s hand squeezing hard around your heart because you knew you could help. You had to help. You took a step forward, ready to offer your services only to have the guard block your way.

“Su-uinyeo-nim. We must return to the palace.”

“No, I want to stay.”

He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. They could harm you.” And if they did, then his own head would likely be on the chopping block. Ridiculous.

“They won’t. They just need treatment, and I’m a physician.” You didn’t have many of your tools here but you could at least take a look, provide a diagnosis or recommend some easily obtainable herbs.

“The king would not approve of putting yourself in danger.”

You opened your mouth only to shut it. The king wouldn’t approve of a lot of things, but how could you just stand here and do nothing? These people, they needed your skills.

You took another step forward.

“Su-uinyeo-nim.” The guard’s voice was firm. He indicated for you to start walking away, towards home.

You shot him a stare, the hardest look you could conjure, but didn’t move. Not yet, damn it.

“Oh—uinyeo-nim!”

You dallied long enough. One of the women had evidently recognized your outfit and was now barreling towards you with a fire in her eyes. “Uinyeo-nim, you can help me, right!? It’s my daughter, she’s been having a fever and—”

“No, she cannot.” The guard’s glare was as sharp as the blade that the hand on his sword promised.

“Oh, please!” She threw herself against the arm the guard tried to reign her in with. Threw herself forward trying to reach you. “My daughter, my daughter will die if she’s not treated!”

“Let me—” You started, only for the guard to shove her harshly back since he could not do the same to you. She cried out, almost toppling over from the force as she clutched her baby, but he did not relent.

“We are leaving.”

He began to boldly walk towards you, practically into you, leaving you no choice in the matter. You were too afraid he might hurt her further if you did not comply even though every step away felt like a blow to your chest, like tiny fists pounding against your ribcage, making you sore and ache because the stark truth was that your inability to help her wasn’t even entirely the guard’s fault.

All those years ago, you chose to stay.

You never opened the affordable clinic mother had dreamed of. You put your feelings before the wellbeing of all those people you could have helped then, and you did it again today. Selfish. Selfish and helpless and selfish. For all the work you’ve done, it never feels like enough. There are always more patients in need and here you are, living among this extravagance and opulence but really getting nowhere. Not with the king. Not with how much change you can bring to the people.

Even your tears can only be shed here, in privacy and cowardice.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” you whisper through your blurry vision, but these are just words. They do nothing in the end and every choice feels like the wrong one and that there will only be dire consequences to follow them.

“Su-uinyeo-nim?”

At Eunuch Kim’s muted voice, you startle. Hurriedly, you wipe the backs of your hands against your eyes. “Y-Yes?”

“The king has requested your company tonight.”

“Oh.” Shit. You’re in no state to face him, not for what he has in mind, but you must go. “I-I’ll be ready in a few minutes. Just allow me to… change.” You push to your feet, onto shaky legs as you sniff.

“Of course.”

The brief walk over in the cool summer evening helps to pull some of the sorrow from your mind (or at least tucks it away to be revisited later when you find yourself as always, alone). Eunuch Kim is kind enough not to probe into the heaviness about you today; he simply chats about the latest novel he has picked up in town, a study of birds that he recommends heartily to you. The king is not so kind. The second you enter his chambers, tilt your head just enough for him to catch your eye, he frowns.

“You’ve been crying.”

It’s not a question.

“I, um, simply had some dust in my eyes, jeonha.”

Searching for a distraction, you begin to undo the tie of your blouse. You’ve never purposefully let him see you openly upset, or at least not since this ‘arrangement’ began.

“Dust. Really.”

You nod, unwilling to meet his stare.

The floorboard creaks as he steps towards you. Covers your hands with his own so he can strip you instead. You can’t tell if he believes you; he is so quiet while he pulls layer after layer from you, letting the fabric drop to the floor in bunches of crumpled white and light blue. The warmth of his fingers on your skin feels like comfort, even when it’s only a prelude to his desire.

Isn’t it stupid, that some excessive part of you wants him to openly refute your lies even as you tell them? To undress your mind as hungrily he does your body until you have no choice but to be bared and free, released from the burden of your own thoughts?

“Get on the bed.”

Maybe it’s better like this. You are the only woman he has ever known in this way; you can’t let yourself be so greedy, to again let that selfish part of you want and want and want so much that appetite consumes you, bones and all. You press your palms and knees to the hard bedding. Squeeze your eyes together. Force the tears to stay back while you wait for the burn to come.

His calloused hands land on your waist, but it’s to urge you to turn over instead.

“J-Jeonha?” you question, confused when you see him already on his knees, that piercing gaze provoking goosebumps from your skin. “Why…”

His hands find your ass, urging you towards the edge of the bed. He throws the top layer of his robes aside before he spreads your legs apart, letting them rest against the wood.

What… What is he doing? You find your answer as the sokgot strips fall to the floor beneath his touch and abruptly, before your poor heart has time to prepare itself, his breath blows warm across your clit.

“Ah, this—!” Wild-eyed, you try to squirm back, hot with embarrassment that his face is this close to your crotch. It floods you with worry after worry about your scent, the possible bumps marring your skin, the tufts of hair, but he doesn’t seem to care about any of it as he hooks his hands beneath your thighs. “You’re not—”

Soft lips and a slick tongue are pressed flush against you.

Your entire body seems to quiver at the first lick; a single taste of wetness followed by a second, a third, a relentless fourth that makes liquid pleasure crest, surging upwards, a high, rushing tide in mere seconds. You buck, hands finding no support upon the sheets and part of you wants to cover your face instead, to let die the moans that surface with each gasp but that means you would miss the sight. This unforgettable sight: inky eyes between your thighs, the quick, pink tip of his tongue swiping heat directly into your veins. It feels messy before he finds his rhythm, settles into a beat that only reaffirms how he is irrefutably dominant even while he is on his knees before you, for once not breaking you apart but making you feel so dizzyingly whole you could burst.

While his fingers have learned almost every inch of you, this remains a scenario you never even thought to entertain, never even thought he would want. His pleasing only you. His putting you at the forefront of even his own satisfaction. Stop. The grip on your thigh tightens; you never want him to let go. Stop giving me hope. He does anyway with a drawn out suck, his stare as hazy and heady as if he’s been drinking the most exquisite cheongju.

Your body is taut, sweat beading down your spine. “This is— I can’t—”

“You can,” he quips back, and whatever words you could have said are stolen by orgasm. Taken, and made unbecoming moans that blow past the last shreds of your resistance now resting between his teeth.

It overwhelms you, this newfound sensitivity from being consumed; it makes you want to shirk back but he doesn’t let you. Somehow one of your legs finds its way over his shoulder and he uses that momentum to keep you against his stunning mouth, giving you what you need but never what you want. Each lick nudges you further off the edge, finding an acute bliss past every limitation you thought you had and you think, feverishly you think — it’s like he’s giving you permission to fall apart.

Tears coalesce at the corner of your eyes but you don’t notice. You don’t even know they’re there until wetness trails down your cheeks and even then you’re distracted by another peak, this one a muted swell that makes your muscles tense around his thin frame; he supports your weight without a word of complaint as his strokes finally dwindle in time with your pulses until both drop off entirely.

As he lets your leg roll off his arm, his breaths come almost as unsteadily as yours. Slowly, he retracts his wide hands from your thighs. Rolling his tongue against the inside of his own cheek, you watch him paint your taste in his mouth and don’t know what to make of any of it.

It’s only when a few tears cling to your eyelashes and blur your vision that you realize what’s happening. How embarrassing. You told yourself you wouldn’t do this on the way here and look at you now. You’re about to reach up to wipe away the tears, the damning evidence of your weakness when the king wraps his hands tight around your wrists. Pushes you back. Presses his knees to the bed as he hovers above you, all silence and heat and him.

“Um, j-jeon—”

He leans down and cuts you off with a kiss.

You gasp into his mouth but he doesn’t pull away. He is just soft, persistent, firm, and soft as he moves naturally across territory that should have been unfamiliar, but instead it feels like he’s been mapping, planning this capture for as long as you have. An impossible dream, yes, but the warm breath ghosting across your skin, lingering, is real. You open for him. For your first kiss. Your first kiss with him.

The warm fingers at your wrist squeeze harder.

“You… You can cry.” His voice is a murmur, delicate and hesitant against your lips, as if imparting a secret. “If you want.”

So you do.

You finally let yourself cry while he kisses you again and again, adjusting his angle to push you further into the pillows, releasing a wrist to cup your wet cheek. He kisses you with his nose pressed to yours, a tiny, precious moan finding freedom from someone’s throat.

Yoongi, your mind recalls, clinging to the syllables that belong to a word you’ve never dared to say aloud as he kisses you, kisses you, kisses you until both your mouths are swollen and your chest feels a bit lighter, his a bit heavier in exchange.

And when he finally pulls away, he holds you. His arms accept all your gravity for just a few lingering minutes more, a few heartbeats more, until it’s time for you to go.

#ficswithluv #btsghostie #ksmutclub #yoongi x reader #bts smut #yoongi smut #min yoongi #bts imagines #bts scenarios #historical au #moonlit throne #rain writes #one of my favorite chapters #how do you feel about the king now?

[bonvoyagenoona]

Hi.

Remember that one time _______ spilled _______ on you and you ________?

Remind me how that went again? It never gets old....

I love a good unexpected sexy time story.

Ahhh, Roomie! I love that story! I think our codename for it was...

Stained

Pairings: Hobi x Reader

Rating: 18+ / Mature / Explicit

Word Count: 1.7k

Synopsis: Hobi spills a glass of wine on you. No big deal, though... 

C/W, Themes, & More Info: Drinking, grinding, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, fingering, friends to lovers, fluff, a tinge of angst because things have been building up, rough sex, dirty talk, a suggestive recording?, and I think that’s it? 😜

Help me jog my memory, Roomie. I think it went something like...?

The funniest part about Hobi spilling that glass of red wine on your favorite ivory white camisole was the way he blinked in fear at you, eyes so big that his lids stretched thin as they came together, lashes so tender that you almost heard the soft plink! plink! as he blinked, lips drawn forward and stitched together in the a tiny, trembling circle.

Hobi is usually so careful. If he’s not the jack (well, king) of all trades, or the mysterious alien, or the flirt, or the secret softy, or the "actual" youngest, or the leader... then Hobi is the neat one, the always-on-point one, the person who always has shit together, especially when it matters. This is what he prides himself on: his position as the unofficial captain who does the heavy lifting when it comes to emotional, unseen labor. It's why he shines so brightly.

But now, the reason he's shining so brightly is the mix of his pomegranate red, bracheto drunk face, and the thin coat of sweat quickly streaming out of every one of his pores.

"I am so, so, sorry!" he eeks out, jumping to his feet.

You giggle. Maybe you're a little wine drunk, too. Not so much that your judgment is clouded. But not so little that you still care what happens to this top. You saved it in your favorites. You can always get another.

You tell him so when you set your wine glass down on the coffee table, wriggle out of the top, and toss it behind you.

He eyes it when it hits the floor with a wet slap!.

"But... we can still save it," he tries, looking back at you in just your bra. "I-I mean, I have a Tide pen?..."

You smirk as you wriggle out of your shorts, staying on your feet, and cocking your head to the side. First of all, there's no way a Tide pen is going to erase the entire bodice of your top. But also, "You sure that's what you wanna be talking about right now?" you ask.

How many weekends have you spent like this at Hobi's apartment, just hanging out, always flirting with the edge but never diving deeper. Fingertips brushing. Breaths hovering. Lips and limbs never quite meeting.

Hobi gulps, looking so adorable in his terror.

"You're so nervous!" you coo, stepping between his insoles, daring him to make a move. But then a frown appears. "Sorry -- unless I'm making you uncom---"

Finally. Lips finally meet.

A rush of heat, the after-effects of Hobi's flush, waves and waves pulsing toward you, strengthening as your kiss deepens. You think you hear a hum on each pulse, and you realize it's actually coming from Hobi, evidence of the dam starting to break, and his need for you starting to overflow.

"Ugh, wanted this," he confesses, fingers threading through your hair. "Want you."

"Why didn't you make a move?" you plead, helping him scramble out of his hoodie and groaning at his naked torso.

"Wasn't sure you wanted it, too," he whispers.

He drops his sweatpants and steps out of them and his boxers, stroking his hard cock and chewing on his lips as you turn around and present that treasure of a rolling, golden landscape that you call your ass as you kneel on the couch cushions.

"Show me how bad you want it, and I'll do the same," you moan, wiggling your hips slowly.

Hobi hums again, spitting in his right hand while yanking your panties to the side with his left. He grabs a mix of the fabric and your flesh, nearly ripping you open, and sighing into a fit of eager chuckles when he sees how sopping wet you already are for him.

"Wasn't kidding, Hobi," you moan, leaning down, hands dragging down the couch back. "Want it. Want it bad."

He rubs your aching, twitching, swollen, and gushing pussy, making you howl and fist the corners of the middle couch cushion. He loves watching you writhe. Loves watching how your body can barely take him. How your toes curl to the point of near spasm.

"Fuck, I think I barely need to prep you," Hobi observes, easily sliding a third finger inside, almost handshaking your slit.

The way you were lying lengthwise together on the couch, bodies hidden under the blanket, but your knowing ass pushing back against his waking cock, his hand carefully slipping down and into your waistband, both of you slowly, carefully, timidly grinding as your wine sloshed back and forth in their glasses. When the liquid crested over the brim, it landed on your stomach because you had already turned over to face him. When you jumped up at the sudden wetness, you caught the TV mocking you. Are you still watching?

Now, you're watching, craning your neck back as Hobi obliges to your desperate, "Then rail me already."

Hobi grunts, sounding almost worried, knowing that whatever happens next is going to be a cataclysmic shift in everything you know about each other.

Almost as cataclysmic as the earthquake Hobi creates, body rolling against yours, and making you shudder as you struggle to take him in. So thick. So long. So ironic, how much you're shaking, while Hobi stays so smooth, cock somehow politely forcing itself into you, so welcome, but so much.

"God.

"That good?" Hobi smirks. "You see him?"

When your eyes slam shut as he fills you, you think you do, and it looks an awful lot like Hobi's rolling profile.

"Faster," you pant. "Even harder."

"No foreplay?" Hobi asks, almost disappointed.

"You're already in me," you whine, pressing back against him to try and squeeze something from him when he won't move. "And what do you think the past few wine weekends have been??"

"Tell me what they've been," Hobi growls, his voice suddenly so close, and so raspy.

A dirty talker. Of course that's Hobi's thing. With the gravel in Hobi's raps. He may be neat, but he's just as home in the silt.

"They've been me going home fucking thirsty," you sigh, as Hobi starts to pick up his pace. You grit your teeth and picture yourself, narrating every move that you've made in the minutes and hours following the closing of Hobi's front door. "Me touching myself in my damn car. In my damn elevator. Me leaving stains on the upholstery, or dripping a trail to my door. Me not being able to wait to come until I get to my damn room. Sinking to my knees and fucking my hand in the foyer of my stupid, empty apartment."

Whimpering, Hobi starts to piston stroke into you, imagining your delicate fingers slipping into you the way his cock is, your walls bouncing your moans around like his walls are now, bouncing like your tits are now, too, as he frees them from your bra. You cry out when you feel pressure around them, and then a buzzing burn as he pinches and tweaks your nipples.

"Fuuuuh-huh-huh-huck," you whine, tears coming to your eyes as quickly as your orgasm is being summoned. "God, Hobi, it feels so fucking good."

"I know."

The radiant confidence sends you reeling. Was sleepy drunk Hobi walking you to the elevator every Saturday just a fucking act?

"Come for me now," Hobi instructs. "Let me fucking see you. Tired of trying to picture it. Wanna see you lose control."

Your toes fan out, fingers sprawl across the cushions. You're opening yourself up, opening your chakras, opening your third eye to let everything come. And it does, washing over you, sending you into another dimension completely, one where Hobi isn't just your cuddly best friend, happy to contain you and cheer you up by watching your favorite terrible rom-coms, or share some cool fashion documentary he's stumbled upon. One where Hobi is actually unleashing something that's been trapped within you. Some force. Some other you. A you that demands what you want. And, in turn, you've unleashed something in him. A him that can finally give it to you.

You rock the couch on its legs, springs creaking as you roll with him, and then seize, and then spasm, shivering unexpectedly and breaking into a cold sweat. The wall becomes a blurry, fuzzy gray. You reach out to stroke it, expecting fur or feathers and getting dried paint. Your palm print smears across. Hobi's hand lands on top of yours, and he slips his fingers into the webbing between yours, helping you latch onto something more solid than the tiny, uneven bumps of drywall.

Hobi walks you to the elevator, your purse over his shoulder, his hoodie back on his body, and a clean one of his hoodies on yours.

"I guess this means our friendship is ruined," Hobi remarks. "Kind of a big stain we just made there."

"And on my blouse, and on your sofa, and me in my car," you whisper, as he laughs and pulls you in for a kiss.

He looks at you thoughtfully. How could he have let you go like this every Saturday? "You sure you don't wanna stay?" he asks hopefully.

"I swear to fucking god that I would," you tell him, a heavy urgency in your voice, "but I did promise my parents dinner." And then you smile reassuringly. "I swear I'll make it up to you. Send you some texts to keep you company. And I'll be done before you know it. Come back."

"Mmmm, cum on your back?" Hobi snarls, leaning into you as you press the elevator button. "Can't wait for that."

You giggle and slip into the elevator when the door opens, after giving Hobi one more kiss.

"Promise me," Hobi whines, slipping your purse off his shoulder and onto yours, before lunging and bracing the outline of the elevator door, head hanging, eyes looking at you through his long, long lashes.

"Promise," you whisper, as the door closes.

Hobi chases your gaze as the gap narrows. "I'll be waiting," he whispers back, before the metal clang.

He won't have to wait long. Your eyes are already scanning for cameras. And when you see none, you whip out your phone and start to record with one hand, and slide your other hand into your shorts. Video 1 of how many it'll take to keep him fed until you're in this elevator again.

Hobi knows better than anyone that if there's anything to know about you, you're always one to keep your word.

More Important Questions

#bts drabbles #bts fanfiction #bts smut #hobi smut #hobi x reader #hobi x you #hobi x y/n #mochilatae #important questions #NOT AT ROOMIE CHANGING THINGS UP OOOOOF! #your BRAIN girl!!!!!

[musichelan]

meeting the ancient cookie-- pure vanilla

"OooO0," Sorbet hummed, walking along the seaside. They found themselves drawn to the beach, with its sunny days and cool breeze. Pirate told them to have a couple days to themselves as he and the crew have something to take care on the ship. So today, Sorbet intended to watch the sea for a bit, for old time's sake.

They sat on the sand, feeling it between their toes (they still couldn't believe they managed to get themselves legs). Resting their head on their knees, Sorbet was content to spend the day by themselves.

"Sorbet!" Maybe not by themselves. They wouldn't turn down company if given the chance.

"Hey, why are you sitting here alone?" Gingerbrave asked, settling down beside them. Sorbet admired Gingerbrave a lot. He was brave, for one, and he was friendly towards them. They couldn't remember another cookie being kind to them since Pirate took them in. Throw in the fact that they could only speak bubbles on land -- a whole new reason why cookies wouldn't even bother to try and talk to them.

Sorbet sighed softly. "Ooo00o," they started, playing with the sand, "ooOOo."

"You don't know what to do?" Gingerbrave asked, just to confirm. Sorbet nodded. They didn't like doing things by themselves if they could help it. The two lapsed into silence, with the waves crashing onto the shore to accompany them. Sorbet pouted.

They turned towards Gingerbrave, "Oo0ooO?" They asked, drawing a cookie figure and a question mark on the sand. Gingerbrave glanced at the drawing. Sorbet watched as Gingerbrave's eyes lit up in excitement and an imaginary light bulb went off from Gingerbrave's head.

"I know just the cookie you'll like to meet!" Gingerbrave jumped onto his feet, dusting off the sand and rushed towards the kingdom. "C'mon, Sorbet!"

Sorbet let out a happy "Ooo0!" and rushed off after Gingerbrave, running as fast as their little feet could move.

The two cookies came to a stop in front of the castle. Sorbet looked at the huge building with awe in their eyes, "0o00oo..." they muttered. Surprisingly, the castle didn't have any imitating gates in from of it. Instead of the gates, the castle has an opened layout, with a huge doorway leading into the castle. Sorbet wondered why didn't the castle have gates. They turned to Gingerbrave, "OoOOo00o o0ooOO0?" They waved their arms around and made an "X". They hoped GIngerbrave understand them.

"Oh, the gates?" Sorbet nodded. "Well, do you know that Pure Vanilla is our king, right?" Sorbet nodded again, slightly confused. Why would Pure Vanilla has something to do with the absence of the gates?

Gingerbrave must've seen the confusion on their face, because he sat in front of the walls, patting the space beside him. Sorbet promptly planted themself besides Gingerbrave, paying their full attention to the story GIngerbrave was telling.

"Pure Vanilla was known as the all loving monarch, and he helps everyone, including his enemies if he can help it," Gingerbrave couldn't suppress a giggle from escaping his mouth when he saw Sorbet's shocked expression. "Yes, Sorbet, I've heard stories of how Pure Vanilla turned the war tides over just by helping some of the injured enemies. Those were just stories, passed down to us cookies by ancient drawings on walls when we go out to find Pure Vanilla. After we helped Pure Vanilla back to our kingdom, we asked him to become our king again, and he accepted. He took Custard under his wings, and told the rest of us to go to him if we ever need someone to help. He asked the sugar gnomes to remove the castle gates after he was healed, said that no one should ever be denied any form of help while he is king. It did wonders-- our kingdom flourished even more under him, and nearly every cookie is on good terms with him."

"Oo00o?"

"Yup, nearly every cookie." Sorbet was secretly pleased to realise that Gingerbrave was taking less time to understand what they were trying to say. "I rather not mention those cookies, Sorbet. They don't make a good name for us cookies in this area."

"Anyways, Pure Vanilla had those gates removed as soon as he can and everyone loves him for it." Gingerbrave finished, leaning onto the wall. Sorbet played with the grass around them, digesting the information bomb Gingerbrave gave them as fast as they could.

"Gingerbrave! I wasn't expecting you today, how may I help you?" The two young cookies jumped at the sudden voice. Sorbet hid behind Gingerbrave, shaking, as Gingerbrave started to tell the cookie their tale.

"Pure Vanilla! No, nothing's wrong, but you're just the cookie I needed!" Gingerbrave said cheerfully, "Pure Vanilla, this is Sorbet Shark cookie! They came here just a few days ago with Pirate cookie."

Sorbet was still hiding behind Gingerbrave. They peeked out, accidentally met Pure Vanilla's eyes and hid behind Gingerbrave again. They shook their head quickly, "Ooo0o0!"

"It's OK, Sorbet," Gingerbrave muttered, "Pure Vanilla cannot and will not bite." He slightly pushed the shark cookie forward in encouragement.

Sorbet stood beside Gingerbrave, a hand in the other's hand for bravery. They looked at Pure Vanilla with wide eyes, taking in the waffle cone crown and the orchid staff. The staff blinked at them.

They blinked right back.

And the staff blinked at them again.

Sorbet chewed the insides of their cheeks. Oh, they thought, blinking faster than before at the staff again, the game is on. They spent a good 5 minutes blinking back and forth with the staff until Pure Vanilla and Gingerbrave were laughing. Sorbet snapped out of their little game, their cheeks turning red once they realised why the two older cookies were laughing.

"Ooo0oo0O!" Sorbet buried their face into their hands, thoroughly embarrassed. Gingerbrave visibly collected himself before clearing his throat.

"We were just amused, Sorbet," Gingerbrave explained to a pouting Sorbet, "But do you want to introduce yourself to Pure Vanilla?"

It was then Sorbet realised that Pure Vanilla has different coloured eyes. One of his eyes was pale yellow coloured and the other was a faded blue colour. "Ooo000o?" They asked, pointing at the king's different coloured eyes.

Pure Vanilla knelt down in front of Sorbet, "My eyes?" Sorbet nodded, looking amazed at the king's eyes. He smiled softly, "My eyes has been like this since I came to life. The witch that made me must've wanted me to become a very special cookie."

Sorbet let out an "ooOOo0" of understanding. "Ooo00oo," the shark cookie continued.

"They said that your eyes look amazing," Gingerbrave translated. Sorbet nodded furiously at the king. They really liked his eyes! It reminded them of one of the cookies across the sea, so they told the two cookies about the interesting tale they went to with Pirate.

Just as Sorbet was telling how Pirate helped healed one of the injured crewmates, someone came running at them. "Pure Vanilla! We need your help!" Sorbet went alert instantly at the unknown cookie's words, "There's a cookie, said his name's Pirate, they needed help! I think they were attacked out on the sea!"

"Sorbet! Wait for us!" Sorbet didn't dare to stop at Gingerbrave's calling. They barely heard Pure Vanilla's words as they took off to the sea's direction, their heart beating wildly. Didn't Pirate said they were only fixing the ship? Why were they attacked? Images of Pirate losing his blood was conjured in their brain and it filled Sorbet with dread.

Pirate couldn't be dead. Not now. Not when he promised to bring Sorbet across the world while being their father figure.

"OO00ooOo!" Sorbet screamed when they saw their crew. They pushed their way to Pirate's side, tears building up in their eyes as they tried to shake Pirate awake. "Oo0oo oo00ooOO!" They cried, shaking Pirate's still body.

You can't die right now, dad! You can't!

Sorbet felt around Pirate's neck for a pulse and was relieved to find one. "Oo00oo 00o0oo!" They cried, shaking Pirate's body harder, foolishly hoping that it could wake Pirate up. Tears were streaming down Sorbet's face, but Sorbet couldn't care about themself right now. Pirate wasn't responding, and Sorbet no longer know what to do.

Dad, wake up!

"Please step aside, cookies." Sorbet sniffed, laying across Pirate's body. They squeezed Pirate's hands every now and then, trying to check for themself that Pirate was still breathing.

"Sorbet, dear? Can you give a little space for Pure Vanilla? You still can hold Pirate's hands," Gingerbrave quickly added when he saw how upset Sorbet was. Sorbet sniffed again, moving slightly away from Pirate's side, keeping his hands in theirs. They hoped Pirate would wake up soon.

Sorbet saw Pure Vanilla standing a few steps away from Pirate. "Oo00o?" They asked, their voice breaking at the end of the sentence. Pure Vanilla nodded, a gentle face on his face.

"Yes, Sorbet, I'll try my best to heal Pirate. Can you be brave for a moment? Hold onto Pirate's hands, it will help him." Sorbet clutched Pirate's hands tighter. They would try to be the brave shark Pirate always tell them to be and help Pirate come back to life.

Pure Vanilla raised his staff into the air. Energy started to cackle around the orchid, and Sorbet could feel the air around them was slowly being sucked towards the orchid. A binding light built slowly from the orchid's petals, growing brighter and brighter, the eye glowing behind the light in an electric yellow. Sorbet squeezed Pirate again.

The power building at the staff was crackling loudly, and Sorbet peeked an eye open. Pure Vanilla looked magnificent in his role as a Healer, the warm yellow light surrounding him as he brought his staff down to Earthbread.

A warm yellow light was sent into the soil of Earthbread and travelled towards Pirate at a lighting's speed, the energy still crackling as they entered Pirate's body. Sorbet watched the lines of energy flowed in Pirate's body, amazed at the magic in front of them. "Oo00o!" They shielded their eyes with an arm as the bright and warm light burst out from Pirate's body.

Silence fell. Sorbet slowly moved their arm away from their eyes, blinking slowly to get the spots out of their vision. They squeezed Pirate's hands again. "Oo0o00?"

Dad?

There wasn't a squeeze to alert Sorbet that Pirate was awake. Sorbet burst into crying again, heaving sobs wreaking their tiny body as they cried. They couldn't bring themself to look at Pirate's face. "Oo00oo 0ooo00!" They sobbed, shaking their head while trying their best to shake Pirate awake.

Dad, wake up! You can't leave me!

They didn't realise how the air had gone still and heavy. Their brain didn't register the quiet voices around them, whispering to each other in sadness. They didn't see how Pure Vanilla's steps' faltered when Pirate wasn't waking up. They didn't see how Pure Vanilla nearly collapsed into a cookie's hold.

Their attention was only on Pirate and Pirate alone. Wake up, dad! We still have so much to see! So many places to go! Our adventure! Dad!

"Kid." Sorbet's head snapped to Pirate's face. Were they dreaming? Sorbet wiped the tears away from their face harshly, blinking up to Pirate.

"Why are you crying?"

Sorbet felt their nose squeezed, a telltale sign of the incoming tears. "OOoo00O!" They threw themself onto Pirate, happiness leaking through their voice as they hugged their father figure. "O00oo oo0oooOo0," they muttered, burying their face into Pirate's neck.

Pirate gave a weak chuckle. "You're my kid, Sorbet. Of course I'll come back alive. Can't eat my own words now, can I?" Sorbet laughed weakly. They climbed off Pirate with a single cookie in mind. They marched towards Pure Vanilla, who was resting in a cookie's arms. Sorbet tilted their head to a side, but decided that they could find the cookie's identity later.

Without as much as a warning, Sorbet jumped onto Pure Vanilla, mumbling their thank you quietly into the king's waffle cape. They felt the king's shaking hand ran through their hair, relaxing into his hold little by little. "Ooo0o," they said again.

"It was my pleasure, Sorbet," Pure Vanilla said, rubbing circles on Sorbet's back. "how about you and Pirate and your crew come up to the castle? White Lily said she would love to listen to your adventures with Pirate." Pure Vanilla offered gently. Sorbet nodded, their eyelids dropping every now and then. The sudden rush of adrenaline left them, and now they just wanted to sleep, preferably cuddling Pirate while they were at it.

"My king," Pirate greeted, leaning heavily on one of the crew, "Thank you for savin' me life."

"It's no problem," Pure Vanilla said, "And, please, call me Pure Vanilla. There is no need for formalities here." Another crewmate came over and offered to take Sorbet, seeing that Pure Vanilla nearly drained all of his energy while healing Pirate. Sorbet snuggled deeper into the crewmate's hold.

Pure Vanilla got up with difficulty, groaning slightly as White Lily helped him. Once steady on his feet, he smiled at the rest of the cookies, "Shall we head to the castle now?"

Sorbet mumbled something in their sleep as the small group walked slowly back to the castle to rest.

#fluff #angst #cookie run #sorbet shark cookie #gingerbrave #pirate cookie #pure vanilla cookie #white lily cookie #fluff and angst

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

why does jean warn up to mc so quickly? ikevamp makes it clear that jean is a pretty reserved person and doesn't open up or let people in easily but he seems to let mc in quite quickly and it confuses me quite a bit.

Oh boy, where to begin with this one.

Well, I have a lot of Feelings^TM about this, but I'll try to be concise. Essentially, I think Jeanne doesn't recover in the other routes--or the general storyline--largely because he's just a lot to unpack narratively speaking. And without some pretty direct intervention, he has a hard time healing. MC’s direct intervention was meaningful because it was focused, consistent, and adapted to Jeanne’s specific needs. She also doesn’t make light of his experiences which is key; she fully understands that she can’t fathom what he’s been through. There is a very weighty respect and acknowledgement, a seriousness with which she treats his wounds that’s important.

It’s easy to make this a “why is MC nOt LiKe ThE oThEr GiRlS” but honestly that’s just not the sense I get when I look at all the information available to us. 

That being said, I also just feel like every person's recovery from traumatic events doesn't really look the same? I mean Leonardo’s cptsd isn’t going to operate the same way Jeanne’s wartime/Inquisition cptsd is going to operate. Some people require very individualized healing, others will often require a large scale group effort to lift them up.

Typically people don't ever just get over what happened to them and never worry about it again, either. It's usually a process of coping; the hope is that with time you find healthy ways to deal with grief and move forward. Therapists aren't magicians, they just help people process painful experiences/thoughts. It's honestly up to individuals to find meaningful ways to implement these tactics. 

Tl; dr: My contention is that Jeanne doesn’t open up or choose to stay alive because MC magically heals him, rather his recovery is a convergence of many people’s efforts and hopes that he stays alive. Gilles (he insists that Jeanne must live, asks him to promise), MC (affirms and bolsters that promise), Comte (makes a second life and recovery possible)--and in no small measure Mozart and Napoleon--all make an active effort to buoy him. As people often say, it takes a village to raise a child.

While Jeanne seems to respond most powerfully to MC’s attempts, it feels more like a product of chemistry/compatibility than it does a random cop out. There is no insinuation that only romantic love can heal; after all, MC gets close to him without any romantic intentions at first. They’re just good friends? It’s more that their feelings simply moved in a different direction after a point, which doesn’t necessarily happen all the time. Jeanne is also incredibly moved by Mozart’s love for him as a friend, Comte’s love for him as a father, and even Gilles’ love as a comrade to an extent. If anything, without their input Jeanne’s capacity for romantic love would be questionable at best.

Now, because I can never for the life of me stop analyzing, I have a more large scale outline of my thoughts below. Spoilers for Jeanne’s route:

If we look at Jeanne's life history, he has pretty specific trauma. Most of the harm he endured was a direct result of human rights violations after the war itself. He didn't enjoy fighting and killing people, but he's also very much a man that sees the reality of his position: it's either kill or be killed. His entire goal was to defeat the enemy as efficiently as possible in the hopes of ending conflict, and with his enormous resolve turns the tide. He had no innate interest in inflicting harm, or lack of control when engaging. He isn't pathological about it, and doesn’t dehumanize the other side. He was more "this was an act of necessity, but those are still human beings." So as far as I can tell he has a very strong moral compass and sense of duty, he doesn't show much delusion/confusion in that regard. (Also evident in his conversations with the young orphan boy.) Furthermore, he has been shown to have a sense of humor--cracking jokes with Gilles and boosting morale for his fellow soldiers.

His childhood abandonment is significant (he left his home because he was "not an adequate farmhand and they had no ability to feed all their children") but I don't know if I would consider it a huge trauma point for him. It seems as though he deemed it an act of necessity--not spite. It was simply the way of things, and he couldn't help his wiry constitution. You'd be surprised how common that was once upon a time, tbh... While it's certainly not right or fair, it does appear that in his perception it was the choice he made and he moved on after he became a soldier. Just focusing on what he could do, rather than everything he lacked. For people in his position, they often feel it is useless to linger on what should have been. There’s no time to linger or doubt, life hangs in the balance.

That leaves us with his time under the Inquisition, just before he was slated to be burned alive. I think this is the keystone trauma point for him, because there are a lot of moving parts to his powerlessness here. The first part is that his entire life's mission--ending the war so that people would no longer have to die and/or starve as a result of senseless violence--was just sabotaged. All those years of doing things he never wanted to do (wartime violence) and being forced to leave his family to ensure they didn't all starve, all of it treated like some kind of joke. Like he didn't sacrifice years of his life and sanity to protect a people who were happy to call him a monster and watch him burn alive. The second part is the overt gaslighting and rewriting of Jeanne's personal history (and overall French public perception) for the sake of the King's political agenda. To call him a treasonous danger to the country when he was once lauded a hero. The third portion is the actual physical helplessness of being arrested, starved, and continuously maimed for no reason beyond pure malice. While it's never right to do that to any human being, this was done to a man who prided himself on his stalwart moral code. To abuse and torture him for something egregious that he would never do (at the risk of death) is just another slap in the face to everything he is and believes in.

I just feel like the context clarifies why that period of time would be the tipping point. His entire moral code and life’s work is being called into question and swept aside, as well as his agency? He believes very powerfully in a sense of right vs wrong, what's fair and what isn't fair. Somebody else deciding that for him--and deciding in a way that is openly unfair/incorrect--further makes him lose himself and his sense of reality. A person in that situation begins to doubt if they are good or bad. His belief in god all the more pressing; if he was a good person, why would fate bring him so much suffering? Honorable soldier or not, his blade has drawn so much blood...

People often reference his stilted social skills (and I am of the belief that he is on the autistic spectrum) as a reason why he is so "people-adverse" but tbh? I don't agree. His memories before the onset of this trauma reveal that he was actually a very warm person, and that people were more than willing to fight under his banner. He had friends, and he had comrades--his country loved him. He was the picture of well-meaning civic duty. Just because he doesn’t integrate smoothly into larger social groups or adapt well to socially shifting circumstances, doesn’t mean he just hates people lmao. When people give him the space to exist within his comfort zone and don’t take advantage of him, he thrives. Compounded by that, we also have his actions in the present to further prove what is true and what isn't.

While he is stern with the orphan boy (I'm sorry I can't remember his name, damn it) there is no malice or cruelty in what he has to say. He doesn't punish the kid or do anything out of line. It may not be fair in terms of the adult level of discretion he asks of him, but the kid also didn't have a lot of options realistically speaking lmao. Same thing with MC, she and the orphan boy are nearly identical in how Jeanne treats them. He's a little rough, but the route reveals that his intentions are just a reflection of what he's been through. He truly believes that if a person isn't strong, they won't survive--because his entire life was a series of trying to be strong/reliable because nobody else would. There was nobody to protect him, and nobody to care for him went things went south. It was him and his sword against the world, and even his exceptional skill as a fighter did not protect him from the Inquisition's arbitrary torture. He has lived in a world where good acts can become absolutely meaningless, where following rules and helping people still gets you slaughtered. That's going to take a considerable toll on his mental health: where do you find the will to go on when the next second of your life could mean the devastation of everything that matters to you?

Spoilers: you don't. Or if you do, every minute of the day is a fight to stay alive. That is the point at which we meet Jeanne. Caught in the hellish whirlpool of wanting more, wanting better--but being terrified of the cost. The cost of hoping, only for his entire world to go up in flames again. It's not a small thing, in my view.

If you have any doubts as to whether or not that is the case, I direct you to literally every singular instance in which Jeanne's emotional sensibility goes visibly dark/south. When do these instances happen? When it rains, for one. And when Shakespeare deliberately starts pressing on his sensitivities: about the soldiers he was forced to kill, about the nation that spurned him, how he's truly "wicked" at heart and doesn't deserve to be happy--seconds before flames erupt for the festival. Does that really sound coincidental? I mean lmao. The rain is a painful reminder, but MC transforms that memory into something a little lighter with her bet. He has nothing to lose in her game, all she does is ask for time with him or offers him something if she loses. There's a playfulness there, a restoration of agency and ease that's invaluable to his recovery.

As for Shakespeare's deliberate retraumatization...I can't even begin to explain how damaging that event was. Shakespeare is undermining Jeanne's agency in that he--not unlike the corrupt monarch of Jeanne's era--is twisting Jeanne's beliefs to work against him. He knows full well that Jeanne doesn't feel like he deserves somebody so bright and understanding (we need to remember it's not really a luxury he's had much in life, especially after the war ended). He knows Jeanne has a tendency to impose that strict moral code on himself even more than he does on others. To reaffirm his every worst fear and lurking terror only throws Jeanne into a vicious downspiral. Jeanne doesn't reject MC out of disgust or hate. He rejects her because he literally cannot handle the concept of trying to be happy again, or of burdening her with his constant struggle to move on while he’s in the middle of a bad episode. He knows he won’t be able to stop reliving the past, that every second of his life and breath will be colored by his gruesome memories. He's trying as hard as he can to keep the intrusive thoughts quiet, to move on. But I'm not going to lie to any of you, that is incredibly difficult to do alone.

The next obvious question is, well why can't the other men help him? This isn't to say that they can't--we see how much solace Jeanne finds in Napoleon and Mozart. Even Isaac is gentle with the veteran. But there are limits to how much they can do. Napoleon is struggling with his own wartime trauma, and it's not identical to Jeanne's. Plus there’s a distinct difference in their sensibilities? Napoleon is the type to habitually seek comfort in helping others when he can't help himself, he's not as in tune with answering his own personal feelings and regulating them. (I mean just look at his new ES: he knows what he wants, but it takes a nudge from Isaac for him to go through with it.) He’s very communally reliant in ways Jeanne isn’t; Jeanne is a very private person, and typically prefers one on one from what I can tell.

Mozart is the definition of repression, and if you look at their interactions it's usually Jeanne that's smoothing over Mozart's rough edges. Mozart says as much himself: that he feels like a rotten friend because he knew Jeanne was struggling with a lot of intense trauma, but he didn't know how to unravel it without hurting him in the process. Mozart calls it personal cowardice, but honestly I just feel like they both had too much going on to be able to help each other effectively. (And Jeanne expresses this sentiment too? This idea that he's not angry with Mozart? He knows they're both carrying a lot, he's just touched Mozart cares about him in return.)

Okay, briefly unrelated, but like. Am I the only one that wheezes uncontrollably when Mozart is like "?????? Idk what it is about MC...I don't want her to be scared of me..." in his own main story in the baths. And Jeanne. IS TRYING SO HARD. NOT TO SPILL THE BEANS ABOUT HIM O B V I O U S L Y BEING IN LOVE. THE HILARITY I CAN'T DO THIS. Jeanne was like "yeah....yeah that's rough buddy.......[screams internally, give your boy time Jeanne he's fragile]"

Honestly? That's the thing about Jeanne too--he has incredible self-awareness and hyperarousal-related (I mean the PTSD kind, get your head out of the gutter) awareness to the people around him. He's very, very conscious of the fact that he is surrounded by geniuses when he can't even write his own name. Just because he has the fortitude not to lash out with his insecurities, doesn't mean he never feels stupid or inferior. And it doesn't help when there are people in the mansion who call him--a fucking war veteran from 500 YEARS AGO--nAiVe. He's not naive lmao. He just doesn't know how the world works so many years later, and it's a ridiculously steep learning curve? Leonardo and Comte are nearly 500 years old, but they lived throughout every hour of that time in a linear fashion. It is a big deal to be moved from 1430 to 1890 in the span of a second asynchronously, and then be expected to function without a hitch??? Given the circumstances he adapts well.

That atmosphere--this constant impatience with what he doesn’t understand, his inability to be caught up to speed quickly--is going to hinder his recovery lmao. He feels like a burden most of the time, and agency and freedom are crucial.

Another thing that occurs to me about the mansion's arrangement is that there is a power dynamic, just as any space with people in it has some level of hierarchy (unless you live with miraculously chill people). Jeanne is acutely aware that Comte is the most powerful being in that space, and he is not only hatefully angry at him--but likely afraid too. We have to remember that the biggest betrayal he witnessed in his life was at the hands of a monarch; it was the aristocracy that turned on him and erased the truth. Comte is openly a child that resulted from both that era and that type of lineage, I don't really blame Jeanne for being wary. He intimately knows how willing rich people are to throw normal folks under the bus to suit their ambitions/whims. Comte, while not deliberately threatening, also seems to be painfully aware of this impression he gives off. His "chad persona" as I've mentioned allows him to navigate his life in secret by necessity, but it’s actively damaging to his son. He can't reveal the truth because of Vlad's betrayal, and he's openly unsettled by what it could mean to be honest. Will they wonder about Vlad and find themselves ensnared under his mind control as Charles and Shakespeare are? Will Comte himself be subjected to the mortifying ordeal of being known only to lose them?? That's a risk he isn't willing to take--and that leaves him in a double bind.

What is it that they say, the truth will set you free? This is where MC and Comte come into enormous play when it comes to Jeanne's recovery. One thing to keep in mind is that most of the people in the mansion have their own traumas they're trying to carry, and I feel like a lot of them are unsure how to approach Jeanne. Or if they do, he's very guarded. It takes a lot of consistent effort to get through to him. What does MC do when Jeanne unleashes his harsh worldview on her? She's understandably frightened, but Jeanne isn't malicious (so she chases him around). In fact, he openly avoids and runs away from her--well aware that what he's done is wrong. If anything, he did it on purpose, bringing us right back to Shakespeare's verbal undoing; why does Jeanne attack her in the first place?

LMAO. He attacks her because she essentially says "oh thanks for helping me!" "I am not nice. Watch yourself." "But you seem like a nice guy to me?" "REEEEEE" Does the pattern become a little clearer? When people think kindly of him, his instinct is to shatter that illusion with an impulsive reprehensible act. When people think poorly of him or lash out, what does he do? When that orphan boy starts yelling and screaming, Jeanne is nothing but calm. He explains the situation, and offers the kid a choice, perfectly happy to be the bearer of bad news. This operates on many levels I’m sure, but I have a feeling it has something to do with him being hailed a saint and a war hero only to be tortured and branded a monstrosity (and he probably thinks being a vampire is doubly monstrous). He’s more comfortable being hated because he feels it’s what he deserves in a lot of ways.

Jeanne has a lot of internalized self-hatred because of what he's done, and because of how much harm was inflicted on him outside of his control (he's Catholic and he was tortured, come on this writes itself). If I'm honest, I think that's actually the greater part of why he hates Comte lmao. Comte refuses the very concept of being cruel no matter how much Jeanne lashes out. Sure he lectures him and scolds him, but he never actively limits what's important to him or controls or harms him. Comte fully realizes the tragedy of how Jeanne's life was used by a nation in dire straits, and knows he needs time and acceptance to heal. No matter how dismal or unhappy, Comte doesn't stop--he fully believes Jeanne should have time in his life where he can really live for himself for once. But therein lies the issue, Jeanne doesn't know how to live for himself.

Which brings me to how MC and Comte "heal" Jeanne. I feel like they give him the space he needs to recover, and that's what results in his gentled temperament and happiness. Remember that so much of his main story is MC endlessly chasing after Jeanne. No amounts of his hissing or running or threatening stops her. Even if his refusals are empty of real dislike, they're enough to deter most people. Not MC. She's able to see through to the depths of who he is, and doesn't just use him for her own ends? She actively seeks to teach him (to read and write) to help him settle better in this era, she actively tries to ease his distaste for rain with a well-meaning bet, and she never gives up on him. (Actions mean so much more to him than words in general too, tbh...). Love is more easily defined by work and effort than it is by attraction.

When he has his episode at the festival, sure she's rattled; but that's because she truly believed that he didn't want to be around her anymore. When she notices he really doesn’t want to be followed, she stops like any normal person would. It’s only when she reads his notebook and sees the truth for herself (that he’s given up despite having the same feelings for her) that her determination is rekindled. She doesn't approach him fearfully, doesn't treat him like he's made of glass either. She just wants him as he is--accepts and loves him as he is. Scarred, bloody, exhausted, abrasive, terrified. She doesn't define him by how easy he is to love. That is a huge issue with traumatized people lmao. Because of their maturity, people always just assume they don't need help, or they rely on them to an extent that isn't sustainable. The second they reveal need or that they struggle, people walk away or victim blame them because it’s easier than taking them seriously.

While MC's attempts may be a little more obvious (cherishing his lily field, wearing the hair pin he gave her, careful about his gruesome injury, really listens when he talks about the horrors of his life and accepts that he experienced a level of agony/terror she can never understand, tries to express her feelings no matter his evasion) I think it's also important to consider Comte's large scale effort. I don't say this to undermine MC, I say it because Jeanne's life was defined by a complete lack of security. He left his parents to make their lives easier, he lived in a war that meant life or death any second, and his country's leader branded him a traitor which lead to his endless torture and public execution. Jeanne does not know a life in which safety is the norm. Point blank. He does not understanding going outside and not expecting the worst anymore.

Comte not only understands that level of despair, but treats it with dignity and respect. He fully accepts being hated if it means Jeanne can use that hatred to live on and find a way to heal. And most importantly, when Jeanne begins to move forward with MC and Mozart's help, Comte never once holds it against Jeanne when the truth is revealed. He's not angry, this isn't about reprisal or reparations or revenge. It's just love.

Jeanne doesn't really have a concept of this? His entire life was mostly transactional, defined by strength and efficiency. Nobody gives a damn about your feelings. You either hurl yourself at the problem or die. Nobody is going to help you or carry you or save you. While he may have had a little more support while he was in the military from his fellow soldiers, that support system was ripped away from him during the Inquisition.

One very common sentiment regarding elongated imprisonment and torture is that survival occurs in pairs. It is an undeniable fact that people need others to survive. It is the nature of who we are. Individualism has never proven to be successful, or if it is, its dividends are astronomically minimal when compared to people working together.

What does it mean to be the most reliable, steady person in the room? Usually it just means you don't know how to ask for help when you are no longer capable of maintaining that stance. Napoleon is guilty of it. Leonardo, Comte, and Jeanne all are too. It's part of why MC and Comte's capacity to see what he needs and provide as much as they can is such a big deal. That sort of consistent support (without a constant necessity to beg for help) allows Jeanne to be able to re-integrate into his new reality and find joy. Even if his nightmares and memories never go away, they are now being actively overrun by positive experiences. That's the thing about recovery, really--it tends to be more about drowning out the negative as much as possible and coming to terms with it, than it is about forgetting or never feeling it again. It’s about softening the sharp edges of pain like sea glass.

So is MC magical and randomly got Jeanne to open up? Nah, I don't think so. I think it was a series of persistence and real acceptance of who he is that made him warm up. People really seem to underestimate how deeply affecting understanding is, but that's how damage is undone. Jeanne can't really linger on the idea of his own monstrousness, his unworthiness, a lifetime of misery, when the person in front of him actively listens and cares about him. Makes him laugh and smile and lose himself in warmth for the first time.

If I'm honest, I feel like people also just...underestimate the level of traumatic resurgence that's perpetuated and inflicted by society’s standards in general lmao. This rhetorical structure in which good and bad exist in moral extremes, this idea that people should be able to recover and never experience relapses or periods of sensitivity. The refusal to radically listen to people and their problems, and make active attempts--not matter how small--to mend/ease those hurt feelings. Granted there will always be people in the world who do not want to improve, but I feel like most people want to. It's hopelessness, silence, and stigmatization that remain the true enemies of traumatized/mentally ill people everywhere. And among that population are always war veterans...

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp jean #ikevamp jeanne #ikevamp meta #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp comte #sorry i have a lot of feelings about this topic kjahsflkjhsjkghfd #but yes! #i think mc being able to help him was more about her sensibility and the mental fortitude/space to be able to care about him as he needed #i don't think it's necessarily that she's SpEcIaL #trauma is a sensitive subject--especially considering he's a war veteran #but i also think it's simple and complex at the same time #simple in the sense that people really do just need consistent support and love to be able to care for themselves again #complex in the sense that support can come in so many permutations and some of them are very delicate and multi-faceted #and thus must be handled with extreme caution in some regards #anywho not that i'm any kind of expert this is just what i understand and see #also in case it wasn't clear i love him and cry every day (look away comte it's my whoring hours) #though i hope this helps??? i went off harder than anticipated lakjhglkj #thank you for the ask!!! <3333 #asks #rambles #not incorrect quotes

[throwawayfish]

𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐱 𝐏𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary: it’s never easy to always be in the honeymoon phase of a relationship, but being with the pogue king just needs a bit more effort to keep it that way

warnings: platonic!rafe x reader (not a lot in this chapter), fluff, angst, language, minor drowning incident, lowercase intended, typos for sure

a/n: we’ve reached the end of the series! whew! it’s been a long time coming. read to find out what happens to jj and y/n!! gif used is mine :)

interact with the series masterlist or let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist! ♡

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐭𝐰𝐨, 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞, 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫, 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

the morning light didn’t shine through your windows for hours on the daily. the drawn curtains shielding you from the rays as you used as a barrier from the outside world, waking up later than what you’re used to. it was with bold determination that you managed to gather yourself and do what you normally would. get up, fix the bed, do bathroom agendas and cook food— either only for you or the best friends you had plans to meet with.

three days had passed since you last saw the group. staying within the rundown walls of your house, wallowing in heartbreak and, although you hate to admit it, self pity. but today was different, as pope persuaded her to surf - knowing that he was just trying to get her to go by using flattery - but she agreed after telling the lad he poor enticing skills.

the sun was at somehow at its peak as you arrived your usual spot, colossal waves in view as the silhouettes of your friends surfed from the distance. their laughs being carried away with the wind towards you let your feet sink in the hot sand.

though you loved hearing their faint laughters, the absence of the the one you were too nervous to run into once again didn’t come unnoticed. you propped your board by the palm tree that offered shade, peeling off the summer dress you had on as it revealed your favourite bikini. you waxed hastily, ready to get your body submerged in the ocean.

tucking your board under your arms, you ran to the white water that’s widespread on the shallow part, watching your friends wait for the set that was coming up as you ventured to them excitedly as you passed the shore break, using the riptide to get on the deep end faster.

once you reached the section they were at, it was as if it was your deep seated understanding with the rest to paddle out and catch waves of your own. it was deemed throughout the group- that eventually became passed on the island, that you and the blonde pogue were one’s greatest competition when it came to surfing. you both found it funny, setting the pressure aside and let your adoration for each other mask it.

the swells were developing faster, some breaking earlier than usual and some not being worth to catch. soon enough, the two boys left to rest for a little while, having been there an hour before kie and an extra half hour before you.

silence filled the air for awhile, the only thing easing the tension in the atmosphere was the crashing of the waves. it was soon ceased as the brunette spoke, “i’m sorry...” you looked at her, prompting her to continue “about you and jj.”

your lips formed a thin line, not knowing whether to make a face or smile. “i hope you guys could work it out.” that statement alone impelled you to let out a scoff.

“you’re actually telling me that...you’re actually telling me that?” you asked in annoyance, she bowed her head before building up the courage to speak again.

“we weren’t doing anything behind your back.” she started, “i know it doesn’t seem that way but believe me, we didn’t. i can’t do that to myself, to jj, and i respect and love you too much to do that to you.”

although you guys we’re still floating on your surfboards, hair and skin soaked in salty water, you could guarantee that a few tears fell from her eyes. but knowing kie and being best friends for so long, tears were not what you needed to have assurance of her sincerity, it was simply her bringing her walls down to talk her feelings away.

“i appreciate that a lot. i’m sorry too if i doubted you, it just wasn’t hard to do so when he has chosen you over me multiple times. and it’s not like it’s a bad thing to be closer than ever, he just doesn’t know how to get his priorities straight, i guess.” you answered, letting the water cradle you as you eased through a conversation.

it was not hard to forgive kiara, positive that what she was saying was true. you looked out to the horizon as you were at the apex of a wave, closing your eyes but cutting it short as you heard her speak, “he loves you...” you looked into her eyes and can see the honey colour of them spill out genuineness

“...so much. but he was doubting as well. the reason why he kept on meeting me was he was asking me stuff to know if you were sure about him.” you furrowed your brows, keeping you gaze at her as your stare asked for more questions.

“it’s not my place to speak for him. it’s better if you guys talk. that night was full of rage, make another one full of understanding. all i want right now is to be your best friend again.” a lot of weight was lifted off your shoulder, you clouded mind started to clear as you paddled slightly over her to wrap her in your arms “you never even lost me, kie.” she returned the hug as you both caught a few more waves.

as you both decided that it was time to paddle back, the period dropped as the tide leveled out offering a few entries into nice waves. kiara, out of breath let you have time for yourself as you insisted that you’ll be fine alone and waited a few minutes for a nice set to conquer and kick out the channel.

a herculean wave came to view which quickly capped out. paddling over after it broke, you saw the second one gaining such momentum as it approached someone like you who’s been expecting a day ender.

intimidating was the word you described it in your head. it towering over you as the sun rested at the shoulder of it, the glare making it harder to examine what it’s going to do whether it is going to close down or give you the time to catch it.

after seeing the line for previous waves, you decided to paddle out, fully committing in it being one of the difficult waves that size that you surfed in.

but that commitment lead you to a minor downfall as the higher you got, the clearer the reefs became as it drew off from the ocean ground. making you realize that it would be a steep giant that you needed to brace yourself for.

things didn’t not go your way as your board basically was propped on air, not giving you any control to position yourself. you dropped on the cold water, covering your head as you landed exactly where the impact zone is.

reeling your board in, you tried to catch a decent sized wave, hoping to ride out on the white water to get out of the section faster. your arms were killing you, not cooperating as it just made you slower.

soon enough you once again submerged, a plethora of underwater billow surrounding you. the current tossing you around, making you tumble worse than a gymnastics class make their students do.

when you surfaced, an engine could be heard nearing you, a voice shouting your name as it reached your seemingly lifeless body. the yells were indistinct, your board long forgotten as your back hit the fine sand before you were rolled over to your side, your eyes still closed.

“y/n, you okay?” you heard, slowly gaining back your consciousness, you felt hands soothing your back as you opened your eyes, meeting your favourite blue ones.

jj had his moments, and running to you was his solution to everything. but when he got in a fight with his father, rebuttals about you set his insides on fire as luke degraded him to the point where even he, the guy who shrugs everything off and continues to live his life, questioned if he was even worthy of you.

that’s what lead him to spending his time with kie. as he couldn’t feel any pressure when he’s around her. asking her what he could do to improve about himself to be enough for you and always getting the same response that he already was.

but as he saw you with rafe, that set off the recurrence of his negative thoughts. the smile that you give to mostly everyone suddenly became a special one for the kook, the goodbye wave you did suddenly became a secret message of i miss you, and the words of his dad of him being useless suddenly became true.

it was illogical, as him out of all people should know who you were, being that you’ve been friends for as long as you can remember. but you ending your guys’ relationship worsened the situation.

he came from the garage where the his dad kept his equipments. having to steal keys from a drunk luke wasn’t such a task as he was drunk himself, the confidence sinking in as he approached the steps of the house that didn’t even look like one.

he did the sort of thing every now and then, taking the phantom for a spin was his escape, even though it was usually followed by a few punches when his dad finds out. he learned overtime how to be more furtive about it, knowing when to take the boat and how to use it without his dad finding out.

the surfing invite got to him, pope never leaving anyone out of the group. however, he still refused as he knew you were coming. positive that you cannot last three days without acting like a sane person, he wanted to give you a fun day to be with the others without him ruining it.

but he could just not see you, so he drove to your constant place to surf. the place where you both came to terms with your feelings and the one where you had discussions of how you both will have the chance to surf at Mavericks.

he watched smiling at your figure dancing on your board. the water glistening beneath as if it was worshipping you as you became one with the ocean, letting it control you. but he immediately was in action as he saw you wipe out and get toppled by gigantic swells multiple times. it wasn’t an easy task, as the set made it difficult to reach for you in his first try, having to drive away briefly as the set approached. he pulled your body onto the phantom as he finally had the chance to, his heart breaking at the sight of your once velvet lips now turned blue.

the others were just as worried for you when the blonde reached the shore. jj performing cpr before turning you sideways to let out any saltwater from within as he shouted your name. he felt helpless, but it was soon replaced with relief as your weak eyes made contact with his cerulean ones. the tightness in his chest loosening the grip it had.

you sat up as you looked away and was immediately given water by john b. jj running a hand through his already messy locks “don’t you scare me like that ever again!” frustration masked in his voice.

the others were reassured of your safety already, but they also knew that it was time to leave you two to talk, and with that being said they excused themselves to go wait in the twinkie.

“uh..thank you.” you broke the awkward silence, offering a smile that didn’t last long as you looked at anywhere but him “you’re welcome. are you fine? do you need to go to the hospital?”

you shook your head, walking back to the palm tree where your things are. you put on your dress as the golden cast from the sun complimented your tanned skin. you began to pack up when you heard him speak

“can we talk?” he pleaded, a heavy sigh escaped your lips. your head and lungs were still stinging from almost drowning, and you knew tears were not going to help. but you also knew that if you didn’t talk now then nothing will ever be resolved, so you nodded, sitting on the beach chair john b brought, him sitting on the other one across from you.

“what have we become?” you joked and just as you were expecting he laughed with you while nodding in agreement “i was an asshole— screw that, i still am! i’m an asshole.” he paused and looked down before getting out a regretful laugh “but i’m in love with you. i still am.”

“an asshole that’s in love with me? what a dream.” tears brimmed the corners of your eyes. you reached out, grabbing his chin to make him look at you, “you hurt me,” swallowing the lump that formed in your throat before continuing “you made me feel like i was nothing to you anymore. you were my definitely when i was just a maybe to you.” you breathed deeply “but i hurt you too.” you sniffled

“the ways you tried to take your mind off things, me, was kinda fucked up. you weren’t thinking about me, only yourself...” he tried to cut you off but you raised your hand to let him know you weren’t finished.

“but jj you need to know you’re enough for me.” this time he interrupted “kie told you.” he said in statement rather than a question. you nodded, grabbing hands and held it tight.

“she did. and how dare you think i’m high maintenance and have high standards! you have more skincare products than me!” he laughed and wiped the tear that threatened to fall.

“i just thought you deserved better. seeing you with rafe at the ferry just set it off even though i know you would never cheat on me. you cried when you saw a frog eat a fly! but i could never give you the life he could, or any other guy in this case. i live off of beer and extra grits from the wreck—”

“i love you. i think that’s an enough answer, is it not.” he stoop up for a moment before dropping on his knees to match your height. caressing your rose blush cheeks that got more saturated as he tried to catch your eye.

“can we please try this again?” he queried, his eyes showing the red veins as he tried to stop his tears from falling once more. you smiled, nodding and throwing your arms around him, him almost losing his balance as he caught you.

“i thought you’d never ask.” you placed a chaste kiss on his cheeks and buried your face on the crook of his neck. it was quiet for a few seconds before he muttered

“what about rafe...”

you kissed him. your soft ones brushing against his chapped ones. but you didn’t care, his lips were on yours, at that moment you knew it was definitely him, you weren’t wrong the first time.

“i’ll eat grits for the rest of my life if it means being with you. rafe’s my best friend but you’re the one i want. now shut up and kiss me again.”

your hearts beat faster and faster as your lips collided with his own. he knew this kiss was the seal he needed. you thought it would be only be a short and sweet one, but as you began to pull away his arms were on your figure. one at the back of your neck as he deepened it, the other on your lower back to pull you closer. a gesture that didn’t compare to a surging tide as it made your knees weak.

once he pulled away, he brushed his nose with yours. his eyes stayed close as he was contented in feeling “you sure you’ll be satisfied being with me? because we’re off on a really bad start already and i’m telling you, you ain’t going anywhere.”

“i think that kiss was an answer in itself, love.”

you pulled in an embrace, placing a kiss on your temple as he squeezed you lightly “hell yeah!”

you drove up the roads of the outerbanks, the windows of your old vehicle rolled down as you bathed under the starlit canvas, the breath of the moon sending soothing kisses to your face.

the estate was still well lit, majority of the light in the deck turned on as a shadow appeared from one of the pillars that was blocking it. you ventured forward, confirming your guess as to who it was. once they looked down, you waved and they immediately ran down to meet you.

“y/n!!!” they yelled in excitement as they clung onto you. you giggled as you put your index finger on your lips, mentioning for her to lower her tone as you pulled their hair jokingly “what’s up, sneezy”

“you’ve missed 8 sleepovers. that’s a lot to make up for if you ask me.” she sassed and you just rolled your eyes.

soon enough you were inside the mansion once again. it felt like a void has been filled, feeling like going there was a part of you. not because of how big it is or how you get to experience staying over once in a while compared to your house or the uncomfortable pull out that you loved nonetheless. it was because you felt like the people here, or atleast the ones in your age range, considered you as family.

sarah jumped up from the living room couch as she saw you, rambling about how she missed you and how you miss out on a lot. but she promised to tell you all about it, asking you if you wanted to stay the night. you knew she wasn’t going to let you go anyway so you agreed. promising to catch up after you do what you initially came for.

the high end door was slightly open, a faint light from the inside tainting the dimly lit hallway. you pushed it open eagerly, seeing the boy on his bed finishing a can of soda. his slicked back hair making you laugh as you leaned against the doorframe.

“hey kook! wanna be friends again?”

the end.

it’s been a journey writing this series! i hope you guys enjoyed the ride as much as i did. it took a minute to finish it bc i had finals but especially because i wanted to somehow give an unsatisfyingly (if that even is a word) satisfying ending. thanks for the love on this series and see you guys in my other works!! ♡

i couldn’t tag some of you guys for some reason. there are also others who probably changed their usernames so if you see this and want it updated or you want to be added to the taglist just let me know :)

@sunsetholland @bibliophilewednesday @drewswannabegirl @spilledtee @ifilwtmfc @maybebanks @obx-snippets @glux64 @rae131415 @pink-meringues @jeyramarie @lust-for-pan @k-roleplay20 @prejudic3 @rafeyybabyy @mj-20182 @makrenee @hoodpankow @softtfordrew @diverrdown @obxhstyles @suicidexdarkness @edyn-nicole @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @obxloves

#outerbanks #jj maybank #jj maybank obx #jj maybank x reader #obx #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank fic #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank series #obx imagine #kiara carrera #rafe cameron #john b routledge #pope heyward #jj x reader #obx series