#'you're such a damn liar' the word liar echoes in whispers all around

[c-e-d-dreamer]

'Tis the Damn Season - Part One

A/N: Surprise, bestie! Did you guess t'was I as your Secret Santa? @xxvalkyriesxx 😉 I hope you're ready for angst and pain this holiday season, just as you ordered up! There will be plenty of yearning and idiots in love to be found here, and we'll even keep to the Nessian Formula(tm). @acotargiftexchange

Read on AO3 // Next Part

One Year Ago

“I need to talk to you.”

He watched as she paused halfway to zipping up her boot, watched as a frown tug down her lips and a little crease formed between her eyebrows where they dipped close together. He hated when that look took over her face. He wished he could erase it with a drag of his thumb across her bottom lip. He wished he could draw back out that soft smile and maybe even a fond roll of her blue eyes.

But the pressure that began building between his ribs after he got the text that morning threatened to twist even tighter around his lungs.

“Can’t it wait?” Nesta sighed, standing back up and stepping into his space. “Tonight is going to be hard enough.”

“I know,” Cassian whispered, his hands settling easily at her waist. Where they always belong, if you asked him.

“I just… I need to know you’ll have my back. That it will be you and me tonight.”

Cassian tilted his head down enough that his forehead rested against her own, letting his eyes fall closed. He focused on the feel of Nesta’s body against his own, beneath his hands. He focused on the sweet, familiar scent of her perfume. And when he opened his eyes again, he focused on every shade of blue and gray that make up her own. Memorized it. Kept it all tucked close to his heart.

“You and me, Nes. Always.”

~ * * * ~

Today

Cassian takes a deep breath in, letting the air out again with a soft sigh that seems to rattle through his lungs. His fingers flex against the steering wheel, and he drops his head down to rest against his knuckles. He knows that he can’t hide out in his truck forever, knows that despite the desire prickling in the back of his mind, he can’t just turn around and drive back home.

His family would see through any sort of feigned sickness in an instant. He’s always been a terrible liar; not that the truth of that counted for much when it mattered most. And being the owner of his gym means that using work as an excuse holds even less weight. There is truly no escaping what awaits him inside the cabin, and it’s time for him to face the music.

Even if he has no idea what he’ll say.

He’s certainly mulled it over, even dared to rehearse how the conversation might go in his mind. Those thoughts often come to him late at night. In the dark and the safety of his bedroom, he’ll roll over in his bed, hand sliding against the cool sheets. With his eyes closed, he can imagine a too familiar scent still clinging to the fabric, warm smooth skin beneath his palm. He can imagine soft spoken words shared in the breaths between.

He can imagine whispered apologies.

Sighing again, Cassian finally pushes open the door and slides out of his truck. He grabs his duffel bag and swings it easily over his shoulder, following the large paving stones up to the cabin’s front door. It’s reminiscent of standing on another front porch, just a year ago, the memory still burning bright in the back of Cassian’s mind, the wound still prickling across his skin like a nasty scar time can’t heal. He can feel darkness twining between his ribs and sinking claws into his lungs, into his still bruised heart, and he has to close his eyes and swallow hard against the ache.

As soon as she pressed the bell, the sound echoing through the house around them, Cassian squeezed her hand tighter. Desperate to keep her right here, right by his side. The pressure was enough to draw her attention to him, the confusion clear in the tilt of her head, the slight dip of her brow.

“You and me. Right?”

Something must have shown on his face, her frown only growing. “Of course. You and me.”

“Promise?”

“Cassian!”

Cassian opens his eyes again and is greeted by a pair of bright blue ones. With a wide, easy smile, Feyre steps back from the now open door, allowing Cassian to step inside. He does his best to plaster on a grin of his own, stepping into the front entryway, noting the garland and ribbon already decorating the space.

“How was the drive?” Feyre asks, closing the door behind him.

“Not too bad. I beat the fresh snow that seems to be blowing in, at least.”

Laughter echoes from deeper within the cabin, drifting toward the entryway like a warm, summer breeze. In an instant, Cassian’s eyes drift over Feyre’s shoulder and toward that sound, his ears perking up. But it’s not quite right, not quite the soft melody that still haunts his dreams.

“She’s not here yet,” Feyre tells him quietly.

“Who?”

Feyre settles him with an unimpressed look, clearly seeing right through the drawling question. She crosses her arms and raises a brow, the twist of her lips so familiar and yet so different. It takes everything within Cassian not to flinch or fidget beneath her scrutiny, but Feyre merely shakes her head, something like fond annoyance coloring the gesture, as she turns her attention toward the large central staircase of the cabin.

“We have you in the room all the way at the end of the hall. Hope that’s alright.”

“Always.”

Cassian leans in, pressing a smacking kiss to Feyre’s cheek, before bounding up the stairs, desperate to steal at least a few moments of peace before facing the masses. The room at the end of the hall is simple, wood paneling along the walls and a double bed in the center of the space. He tosses his duffel bag atop the blankets, walking around the bed and to the windows. It offers him a view of the front of the cabin, the driveway, but there’s no sign of a red Chevy Malibu yet.

”Really? This is your car?” Cassian asked, tapping the hood of the car with his palm.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she huffed, shoving his hand off her car.

“Oh, come on. I’ve never seen anyone under the age of sixty driving a Malibu.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be rednecks driving beat up pickup trucks.”

Cassian laughed easily at the jab, his grin only growing when he noticed the spark that seemed to flare through the icy blues of her eyes. Gods, she was beautiful, especially like this.Cassian’s being an idiot, that’s what he’d name this look. Her lips pinched together, and he knew he had her, knew she was trying her best to hold back a smile of her own. And mother save him, he wanted to make her smile.

He wanted so many things. With her.

So he pressed a solemn, dramatic hand to his chest. “Redneck? Really? I think you owe me an apology now, sweetheart.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“How’s drinks sound? Tomorrow night?”

Cassian squeezes his eyes shut against the memory, against the memory of watching that same red Chevy Malibu drive away from him for the last time. Already, he can feel a lump threatening to form in his throat. He presses and rubs the heel of his hand against his sternum, against the ache sinking in with icy claws, against his bruised and battered heart.

He can hear footsteps and voices coming down the hall, and he dares to creep closer toward the bedroom door. There’s a low chuckle, a deep murmur of a voice that Cassian doesn’t quite recognize, but the sound that follows is all too familiar. It’s little more than a quiet snort of breath, but the grin it draws across Cassian’s face is practically second nature, the skip of his heart practically reflexive.

He still remembers the first time he heard that sound, still remembers the first time he was the cause of it. He’d chased it, desperate to hear it again and again, desperate to bottle it up and get drunk off its sweetness. He still remembers when that sound had morphed into something more, into a true laugh that was unabashed and unguarded, light and melodic and the most beautiful song Cassian had ever heard.

“I think it’s this room.”

Cassian jumps back just in time to avoid getting a full face of wood. The door to his guest bedroom for the weekend swings open with little warning, and a red haired man stands in the doorway looking just as surprised as Cassian feels, one eyebrow arching high above the man’s amber eyes. It takes a few blinks before recognition dawns on Cassian. Even with the paler skin, the resemblance is clear, the matching shade of red unmistakable despite the strands being shorter.

Lucien’s half-brother. The eldest Vanserra.

“Or… not…” Eris remarks awkwardly, turning his head to the left and making a face.

Cassian shifts his own attention in the same direction and comes face to face with a pair of icy blue eyes that he used to know like the back of his hand. They seem to flare as soon as Cassian’s gaze connects with them, just the sight of that flickering flame sparking an answering fire in his veins. But this isn’t one of their games, another round of their back and forth. There’s no fond amusement in her expression, not even a whisper of the softness he so loved to draw out. Instead, there’s nothing but tension hiding in those blue eyes, in the pinch of her lips.

Only a sadness that seems to cling to the corners.

It’s too reminiscent of the last time he saw her, too much of a punch straight to the gut all over again.

The ground was cold and hard beneath his feet, frozen grass crunching with every step as he chased after her. “Nesta, wait!”

His long legs, the long stride of his gait, made it easy to catch her right before she could reach her car parked along the road, but Cassian almost wished he hadn’t when Nesta whirled back around on him. The blues of her eyes blazed, but it wasn’t only rage crystallizing amongst the ice there, but pain.

Betrayal.

Her shoulders hitched up toward her ears, her spine pin straight as though she was preparing for battle. With her lips pinched into a scowl, the look reminded him too much of when he very first met her, and he hated it. Hated that it was directed at him. Hated that he was the reason all the softness and peace she had found, that he had spent so long drawing out, was gone again in the blink of an eye.

“Nesta,” Cassian pleaded softly, his heart lurching right from his chest and into her awaiting palms.

“I can’t believe you,” Nesta seethed, shaking her head. “You were Rhysand’s brother this whole time? This whole time you knew who I was?”

“I didn’t at first, I swear.”

“What, did they send you to check up on me? Did you report back with my every move? Everything I told you? Was it fodder for your little family dinner parties?”

“No! I would never do that,” Cassian promised. He took a step closer to her, hands reaching, but Nesta was quick to yank her own hands out of his reach, to step back further away from him. The reflex sent cracks cutting deeper still through Cassian’s chest.

“Gods, I knew you were too good to be true. How does it feel? Knowing you’ve been with Feyre’s awful big sister?” Nesta let out a cold, humorless laugh, crossing her arms across her body as though holding herself together with the gesture. When she spoke again, her voice was little more than a whisper. “I trusted you. I told you everything. I–”

Nesta didn’t finish the thought. She merely shook her head again and turned away from him completely, digging out the keys to her car and unlocking the door. He was losing her. She hadn’t even driven away yet, and already the distance between them was a yawning void, and Cassian was desperate to cross it, desperate to grasp onto those fraying ends and draw her back into him. To make her understand.

So he rushed forward, catching the car door before she could close it. “Nesta, please. Let’s just talk, okay? I know you. I know you’re thinking all the worst case scenarios, and I need you to know it was never like any of that. Everything we had, everything I feel, it was all real. We’re real.”

“Cassian–”

“I know I messed up. I know I’m an idiot. But let me fix this. We can fix this.”

“Cassian,” Nesta sighed, not quite meeting his gaze. “Let go of the door. I’m leaving.”

Cassian’s fingers flexed, a lump pressing in against his throat and threatening to suffocate him. “Just for now or… or is this it for us?” The silence that hung in the space between them felt like answer enough, that lump quickly turning into a stone that sunk deep into Cassian’s gut. “I love you, okay? I at least need you to know that. Because I do know you, and I know you think no one ever can or that you don’t deserve it. I know how your mind is going to spin this. But I do. So much. No matter what.”

Cassian held his breath as he waited. Waited for her to say something. Waited for her to at least look at him. But instead, Nesta tugged on the door again, Cassian’s grip going lax beneath the pressure.

“Goodbye, Cassian.”

“Cassian.”

Just his name falling past her lips again has a shiver skittering down Cassian’s spine. Although perhaps it feels more like a bucket of ice water. His heart skips a beat in his chest, lungs squeezing taught enough to steal his breath. She looks just as beautiful as Cassian remembers, even with the clipped, awkward tone and those closed off blue eyes.

Her hair is braided and twisted back in her usual updo, and Cassian’s fingers twitch with the urge to drag through those golden brown strands. He wonders if she still keeps her pins in the exact same places, if he could tug them all free until those strands fall softly and beautifully down her back and around her shoulders. He always loved when she wore her hair down. Always loved to see her so beautifully undone, that she trusted him enough to let down her armor.

“Nesta,” Cassian breathes, swallowing hard around the lump pressing against his throat. “It’s good to see you.”

Despite his words, her expression doesn’t change, and she doesn’t offer any sort of response. Clearly, she doesn’t share the sentiment. Cassian supposes that he deserves that, but it stings nonetheless. As the silence continues to stretch between them, the tension in the room only seems to rise, prickling across Cassian’s skin like nails.

“Well, sorry to have barged into your room,” Eris offers, clearing his throat and readjusting the strap of the bag on his shoulder. “Come on, babes.”

He turns on his heel, striding out of Cassian’s guest room and across the hall. Nesta is quick to follow behind him, and Cassian can do nothing but watch her walk away from him yet again, Eris’s words still echoing in his ears and clanging through his mind. Babe.

He never thought to ask Feyre if Nesta might be bringing someone to the cabin for the weekend. If she might be seeing someone new. He supposes he has no right to really be surprised. It has been a year after all. But the disappointment still claws Cassian’s already bruised heart to ribbons. Maybe he really is a fool, imagining what could happen, what he hoped might happen on the entire drive up the mountain.

What might happen when he finally saw Nesta again after all this time. What might happen if they finally got a chance to properly talk. How he finally might make things up to her the way she deserves. How she might finally forgive him.

But instead she’s here, with Eris, and the only thing Cassian is sure of is that it’s going to be a very very long weekend.

—

2025 tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed; bolded names mean Tumblr won't let me tag you 🥲): @moodymelanist @sv0430 @bookstantrash @hiimheresworld @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @glowing-stick-generation @goddess-aelin @melphss @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @wolfnesta @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @that-little-red-head @kale-theteaqueen @superflurry @lady-winter-sunrise @freakingata @susanbanarchy @jsmelodies @unhealthyfanobsession @presskmewleroux @nativeswfl @livinforthetea @dying-of-wanderlust @berkskc @the-new-ribbon @underneath-the-sidras @deadandsane

[stickysongunknown]

Deku scurried through the school halls, trying his best to avoid crossing paths with the explosives-expert beast known as Bakugo. Today seemed like it might be his lucky day - no explosions, no burns, and no public humiliation... yet... That's when Bakugo's voice echoed down the hallway. "Ya damn useless quirkless freak! Thought you could slip away from me this time, Deku?"

Deku's face turns bright red, his heart pounding as he feels those piercing red eyes bearing down on him. "I-I didn't... I was just headed to class..." he stammers

Bakugo steps closer, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Liar. You always try to sneak around like the little mouse you are." He reaches out to grab Deku's collar, pulling him closer.

Deku's face is inches away from Bakugo's now, he can feel the heat of Bakugo's breath as he snarls "You know what happens when I catch you trying to avoid me, don't you?"

"B-But... I really need to get to class..." Deku's voice comes out as little more than a whisper, his face burning up from both embarrassment and something else he can't quite explain..

"Too late for that now." Bakugo smirks mischievously, his mind made up. He releases Deku's collar only to grab him by the arm and drag him towards an empty classroom.

He kicks the classroom door open, dragging a bewildered Deku in behind him. He turns around, slamming the door shut with a bang. "We're going to have a little chat, you and me."

He pushes Deku up against the wall, caging him in with his strong arms on either side of his head. "First, I'm going to teach you a lesson about trying to avoid me. And second..."

"Second, I'm going to show you that there are consequences for always being such a pathetic, quirkless nobody." He can see Deku's eyes darting around the room, looking for an escape, but he's trapped.

Bakugo leans in close, his lips brushing against Deku's ear as he whispers. "And I'm going to start by kissing you, you useless little hero wannabe. And you're going to like it." He claims Deku's lips in a rough, possessive kiss.

Deku freezes, his mind going blank as Bakugo's lips move against his own. He's never been kissed before, especially not like this - rough, demanding, and filled with hidden anger and something else he can't quite put his finger on.

As Bakugo breaks the kiss, Deku stares up at him with wide, shocked eyes. He's still trying to process what just happened, "kachan..more.." the boy said desperately

Bakugo's eyes darken at Deku's whispered plea, a smirk tugging at his lips. "What was that? Did you want something more from me, you little nerd?" His hands move to pin Deku's arms above his head, their bodies pressing closer together

"Yes.." Deku whimpers, his voice barely audible. He's never seen Bakugo look at him like this before, with such intense focus. "Can you.. can you do it again?" He asks, referring to the kiss.

"Shut up and take it then." Bakugo crashes his lips against Deku's again, harder this time. His other hand moves to tangle in Deku's messy green hair, holding him in place. "God, you're pathetic..."

Deku cries out into the kiss, his arms straining against Bakugo's grip as he's held in place. He can't breathe, can't think, all he can do is feel the overwhelming force of Bakugo's emotions and the harsh, demanding kiss. "N-Need... more..."

"More what?" Bakugo said possessively, his face hovering over Deku's as he takes in the messy, innocent expression on his face. "Words, Deku. Use your words."

"I... I don't know how..." Deku says breathlessly, his face flushed red. "Just... please..." He squirms slightly, both scared and unbearably curious about whatever Bakugo might do next."Just touch me..." He whispers, barely audible "mhm"

Bakugo hummed and kissed Deku's neck

"Take off my our clothes nerd''

Izuku nodded and stared taking his and Bakugo's clothes "Kachan please be nice-" "Shut it, Deku" Bakugo said, taking his boxers and pushing it in Deku's mouth, gagging him with it..Bakugo chuckled darkly, biting Deku's neck, Deku let out muffled moans while Bakugo could feel Deku's hard on against him, Bakugo chuckled and put his knee between Deku's legs, pressing firmly, making deku whimper, Bakugo took his boxers out of Deku's mouth making Deku cough "get on your knees, you're gonna make me cum"

Katsuki said, and Deku immediately kneeled. He looked at Bakugo's dick in a 'wow'.. it was so big, it was shaved, and fucking huge...

"Kachan.. I can't take tha-.."

Bakugo cut him off by pushing his face towards his dick, making him start sucking, Deku gagged as he was forced to take all of it, his eyes getting teary qs Bakugo face fucked him roughly, Bakugo growl "damn deku.." he moaned deku pushed Bakugo's hand away starting to suck by himself, Bakugo growls, holding Deku's hair, tightly, Deku could feel Bakugo's dick throbbing in his throat then he felt a warm salty liquid in his mouth and splashing all over his face..

"That's it!"

Bakugo moaned, "good job nerd" he pushed Deku away, putting his clothes back on and leaving the room..Deku whined as he got up.m he clean his face, putting his clothes back on and leaving for class

[mrxcreepypastamadness]

Hellish Hollows Song #4:

Overdue

Character cover: Ms. L

Notice: Some parts of the lyrics will be changed to fit her theme. Thank you. ^^

Lolli Muttonfudge?: 🎵Who's that girl you see, who grooms her hair so well? This mystery will be unsolved by those whose who fell into this hell.🎵

Pico: 🎵Who's that in the street, stumbling like a drunken bitch, get fucked. Get out of my way do you not see the gun?🎵

Lolli Muttonfudge?: 🎵Now behold the twilight of a so-called racer who somehow found it easy to betray she who she claim to love, the one who laid me low from above.🎵

Pico: 🎵Cool, but who asked? Oh, wait, I know the number - zero! I gotta go, you made me slow I'm getting sick of ya.🎵

*She grew in length as she turned around revealing her true self*

Ms. L: HAHAHAHA

Pico: What the FUCK is that thing!?

Ms. L: 🎵Glad you're here, now it's too late to escape you will know the fear I felt as I began to melt in flames to hate!🎵

Pico: 🎵Jesus Christ, you're the ugliest thing I've seen, Fuckin' die, I didn't know the goddamn slender girl wore green!🎵

Ms. L: 🎵Witness who's behind the mask, desecrated you should've been afraid to ask, now in desolation, you will bask.🎵

Pico: 🎵Buncha fancy words for making dudes dead nothing I haven't heard before, Eat lead!🎵

Pico: Die motherfucker! *He began to shoot her depends how many bullets will run out*

Ms. L: 🎵In the whispers of the woods truth echoes freely, the who claims to be just, is a liar. Sure of racer's selfhood but gaze upon me, one look shall reveal what transpired!🎵

Pico: 🎵Got three in the chamber, bitch, I'm packin' heat, best spill where ya took my homie or you'll taste the street! I'm really getting sick of you, I got shit to do, if you're between me and he, you're the one blowing holes through!🎵

Ms. L: 🎵Standing on the bridge over the Lord's Inferno, hand in hand, I thought we fight together. And I never lost my trust to my sis until she plunged me to her foe.🎵

Pico: 🎵If that's what you say, guess you had a bad day and now you're here with some kind of curse, your night's getting worse, gonna put you in a hearse if you don't get the fuck outta my way!🎵

*Transitioning to a Hellish background of eyes and mouth*

Ms. L: 🎵Our sacred ties were but sacred to me, how I hated he got off free.🎵

Pico: 🎵What the fuck's this for? I'm not into vore! This place is an eyesore! Didn't your mama say to brush your teeth?🎵

Ms. L: 🎵For her betrayal, the world shall burn!🎵

Pico: 🎵 I'm gonna make your heart churn! How many shots before you learn?🎵

Ms L: 🎵It's their turn! Strike the infestation of the ones who lie through their teeth!🎵

Pico: 🎵For your information, you should be six feet beneath!🎵

Ms. L: 🎵Those who feel no guilt, those who feel no sence of shame, all will play my game, all will perish all the same know my name!🎵

Pico: 🎵We got arbiters of vengeance. Cool, what a show, how's that gonna go with a name like Lolli Mario?🎵

Ms. L: 🎵Madness is honesty within a world ruled by Cain, the pain of treachery can only dull with sweet revenge!🎵

Pico: 🎵This whiny shit's killin' me, tonight is such a fucking pain. Want my honesty? The worst thing about you is that stench!🎵

Ms. L: 🎵Oh, did our bond of blood truly matter not? Oh, dear sister I did love you, Molly...so then why did you twist the knife in the gash?🎵

*MOLLY (The Forgiven) appears*

Pico: 🎵The fuck this have to do with me? For I was not, was not right there for what had happened. Oh your careless tunnel vision right before the final crash got your ass in lava splash!🎵

MOLLY (The Forgiven): 🎵I know you can't forgive-a-me. For I would not, could not myself for what had happened...Oh, my careless tunnel vision on the final fated crash, burned my sister into ash...T-T🎵

Ms. L: 🎵Who's that girl you see, who grooms her hair so well? Who's the one who saw me as an empty shell to throw in the pyre, to damn within the fire. No need for apologies long past overdue, your sins you'll rue!🎵

Pico: 🎵Wow bro, cool story. Cheap as free, just so you know, sorry not sorry. I couldn't find a soul who cared. None around for the brothers in the underground.🎵

MOLLY (The Forgiven): 🎵Who's that fool you see, It's a me. Oh my dear sis, I'm so sorry, I should've have made sure that you were there, safe and sound maybe you'd still be around...😭🎵 *She fades away*

Ms L: IT'S TIME TO GO TO THE NEXT LEVEL!

Pico: *Pico ran out of bullets as he threw his gun to the ground* Son of a bitch! *He runs off as the background changed into dark hallway as multiple Ms. Ls appeared*

Ms L: 🎵Wind me up, and up I go to claim you all as my prize for all the pain I've endured. I decree it's an eye for an eye!🎵

Pico: 🎵What the fuck's your deal? Can't take the shit out in me! Man, go to therapy! Go fix your miserable life!🎵

Ms. L: 🎵Even as you run away, you know that you're here to stay. One martyr will not slake my fury, now your blood will spill in righteous reverie.🎵

Pico: 🎵But you ain't gonna get to me, this ain't a horror movie. I won't be a victim you ain't catchin' me!🎵

Ms. L: 🎵Treachery! Come, face me, whipping-boy and know my wrath, for I was toyed with by your vile kin! Come to Abel, pay for sin! Run and run as you might, you can't fight for the guilt of man shall overtake you and snuff out your light!🎵

Pico: 🎵I'm gettin' off this line, Pico is feelin' fine, Pico is livin' through the night! What a shitty monologue, I ain't the one you should flog, I'm gettin' through the fog Goodbye! You utter waste of time! Get an extra life and get the fuck out of mine!🎵

Ms. L: 🎵It's my world, my rules! My justice is overdue! *She fades away*🎵

Pico: Fucking bitch!

Based off of:

Friday Night Funkin' Mario's Madness - Overdue - With Lyrics

Original Lyrics written by: Man on the Internet

Rewritten Lyrics written by: mrxcreepypastamadness

[septembersghost]

today I'm stuck on how E sings "I've gotta stop myself from whispering your name." (I am going to annoy you with these messages!)

she even 💋 kisses 💋 me like you used to do! and it's just 💔breaking my heart 💔 'cause she's not you...

(you could not annoy me, it's entertaining <3)

[liron-ao3]

But of course.

Dean runs a hand over his face, completely exhausted. He's so tired. It's nothing unusual. He never sleeps enough. But this again?

Damn it!

Where is the angel!? It's a question he has asked a thousand times, never getting an answer. Just once and then he had found him, pulled him against his chest, smiled from ear to ear, huffed in relief as he felt Castiel's rigid body in his embrace.

He had managed to ignore that Cass didn't hug back. He didn't want to think about what it meant. He didn't want to question his own motives, either. Sure, Castiel was his friend. Dean is a loyal person. But more than once, Benny had asked him, "Why?" If the angel was really worth the hassle. He had never found an answer other than a disgruntled, "Yeah."

Dean pushes up from the empty bed, pulls a shirt over his bare chest and pitter-patters barefooted over the bunker's cold floor. He'd like to call for his boyfriend, but that would wake Sammy and with him likely Eileen. She's seven months pregnant and struggles enough to get sleep with her restless legs and heartburn.

It's the fifth night in a row that Dean woke up to an empty bed. The former angel suffers from insomnia that even tops Dean's worst phases. Every night, Dean prays that his love might find rest in his arms. He's not sure who he is praying to. Jack? Maybe. Anyway, his son isn't listening. Hand's off.

Dean shuffles through the common places where Castiel usually tries to kill time - the kitchen, the library, the main room. Once, he even found him in the storage room where the Empty had taken him, standing at the exact spot where he had smiled while Dean's heart shattered into pieces. But he hadn't smiled then.

He hasn't smiled a lot since he's back. Not even when Dean had told him that he loved him, too. Not when they first kissed. Not when they first made love. He assured him that he wanted it, wanted him. And Dean decided to believe him. It would become better with time, he hoped.

To each of the few smiles that Castiel mustered, there is melancholy. No. This word isn't strong enough. There's something as heavy a lead pressing the former angel down, tinting every good emotion grey.

Dean hates it, can't shake the feeling that it's his fault. He thought he did the right thing, fighting him out of the Empty. But all he had gotten were tired eyes and a "You shouldn't have done that."

It had made Castiel so happy when he told Dean that he loved him that it was enough to summon the Empty. But now that he has him, nothing really seems to pierce the veil of darkness. It's so much worse than the worrisome, honey-collecting version of Cass all those years back. At least, he had smiled then.

It's superficial and stupid to wish for this, Dean knows that. It was just another way for Castiel to cope. He always carries all the world's burdens on his shoulder, especially Dean's crap. But it's not fair!

Dean never expected an apple pie life. Not really. But with Cass, he had hoped for a slim slice of it. At this point, he'd be thankful for a crumb.

He scolds himself inwardly for this train of thought. He's ungrateful. He falls asleep with his man snuggled against him every night. He looks in blue eyes when they make love. He holds his hand when they watch a movie. It's so much. More than he ever dared to dreamt of.

Dean's steps grow wider and faster as he nears his Cave. Maybe—yes! There are flickering lights under the door and subdued music coming from the room. Dean takes a deep breath before he pushes the door handle down.

Castiel sits in the armchair that is labelled his boyfriend's in Dean's head. He looks at the tv screen, his eyes fixed on a bumblebee collecting nectar.

Dean chuckles softly, calling attention to himself, hoping not to startle Castiel. He doesn't. His partner doesn't even so much as flinches.

"Bumblebees are funny. By all rules of aerodynamics, they shouldn't be able to fly," Dean says, hoping to pull his boyfriend's gaze to himself.

"That's not true Dean. Humans were just too fixated on their formulas for aeroplanes to see the dynamics behind the wingbeats, the vortex they produce, not to mention the joint I added to make it possible for them to kink the wings and heighten the weight they can move even further.

Dean sinks into his armchair. "You worked on creating them?" Castiel hums in affirmation. "Why are you watching a documentation then? You know them better than anyone."

Castiel is silent for a long moment and Dean wonders if he somehow insulted him. But then, there's a sound that he hasn't heard way too long and it makes his heart clench.

A chuckle.

Not as free and loud as he knows it can be, but it's there, echoing in the sparsely decorated room.

"It reminds me that my existence had meaning."

The short burst of hope crumbles to dust at these words. Dean fights against the tears brimming his eyes. Castiel saved the world, more than once, and especially with his self-sacrifice. They wouldn’t have defeated Chuck without him!

"Your life has meaning," Dean says, his voice carefully schooled. Castiel chuckles again, bit tjis time without mirth.

"I know."

It feels rehearsed, like an automatic reply to soothe Dean's nerves. No. This won't do! Dean gets up and down on his knee in front of the man he loves. He cups his cheeks with both hands, relishing that Castiel leans into the touch.

"You are important. To me, to Sam and Eileen, to Claire and Kaia, and so many more. We need you, man."

"You'd be well off with or without me," Castiel answers evenly and Dean covers the pain with anger, lets it build up in the very familiar way. He clenches his jaw and lets go of this boyfriend's face, gets up, turns, and kicks a pile of DVDs through the room.

Then he turns back, outstretched pointer hovering mere centimetres from Castiel's face.

"You have no idea!" The force of Dean's words makes Cass pull back - not in fear but in gut-wrenching surprise. "I burnt you on that pyre, spread your ashes in the meadow. I got you back just to let Chuck let us screw over once again. I'm not proud to say this, but with you gone, I thought of flipping the bird to this shit of a life and go down in a damn vampire nest or something."

"Your life is not shit!" Castiel counters, always willing to make Dean feel and think better of himself. Hell, he did it even when he thought he would die for good.

"Yes, you're right. But still—" Dean runs a hand through his hair. His brain isn't awake enough for the depth of discussion they need to have and neither is Castiel's judging by the looks of his lover's red-rimmed eyes. He takes a deep breath. "You are my home, Cass. My rock. I don't say this to make you stay or to make you put on a brave face. I appreciate that you're not acting as if everything is fine. But we need to talk about what's going on in your mind. What makes you so sad all the time. I can't—"

Castiel looks at him with unhidden fear. Hell! The man fought demons and angels, God himself. He shouldn't look like that because of a hunter who feels so many things that he can never properly put them into words.

"I can't ignore it any longer. You need help. Hell, we all need therapy. But, damn it, Cass! I want us to be happy. I want you to be happy. And don't tell me you are. You're a terrible liar."

There is another chuckle and Dean wants to cry. Because it's all too much and not enough. He can't make his boyfriend better and that sucks big time. He's a doer, a carer, a damn Acts of Service love languager. He's shitty at gifts that his man understands, he's bad with words when it counts. But he can touch, is allowed to touch now. So he does.

He pulls Cass into his arms, feels him melt against him. He brushes his hand through the unruly mop of hair. "Come to bed. Sleep. Tomorrow, we'll take care of this, okay?"

He feels Castiel's head nod against his shoulder. He presses a kiss into his hair and pulls back, scrutinising him for a long moment. There is the ghost of a tired smile on his lips. Dean counts it as a win.

He switches off the tv and leads him to their bedroom, tucks him in before he slides under the covers, and pulls him close. "I am here. And I am happy that you are here. Never doubt that," Dean murmurs. "You're the best thing ever happening to me."

"But I'm broken, Dean. I can't be of any use to you, now that I lost the rest of my grace."

Dean huffs his anger out through his nose. "If you're broken, we'll find a way to fix you. And the other bullshit��don't you dare think that's what we kept you around for. You're family. Like a brother to Sammy, a father for Claire, the man I love. Don't get pissed, but your love has always been your strongest asset. You saved me from me a million times. Hell, just think of Jack." He takes a deep breath because his anger won't solve anything. "You are love and you are loved. You don't need to be useful and still, you are. Every. Single. Second."

Castiel looks at him with glassy eyes. "I want to believe you."

Dean presses a kiss on his forehead. "I know." He brushes a strand of hair out of Castiel's eyes. "Just promise me you'll try."

"I will," Cass whispers and then he smiles. Tired, but enough to form crinkles around his eyes. And it's just a start. Dean knows that. But it's enough for now.

"Sweet dreams, honey," Dean whispers and cradles Cass' head to his neck. "I'll watch over you."

[carbonitekisses]

Last Chance for Honor

In which Jon breaks down after learning of his parentage, 

From a distance, dragonsong echoes eerily through the godswood trees. Jon quickens the pace and wills himself to ignore the call. He may not be a Stark but he holds no allegiance to the three-headed dragon.

Jaime arrives at Winterfell to fulfill an oath,

His horse nearly throws him off when it hears dragons screeching high above them. He uses his metal hand to try and calm his horse and grips the reins with his left. The horse is not the only one left skittish and wary; people fearfully scan the sky and seek shelter. Jaime himself tenses as he remembers the ambush in the Reach. Burn them all... She really is her father's daughter. Jaime strokes the horse’s flank to soothe him before urging him forward once more.

and Daenerys learns of Cersei’s betrayal. 

The king slayer stands in the middle of the Great Hall. He ports nondescript leathers and clothing, nary a roaring lion in sight. The only marking upon him is his golden hand—his sword was removed upon his arrival. He is vulnerable and defenseless, surrounded by both northerners and Unsullied preventing escape.

Also on AO3.

"She killed them. Daenerys killed my father and Dickon because they wouldn't bend the knee." 

"Don't say you're sorry. You didn't do it. You didn't know; I can tell that much."

"Why did you bend the knee to her?"

"And if we survive the Night King, what then?"

"Even if she ignores that the Baratheons won by right of conquest, the throne could never be hers by blood right."

"I mean that she's not the last Targaryen."

"I think you know, Jon. You're not simple. You never have been. Dragons don't let just anyone mount them."

"At the Citadel I—Gilly, really—found the High Septon's diary. And Bran confirmed it. Rhaegar and Lyanna married. And you, you're—"

"Listen, to me! Eddard Stark did it to protect you at your mother’s behest. If King Robert found out who you really were he would have killed you. Friendship with your father be damned."

"Jon, you're my brother. Snow, Targaryen, I don't care. But—"

"You can't just ignore this. Secrets like this will make themselves known."

"You believe that? That she won't care that you have a higher claim?"

"You know the Free Folk, you know the North. They'll never bend the knee to her. They might keep quiet while the dead march. But once this war is over I won't be surprised if a war between the living comes to pass."

"And if they don't bend the knee? Will she have them all executed like she did my father and brother?"

//

The memory of his father-turned-uncle is strongest here in the godswood. Jon remembers watching Ned Stark tend to Ice underneath the careful supervision of the heart tree’s weeping face.

The heart tree has never looked more heartless and cold.

Jon wishes he didn’t have a heart. His treacherous brothers should have done him the favor of cutting the pulsing muscle out of his chest. If Jon was a heartless man he would use Longclaw to tear and rip apart the bleeding face that’s watching him now. 

Instead, he unsheathes Longclaw and unleashes his anger and fear upon an ash tree. He lifts his arm back and hacks away at the tree’s trunk.

     Hit,

His father was never his father. 

     after hit,

He can't ever be a Stark. He isn't even a fucking Snow. 

    after hit, the tree takes it all without complaint.

He bedded his father's sister without knowing who she was, who he was, and–and–

Jon stops Longclaw mid swing and stares up at the cloud-filled sky. He opens his mouth to scream but instead chokes on unshed tears.

Winterfell’s bastard.

That is who he believed himself to be.

For the entirety of his life he had hoped his mother would still be alive. It did not matter if she was low or high born. And his fath–his uncle had promised to tell him. On the Kingsroad he had said—he had said—

Now, even his parting words, and where he said them, seem to mock him. 

“You are a Stark. You might not have my name but you have my blood. 

"The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother. I promise.”

He drops Longclaw into the snow, uncaring of where it lands. Tired and drowning, Jon falls against the butchered tree, its mangled flesh scraping against his own. The ground lures his weight down down down until he's on his knees. 

For a second time, he mourns the loss of the man that raised him. The first was upon learning of his death. Now, upon learning he was never his father at all. He mourns the loss of a mother he will never meet. Not in this life and perhaps never in death. He mourns a father who will never compare to the man who raised him. A king who cast aside his wife, abandoned his children, and threw the seven kingdoms into the lion's den.

Sam was right; Jon knows that his lord fath–Lord Stark hid the truth to save him. He hid it under snow and in Winterfell’s crypt. Half-lies and omissions became a truth the world accepted because it was better than believing the honorable Lord Stark would lie—never minding the dishonor a bastard's existence brings. 

Jon wonders if his life was worth such trouble. 

He is the most honorable man I’ve ever known. He lied to the world, tainted his honor, and safeguarded the lie until his death to keep a promise of protection. Jon feels a sense of kinship and understanding with Eddard Stark. He might not be my father but in this we are alike.

The tree's scars run deep and jagged underneath his examining fingers. I'm a liar, too, like him. 

I compromised my honor to protect the North and all those who inhabit it. It is an uneven exchange, he knows. My honor is a paltry price to pay. 

Snow melts underneath his knees. He laughs. And laughs and laughs and cries. He's bent the knee to a tree of no consequence. He's bent the knee to a plant but never to her. He never did bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen. Jon digs his hands through his hair and attempts to pull out the rotten memories that have taken root inside.

Wights on fire, Viserion falling. A hazy figure looming over him as he lies frozen-boned and immobile on a boat heading south. Tiny skulls littering the Dragon Pit. Hooded violet eyes following him. Dragons on a cabin door. 

Silver hair, panting breath, skin that tastes of smoke and—

Jon savagely shakes his head but the memory clings on and refuses to leave. Pleasure, the memory says, you found pleasure in your aunt. Don't deny it; you’re a Targaryen. He found pleasure in her arms and she found pleasure in his; her moans and scratching hands told him so. If he hadn’t heard of her barrenness he might’ve never done it; the possibility of bringing another bastard into the world a cruelty he refuses to commit.

Jon knew crossing the threshold into her room would bind him to her for however long she wished it. When he looked down at her, waves crashing against the hull of the ship, he saw storms of fire in her eyes—inconstant and mercurial. He saw a queen who made no efforts to rescue her allies. He saw a woman hungry for power and prophecy. He saw a conqueror ready to take flight for the Red Keep at any moment, threatening to kill thousands for a metal chair.

(Missandei had claimed her to be benevolent and just. She told him how the Dothraki and Unsullied followed Daenerys and chose her as their queen. He wondered at how such an intelligent woman didn't notice the hypocrisy in her words; Westeros never chose Daenerys and yet she waged an unnecessary war to claim a continent that had already suffered under Fire and Blood.)

And so he gave her what she wanted and desired. She wanted him to warm her bed and so he did; he fucked her and she fucked him. He believed his body would be an inconsequential thing to give; he never gave her promises of love or affection and she didn’t ask for them. Daenerys wanted him, and he needed her.  He needed her to never stray. He needed her to be truly committed to the Great War. He needed her to stay and fight, and not abandon the North like she did the Sands, Tyrells, and Greyjoys. 

He sealed the exchange with a kiss.

Jon had yielded to the idea of a future with her, if she wanted that of him. Affection, he thought, wasn't inconceivable. He would have stayed at her side for however long she desired it.  

I thought I could perhaps love her, in time. Jon rubs his face clear of frozen tears. But now? I can't continue this play. I've fallen into a trap of my own making and, he thinks of his family, possibly dragged them into it as well. The very people I've sworn to protec—

A raven caws and startles him. Jon looks above at the intruder. Its plumage is sleek and midnight black; it shows a keenness in the glint of its eyes. The black bird cocks its head to the side, and flies to perch itself on the heart tree's branches. Out of the thickness of the trees comes Ghost. He is as quiet as ever; white fur and red eyes a reflection of white bark and blood-red leaves.

"Ghost? What are you doing here, boy?"

His snout sniffs the snow around Jon, as if looking for something. Finally, he raises his head with Longclaw's grip in his jaw. The direwolf drops it before him, and urges him to take it. Once he does, Ghost walks in the direction of Winterfell only stopping when he sees that Jon isn't following him. Unsteadily, Jon braces himself against the ash tree and stands. His direwolf has never led him astray. There must be something happening in Winterfell.

The raven flies away to someplace Jon cannot see or follow. I'd almost believe it was waiting for me to leave. 

Jon sheathes Longclaw and casts one last glance towards the heart tree. Keep my secrets, tree. And guard my heart, too. The weeping face stares back. 

The ash tree weeps sap as well, but Jon pays it no mind. It has no face and therefore no mouth to betray him with.

Jon follows Ghost back to Winterfell.

As they get closer to the keep, Jon tries to cast off the dread that's climbed onto his back but finds it a futile task. Sam's whispered fear has lodged itself within his lungs and poisons him with each ebb and draw of breath:

"And if they don't bend the knee?”

He thinks of everyone who has opposed Daenerys so far. He thinks of little Lyanna Mormont. He thinks of Lord Manderly. 

He thinks of Sansa.

His cousin. His headstrong and willful...cousin; a woman he knows will never accept Daenerys as queen, especially after learning of the Tarlys; the lady of Winterfell who has held the North together during its most turbulent time; a Stark whose influence and importance Daenerys has taken notice of and mentioned to him more than once.

"Will she have them all executed like she did my father and brother?"

From a distance, dragonsong echoes eerily through the godswood trees. Jon quickens the pace and wills himself to ignore the call. He may not be a Stark but he holds no allegiance to the three-headed dragon.

Winterfell rises before him and he is Jon Snow once more.

//

Jaime’s horse nearly throws him off when it hears dragons screeching high above them. He uses his metal hand to try and calm his horse and grips the reins with his left. The horse is not the only one left skittish and wary; people fearfully scan the sky and seek shelter. Jaime himself tenses as he remembers the ambush in the Reach. Burn them all... She really is her father's daughter. Jaime strokes the horse’s flank to soothe him before urging him forward once more.

Bronn, the self-serving ass, decided to stay in Wintertown's shabby imitation of a brothel. "I'm not about to ride in with the Lannister that killed the dragon queen's father—I've seen her burn others for far less.” A dark look passed quickly before he said, “Call me a coward if you want, I don't care. Come and get me if they let you live, ey?"

And so it is that Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, rides into Winterfell alone and with no fanfare—a pitiful, though well-deserved, contrast to the last time he came. Back when he was despised for being a Kingslayer, not a Lannister. 

Perhaps Bronn had the right of it, he thinks as he’s almost immediately apprehended upon passing through the gate, even I wouldn’t ride into Winterfell with Jaime Lannister if I could help it.  

Faces with hollowed out cheeks sneer and yell out. Lannister, they curse and hiss, Kingslayer!

For these people there is no distinction between the two. Both are markers of depravity and cruelty. He refuses to lower his head in shame as he is escorted to gods-know-where. He cares not for their opinion. Judgement and a chance for honor lies elsewhere—and he is ready to face it.

//

The king slayer stands in the middle of the Great Hall. He ports nondescript leathers and clothing, nary a roaring lion in sight. The only marking upon him is his golden hand—his sword was removed upon his arrival. He is naked and defenseless, surrounded by both northerners and Unsullied preventing escape.

Daenerys presides over the hearing at the center of the head table, flanked by Jon, and Sansa Stark. Her council is present as are Bran Stark, Ser Davos, Lyanna Mormont, a northern lady, a lord from the Vale, and a lady knight. She and the north hold little love for the maimed lion. Let's see how well this lion fares.

“I see you are alone, Jaime Lannister,” she says his surname with veiled contempt. “When should we expect your sister’s armies to arrive?”

"There are no armies. There never was. I'm the only Lannister soldier you will see north of the Neck."

Daenerys remembers seeing Jamie Lannister for the first time.

This man, she had thought, this man took everything away from me when he killed my father. 

Daenerys had looked at the murderer before her and had seen him for what he was. He wasn't the extraordinary creature that prowled her nightmares when she was a little girl. His skin bore no markings of wickedness. The hair atop his head was golden and soaked in sunlight. His armor was well-crafted but held no magical qualities. He was lacking a hand of flesh but that was the extent of his uniqueness. He was an ordinary mortal man. She was almost disappointed by him.

Jamie Lannister would have fared better under disappointment.

Today, Daenerys seeks justice and retribution.

"'I will march them north to fight alongside you in the Great War': is that not what she said?" she looks to Tyrion. "Your sister pledged her forces to fight alongside us in the war against the dead." Her eyes flick away from her Hand; he resolutely refuses to look at her, preferring to stare stupidly at his brother. "I withdrew mine and marched them north because she promised to do the same."

She should have never trusted a Lannister. 

Lannisters are not lions, they are snakes hiding amongst the grass waiting to strike and sink their fangs. While Daenerys is here in this white wasteland, Cersei Lannister is reclaiming every last inch of land she had lost. All the sacrifices she has made turn to ash in her mouth at the thought of Cersei sitting calmly on the Iron Throne. I should have razed the Red Keep to the ground as soon as I landed on Westeros. Daenerys recalls how affectionately Tyrion spoke of his older brother. There was love there. Perhaps Tyrion never stopped working for the usurpers. Why should I believe there is wildfire underneath Kings Landing? He could very well be lying in order to save his family. Olenna Tyrel had the right of it. She was no rose, or lion, or wolf. She is Daenerys, mother of dragons, the last Targaryen in the world. The throne is my birthright. I've forgotten my house words: Fire and Blood. I would be queen of the seven kingdoms by now if I hadn't forgotten them.

She opens her mouth to order the Unsullied to apprehend him but Sansa Stark speaks to the right of her. "Why have you come north, Ser Jaime?"

"I'm no longer a ser, lady Sansa."

"The question still stands," Sansa Stark leans forward, "If your sister has failed to fulfill her pledge, why have you come north?"

"My sister does not control me. I cannot ignore what I saw at the Dragon Pit. And as somebody told me," here, a small smile, "This goes beyond houses. I have come to pledge myself to—"

Daenerys scoffs, "You murdered a king, my father, who you were honor-bound to protect. You have just confessed that your sister, Cersei Lannister, has broken her own oath to me. Why should I believe you? For all I know, she could have sent you to kill me. It's an efficient and tested strategy, using one Lannister man to kill a Targaryen monarch."

"Out of all the dishonorable things I have done, killing—"

Tyrion tries to silence his brother, "Jamie—" 

"Killing your father is one I do not regret." Daenerys wishes she had Drogon here to burn away the defiance in the set of his brows. Strangely, his eyes deviate from hers and land somewhere to the right of the head table. "There are others I deserve to be punished for. But I will not apologize for plunging my sword into the mad king. If I hadn't he would have leveled King's Landing with wildfire. I'll never apologize for it."

How dare he speak about my father's murder in such a callous manner? She's aware her father was not a gentle man but she is tired of being reminded of it time and time again. It is not a statement he makes but an accusation against her. She is not her father. "You should watch your tongue, Kingslayer, lest you find yourself at my dragon's mercy."

"I've witnessed your dragon's 'mercy' in the Reach. Forgive me if I'd rather face the butcher's block. "

The lord from the Vale shares a look with the Mormont girl sitting next to him. He clears his throat and asks, "Speak clearly, Lannister. What happened in the Reach?"

Tyrion finally turns to look at her and Daenerys hates him for it. She will not be shamed for standing her ground that day. It is within her right as queen to execute any and all traitors. They are all hypocrites, these Westerosi. They execute with ropes and swords. She does it with dragonfire. In the end the result is the same, one less soul in the realm of the living.

The Kingslayer glares at Tyrion before whipping around to address the table where the northern council sits. "You don't know?" His question is met with silence. "She burnt a thousand wagons—most of which contained the last harvest." He takes a step forward, " She burnt—"

Sansa Stark interrupts him and tartly asks Ser Davos how many animals her dragons have been fed since they arrived.

Daenerys knows what she is trying to do and she will not stand for it. Sansa Stark might be lady of Winterfell, but Daenerys is her queen. She snaps to the right and wets her lips, "The Targaryen forces brought their own wagons of food, Lady Sansa, in case you’ve forgotten."

"I have not, your grace. Three hundred wagons is an easy quantity to remember—and fewer than a thousand. You brought some wagons of grain but little if any livestock which is what your dragons feed on." The red-haired Stark continues facing forward, not turning to look at her. "I ask again, Ser Davos: how many animals have the dragons devoured since landing in the north?"

The Onion Knight gives Daenerys an apologetic glance before answering, "Near seventy, my lady."

She continues her questioning, asking if they have all come from the Targaryen stock. Ser Davos replies in the negative, and Daenerys turns to Jon, incensed at his sister's attempt to undermine her. She had told him to keep his sister in line. He looks just as angry as her when his eyes meet hers before softening. Daenerys is glad at least someone sees how unnecessary this conversation is. Her dragons can eat whatever they want; without them the north will fall. 

"Lady Sansa," Jaime Lannister says her name with urgency and takes a step towards the head table; Daenerys appreciates how Jon reflexively places his hand on Longclaw to protect her. "Burnt bushels should be the least of your worries. The woman sitting next to you burnt my men alive after they defeated the Tyrell army in Highgarden. Her and the Dothraki ambushed us as we were transporting the harvest back to the capital. The woman you have all proclaimed queen burnt Randyl Tarly and Dickon Tarly alive after they refused to bend the knee. Just like Aerys Targaryen did to your grandfather and uncle, she murdered a father and son."

Silence reigns in the Great Hall. She hears Jon's leather gloves tighten around his chair's armrests. 

"I am not my father." She will defend herself if no one else will. "I let them choose. And they chose to die."

She hates Jaime Lannister and rues the day she offered Tyrion Lannister the golden pin that rests upon his doublet. Who is this oathbreaker to condemn her for handing out justice in her own kingdom? "It is within my right as queen to execute traitors. I now offer you the same choice, Kingslayer. Bend the knee to me or refuse and die."

"His life is not yours to take, Daenerys Targaryen," a whisper denies her from the right of Sansa Stark. "His life is not yet forfeit."

Bran Stark unnerves her. He knew about her brother and how he died. He knew about Viserion. The youngest Stark speaks truths and secrets as easily as others drink wine. If it were any other to interrupt her...Daenerys notices even Sansa Stark seems surprised by her brother's claim.

"Jaime Lannister pushed me out of the broken tower. He is the one that crippled me. His life belongs to House Stark."

The monster in front of her hangs his head in shame. The hall erupts with noise. Daenerys hears Jon speak for the first time, "You fucking—"

The crippled boy raises his voice, "It doesn't matter; we don't have time for this." The Great Hall falls into a tense silence ready to break at any moment. "Jaime Lannister, step forward and join oathkeeper. Fulfill the oath you swore—" he pauses, and beckons the lady knight. She stands with both her sword and the Kingslayer's "—here is your last chance for honor." 

The Kingslayer is taken aback by Bran Stark's words. Here is your last chance for honor? What does he intend to do? Nonetheless, after taking his sword from the lady knight, he bends the knee in front of the head table and lays the sword on the floor. It is only right, she thinks, after what he did to her father. There is a sense of vindication, having the Kingslayer at her feet.

"I offer you my services, Lady Stark." Daenerys' jaw tightens. "I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Sansa Stark confidently stands, her voice cloyingly innocent, "And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor." Jaime Lannister lifts his head and looks at Sansa as if she were his salvation. Daenerys tastes blood. "I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise."

The traitor and murderer rises, now cloaked under the protection of House Stark—no, of Sansa Stark. 

Daenerys has been robbed of justice. She has been denied retribution.

Yes, Olenna Tyrell was right. She is a dragon and she is tired of listening to clever men with clever plans that never work in her favor. 

I will take what is mine with Fire and Blood.

[nctsukashii-archive-blog]

"Hiii." He stumbles away from the doorway, entering the other's apartment. "Kokichi's workin. I can never be left alone, or else I'll do dumb shit huh?" He stares confusingly at the objects on the table, giggling to himself. "There was.. Something I gotta-" He interrupts himself, gasping as he headed towards the poor confused cat. "Oh no you're so cute." He's tearing up. "I would live for this damn cat."

When Saihara practically tripped his way into his room, Hoshi couldn’t stop the pang of sadness that his in his chest. How many times had this happened now? How many times had be seen Saihara shit-faced or tear-stricken? More times than anyone should have. The apprentice swallows his guilt at the words, ‘I can never be left alone or else I’ll do something dumb’, practically echoing in his head for a bit. How terrible, he mused to himself. Saihara’s frowns and tears were much more common than smiles and laughs.

“Careful with him,” Hoshi chuckled- although anyone could tell that it was forced, “Yuki needs to be treated softly.” The hour was then spent watching the drunk from afar roll around on the carpet, cat pawing around and an occasional chime when the detective was being a little too rough. Thankfully after a while Yuki escaped to his bedroom (he’d have to buy an apology treat for the guy), leaving Hoshi the ample opportunity to lay the bumbling drunk onto the couch to sleep. “He’ll play more in the morning. He’s tired, like you. Bucket’s on the floor in front of you if you need it. Just ask if you need anything, I’ll be right here.” Because like hell was he going to leave the foot of the couch after all that. 

Couldn’t have Saihara hurt himself after all. Ouma would prolly get pissy, and overall it would just be worse for everyone in the long run. That, and it just hurt to leave family behind. Not that Hoshi deserved something like that anyways. Once or twice Saihara had gotten up, a drink of water here, a trip to the bathroom there (although a part of him wished Saihara had sliced his neck open with a razor when Hoshi himself wasn’t looking- at least when he’d get sent back to prison for a confession of homicide he’d be executed on the spot), before the latter hours of the night started to roll in without interruption.That was when his mind started to wander.

Maybe Saihara was finally realizing how dumb it was to bring a killer such as himself out of prison. All that empathy quickly diminishing once he truly realized what it meant to live near someone so horrible. Finally getting his head out of the clouds to see the stares people gave him when he went out, or the insults barely veiled in crowds as business would be carried out. Killers didn’t deserve second changes, and maybe the only thing that helped him realize this was a bottle of booze and tear stained cheeks. 

Maybe Saihara was disgusted by the prisoner after all. Once he truly got to see how much the prisoner tried his best, without the confines of a prison school for help, it was just too repugnant to handle. Not that Hoshi would disagree with such an assessment; he himself held nearly nothing positive to say for himself no matter how much he tried and wanted to be normal and not so negative. A part of him believed Saihara would have just said it to his face, like the times he had truly gotten so angry at work, but that was just an assumption right? Did he even really know Saihara all beyond assuming things? 

….No, he didn’t really. “What a friend I am, huh?” He asked aloud- voice barely a whisper. He knew jack shit about Saihara- absolutely nothing besides the general idea that Saihara is nice, or is really good at saving face. God, how blind was he in the end? Blind from the truth and the world by rose-tinted glasses that had thought someone would genuinely care or respect anyone like him. No wonder Saihara was drinking his guts out, it was the most obvious signal besides the avoidance of eye contact. Saihara just hated him, and this was the way he showed it without saying so.

But who was he kidding? Certainly not himself. Saihara was nice- a really nice guy, Hoshi knew it beyond assumptions just from the way the detective looked when he helped others. That smile and little glint of life in his eyes, that was honest kindness. A kindness he barely got to see. Saihara couldn’t lie to save his fucking life, despite the fact he lived with a liar. Ironic in a sense, but that only made the idea Saihara hated him dissipate into something far far worse.

Maybe Saihara was just stressed. Stressed about a killer so close, stressed about the endless paperwork that meant for him, stressed about the title of Supervisor (which Saihara had admitted he wasn’t quite qualified for, god why hadn’t he seen it sooner?) Saihara was trying his hardest to make it through it all- all the difficulty and the trial and error and all the police hearings and the mandatory visits and the papers and the people that talked about him behind his back and the rumors and the days he just had to spend near someone so revolting- it was probably killing him. Saihara was dying right before his eyes, booze in hand and face always wet- god Hoshi was dumber than he thought. This is just Saihara’s way of coping with stress. He’s too stressed out by everything and it’s all his fault for it. It’s all his fault for the way Saihara was hurting himself. Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? It was so obvious. But he already knew the answer to that didn’t he?

He really was an idiot.A soundless laugh left his ugly mug, leaving nothing but a pit in his stomach. It felt so empty inside, nothing but a terrible sense of misery and pity and nothing that he wanted to do anything to get rid of it. He wanted to scream, to cry, to punch something, to hurt something, to kill something or himself or scratch or bleed or die die die-But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything. He was just too tired. Tired of trying, tired of hurting people close to him, tired of being alive. Too tired- too lazy, to just end it all himself and save everyone the trouble. Maybe because deep down he knew he selfishly wanted to stay alive for whatever reason; to find purpose in his empty shell of a life. But what if his purpose was to only hurt people? Did he really want to live if all he did was hurt others?No, he didn’t.

But it’s wrong to think Saihara would just be okay with scrubbing blood out of the carpet, or would want to throw out a corpse into the dumpster. The detective was stressed and hurting enough as is, he didn’t deserve to have to spruce up a corpse for officers when they’d inevitably come through the door. If he wanted to help, there was really only one way he’d be able to do it. 

A shiver went down his spine at the thought- he’d forgotten just how awful it truly was since he’d been living near Saihara. It was horrifying almost, just thinking back to the same old way he’d been before. But, it was the right thing to do- the right thing for Saihara’s health. He wouldn’t let anymore family be hurt because of himself.

By the time morning came up, Hoshi had come up with a plan. A simple plan, but a plan nonetheless. It would make Saihara happy. It would make Saihara lively. It wouldn’t hurt Saihara anymore. It would save Saihara’s reputation from anymore defeat, it would make Saihara be honest, it would make Saihara guilt free. It was the best for both of them, no matter how much it hurt the prisoner to think about. 

A click of the door and he was out, note placed on the coffee table in front of the couch as well as some Bufferin tablets and a glass of water. ‘Take two. I’m getting coffee and breakfast. Be back soon. Please be safe. I’ll have food when I get back.’

[mirrored-skies]

Akem Manah

Johannes falters, turning their head to look over their shoulder at their students, as if wondering if you heard that: but you did, clear as day, even if you have no godly idea what it could mean...

Johannes — Udyana? Other half?

You all knew, however vaguely, of the tower’s legends, but up until now, you’ve been led to believe that they were... just that. A tourist story, to add just a bit of flair to this old field trip.

Nothing you expected to meet face to face with. Johannes’ — Udyana’s? — eyes glint in the fire of the torches around you, and you begin to fear that you’ve been sharing your time in this tower with an unqualified stranger.

The next words come out slowly and deliberately, the white-haired figure’s hands balling into an uncomfortable fidget with their lanyard, unable to take their eyes off their ‘other half’s’ extended finger.

“What are you talking about?”

This time, it is not a sneer, a grin, a snicker or a chuckle that escapes Iragala's lips. Instead, they break out in laughter- uproarious and cruel, the kind of sound only someone mad with anger could make. Then, they turn towards you all, the sixteen students of Hope's Peak, and address you all.

"Listen well, o children of man! For the one you see before your eyes, the one who had pretended to be your cicerone, is naught but a liar!"

They raise their right hand, emphasizing their point in a very theatrical fashion. They then glare at you- and it is clear that they are enjoying this far more than they should- and continue.

"Their true identity is that of Udyana! They are one such as myself, bearing the title of a deity, the heavy crown of this tower's protector!"

They say that last part with a tone dripping with disdain.

"My equal and opposite, indeed! As me and them both-"

"Be silent, you damned soul!"- Johannes snaps, cutting the other figure off with a sweeping gesture of their arm - in that instant, their sleeve is long and withered, a thick white robe. Their headband gleams in the tower's light, and there, shadows no longer cast on it.

— A mortal form is being shed before your very eyes.

"You will not claim to be my equal!" Their voice booms, echoing unnaturally in a rather busy room, and with another large gesture, their stuffy cardigan billows out into long white robes, and you swear they even grow several inches taller as their fingers stretch thinner and longer - whatever Johannes is, they are very evidently not human, and even the staunchest atheists among you feel a deep, unsettling fear at the sight of this.

"I wish to nurture, and you - destroy! You will not do as you please with these innocent mortals who did no wrong!"

...You feel like you've been caught up in something far, far above you.

Just looking at the people before you makes your head hurt — this is no dream, clearly, as the heat in the tower's air threatens to knock you unconscious, and the being before you is very clearly Johannes, even if changed in some way, but... what else could it even be?

You're not sure you have any answers for that, and can only watch as Udyana continues to threaten their other half — gesturing widely with an arm to try and usher you out, to somewhere safer than here, but Iragala's eyes pin your feet to the floor like a hapless moth on a taxidermist’s board.

Upon seeing this, Iragala gives another laugh, as they clap- mocking Udyana and their attempt at resistance, and by extension all of you- laughing at your protector. Then, their gaze sets once more upon their other half, and they clap their hands together. Shadows seem to envelop the room, now. On the walls, on the floor, dancing all around you- they are indistinct and shapeless, yet, if you glimpse at them, you feel almost as though they form a picture you understand.

Ropes, chains, something or someone being bound and torn apart. The place where the most shadows seem to be is the deity's face, as only their eyes shine through. Mad, furious, glaring eyes. If you had not had that feeling before, by now you are certain —

— This is something entirely out of this world. Those eyes cannot be human. That figure, too, cannot be. Right now, more than ever before, you understand. This is a demon...!

"You yourself should know, far too well...! By now, it is too late to stop this ceremony. You are powerless to save anyone, this time as well..."

They take another step.

"So, let us end this already."

They whisper something, but you cannot hear it. Even if you could, you could not make out what the sounds mean. All you know is that the shadows seem to converge on Udyana, almost as if attempting to swallow them. The light from their halo fighting against them, with both attempting to banish the other —

And on the walls behind them, you can see your tour guide's shape seeming to crumble, as if dragged down and chained... And no sooner has that happened, that the shadows recede. With the force of the shadows. Udyana drops to the floor, eyes rolling into the back of their head for a moment. It appears Iragala’s dark intentions may outweigh theirs — and for a moment, you remember the legends of a ritual involving this tower, the artifact at the top... You don’t want to be a part of this — watching these deities you hardly know, with more history than you could imagine, battle for your right to live when just a day ago you were on a regular class trip — but it appears neither Iragala or Udyana will let you go.

The latter is weakened, though the glare they give Iragala feels like it could turn one to stone. Still, they’re kneeling on the floor, clutching their head. They seem to be in a great amount of pain, unresponsive beyond glaring at the other deity — their face is quite pale, and they pant with exertion.

Iragala looks at them again for a few seconds, but takes no further action, probably deeming them a non-threat at this point. Instead, they turn once more to face you all.