#That she could have been a mother and that their child could have been their child.

[lizzyiii]

Hii, are requests open??

Yes, it definitely is!!!

The Dragon's Treasure

pairing | young aemond targaryen x niece!reader

word count | 6.7k words

summary | when you were but four years old, your mother had declared jacaerys as her heir, despite the fact that you were born first. in truth, it was a measure born of love; she knew you, with your striking silver locks and lilac eyes—her sweet daughter—would be safe, whilst her sons would not.

tags | FLUFF, FLUFF, targaryen incest, reader is described to have silver hair and lilac eyes (that's all), very very soft aemond, and after fluff comes ANGST, ANGST and more ANGST, also reader is a sensitive queen.

a/n | wrote this in 2 days 💪, and there will DEFINITELY be a PART 2

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Duty and shame. These were the threads from which you were woven—not love, nor passion, but the heavy fabric of obligation and regret.

The firstborn of Rhaenyra Targaryen came into the world not as a son with dark hair and brown eyes, but as a daughter, blessed with ethereal lilac eyes that mirrored her mother's lineage and the shining silver curls that heralded her Velaryon heritage.

Laenor Velaryon and Rhaenyra Targaryen had fulfilled their solemn duty to conceive an heir. For Rhaenyra, each night was steeped in a prayerful longing to erase the memory of her wedding night—a night marked by discomfort and tears. The truth was evident to all: Laenor's heart was not inclined towards her nor any woman; his desires lay with men. Yet, their obligation demanded they play their parts.

After their hurried nuptials in a clandestine ceremony, they found themselves confined within a chamber, the weight of expectation pressing down upon them. When the act was done, the silence that enveloped them was shattered by Laenor's grief; he collapsed into Rhaenyra’s arms, his body wracked with sobs as he mourned the loss of his beloved, wishing loudly that he could be “normal.” It was in that moment, as she held him close, that the young princess, overwhelmed by the weight of her fate, found herself wishing she could shed her identity, to become someone else entirely.

But when Rhaenyra beheld her daughter for the first time, it was as if the world shifted. A spark of profound love ignited in her heart, banishing the shame that had once gnawed at her spirit during her pregnancy and the painful hours of labor. There had been moments when she had cursed the very life growing within her, moments steeped in bitterness toward the infant she carried. Yet now, cradling her sweet babe—her precious dragon treasure—Rhaenyra understood that she would willingly endure a thousand painful pregnancies for this singular joy.

What a delight you were, a soothing balm for Rhaenyra amidst the swirling intrigues of King’s Landing. It was your voice that first captivated her heart, from the moment your tiny lips could form sounds, you babbled with delight, engaging your mother in joyous conversations, even though she could scarcely grasp what you were saying. Your smiles were a sunbeam that brightened her darkest days; the first time you graced her with a radiant smile, it became a memory she would hold dear until the end of her days.

But as the tides of fate turned, life grew more intricate. Once Rhaenyra and Laenor fulfilled the sacred duty of securing an heir, they were free to pursue their pleasures separately, allowing Rhaenyra to take Harwin Strong into her bed. To Rhaenyra, her time with Harwin had never felt like a mistake, nor the first child they conceived together —Jacaerys Velaryon.

Yet, his hair—dark as the raven's wing— and eyes — brown as the earth—set him apart from Rhaenyra’s lineage, with none of her ethereal silver locks or striking violet eyes. Instead, he bore the unmistakable mark of his mother’s sworn protector, a truth whispered in the shadows of the Red Keep, even as Laenor publicly embraced him as his true son and the rightful heir of Driftmark.

Alas, Rhaenyra found herself repeating the same error. Another son came forth from her union with Harwin—a second boy with hair as dark as night and eyes of rich brown. Lucerys Velaryon. Whispers began to flutter through the court, dark murmurs and scornful jibes accusing her children of being bastards. It was the painful truth, yet Rhaenyra, fiercely protective as any mother, longed for her sons to live free from the burdens of her choices.

And so, Rhaenyra was faced with the most harrowing decision of her life, a choice that would weigh upon her heart for years to come. When you were but four years old, she declared Jacaerys as her heir, despite the fact that you were born first, and had Laenor declare Lucerys the heir of Driftmark. In truth, it was a measure born of love; she knew you, with your striking silver locks and lilac eyes—her sweet daughter—would be safe, while Jace and Luke would forever need her protection in a world that could be mercilessly unforgiving.

In the quiet confines of the Red Keep, a yawning silence enveloped the lesson, a silence only broken by the steady, droning voice of Septa Agertha. As a ten-year-old princess, you found your patience with such tedium wearing thin, particularly in the tedious recitation of the Faith of the Seven—each doctrine blurring into the next, sapping your spirit with every word.

Beside you, your beloved aunt Helaena sat in her own world, her delicate hands guiding the needle in and out of the fabric, her gaze distant as though the colors and threads offered more solace than the dull teachings of the Sept. You could see it in her eyes; the spark of interest had flickered away, leaving a solemn stillness where interest once danced.

Embroidery, you thought, was a most tiresome endeavor—how many times had you pricked your own fingers accidentally? It seemed the needle was always too eager, as if it shared your disdain for the task at hand. Your heart longed for the vibrant strokes of paint on canvas, the joyful freedom of creation, but Septa Agertha had sternly deemed such messiness unfit for a princess of House Targaryen.

"Focus, my princess," Septa Agertha’s voice broke through your wandering thoughts, pulling you back from your reverie. In that moment, you wished for nothing more than a dragon's flight, high above the clouds, far from the confines of the castle and the constraints of your title.

You glanced at your Septa, your expression hesitant as you mustered the courage to speak. “Septa Agertha,” you began, your tone dipped in respect, “mayhaps I might be excused to inquire if my mother has finished her labor?”

The Septa regarded you with a mixture of exasperation and fondness; her demeanor softened as you widened your eyes and pouted just enough to tug at her heartstrings. “Very well, my princess,” she relented with a heavy sigh, “our lesson shall conclude for today.”

A joyful smile bloomed on your face, and you offered a swift, sincere thank you, excitement bubbling within you. Leaning over, you pressed a quick kiss on Helaena’s cheek—a fleeting farewell—before darting toward the door. Your sworn sword, Ser Rowan, steadfast and vigilant, attempted to match your youthful enthusiasm, but your spirit was unbridled and wild, leaving him struggling to keep up.

You raced breathlessly down the corridor, your heart racing with exhilaration, until you reached your mother’s solar. As you reached for the door’s latch, you hesitated, hearing the comforting jingle of Ser Rowan's armor behind you. With a bashful grin, you withdrew your hand, glancing back to find him nearing, his breath coming in measured puffs as he opened the door with a respectful bow.

But as you stepped into the warm chamber, your excitement began to wane. A sudden twinge gripped your young heart at the sight of nearly everyone gathered within your mother’s solar, unbidden thoughts swirling as to why you had not been summoned.

Yet those troubling questions were swiftly banished as you cast your gaze upon your mother, weary and glistening with the exertion of childbirth. Ignoring the soft coos of the newborn cradled in your father’s arms, you dashed toward Rhaenyra, laying your small hand against her damp cheek. “Mother, are you well?” you asked, concern threading through your words.

A tender smile softened Rhaenyra’s features at your worry, and she grasped your hand gently, kissing your palm in a soothing gesture. “I am better now that you are here,” she replied, her voice warm like the sun breaking through the clouds.

You turned at the sound of your brother Luke's voice, a warm smile stretched across his face. "We selected an egg for the babe, and for you as well, sister," he announced, his eyes bright with excitement.

"Ahh," your mother’s voice came softly from your side, laced with affection, "Those look perfect indeed."

"I let Luke choose," Jace declared with a hint of pride.

With a nod and a grin, Luke acknowledged his brother's words, "Thank you, Jace."

"Not every day an egg leaves the Dragonpit, Princess," Ser Harwin Strong intoned, his hands clasped thoughtfully before him. "I deemed it fit to escort the lads."

Rhaenyra turned to him, her voice gentle, "Laenor and I thank you, Commander." Her gaze shifted slowly to you, warmth radiating from her eyes. "What do you think, my love?"

Your eyes were drawn to the two shimmering eggs nestled snugly in the hatching pot. You should have felt joy, perhaps excitement, yet a shadow of sadness draped over your young heart. "Why was I not included?"

An uneasy silence fell over the chamber, heavy and palpable. Ser Harwin broke it first, offering a sympathetic smile, “You were busy with your lessons, princess. We did not wish to disturb you.”

"But surely Jace and Luke were occupied with their dragon lessons as well," you replied in a soft voice, the undertone of hurt evident in your words.

Rhaenyra immediately noticed the glimmer of tears pooling in your lilac eyes and the tremble of your lips, as she rushed to uplift your spirits. "Look, my love, it is purple, your favorite color."

No sooner had Rhaenyra spoken than Laenor interjected enthusiastically, “I have a good feeling about this one, my darling. You know what they say—third time’s the charm.”

Third. This was to be your third dragon egg. The first, a vibrant orange, had turned to stone in your cradle, a cruel fate none could have foreseen. The second, a deep crimson egg, had been bestowed upon you with the birth of Luke, yet it too remained unhatched. As you gazed at the violet egg in the pot, hope eluded you, replaced instead by the grim certainty that this egg too would not awaken.

“Now I am certain you would like to meet your new brother,” Rhaenyra murmured, wrapping an affectionate arm around you.

“A boy?” you whispered, your eyes lifting to seek the babe cradled in your father’s arms.

“Yes, my love.”

“Oh.”

Rhaenyra could instantly see the disappointment which weighed heavy on your features at the prospect of yet another brother, and it became ever clearer in your silence. Rather than springing toward your father, you chose instead to nestle deeper into your mother’s embrace, seeking comfort in her warmth.

As you reclined against your mother’s side, you gazed at Ser Harwin, who now cradled your newborn brother, Joffrey. At merely ten summers, you could discern the affection in Ser Harwin's gaze as he looked at Joffrey—a tender look reminiscent of the affection he often bestowed upon your mother. It was a gaze filled with adoration, one he also offered to your other brothers, yet curiously, yet it never seemed to touch you. How curious this felt, a wonder mixed with a hint of sorrow.

When your father ushered your brothers from the chamber, it left a stillness that enveloped you, your mother, Ser Harwin, and the tiny new life nestled in his arms.

“Mayhaps you should return to your lessons now, my love,” Rhaenyra said, her voice soft and melodic, turning her gentle gaze towards you.

A twinge of sorrow flared within you once again, and you glanced up at her, barely able to protest. “But—I just arrived,” you murmured, the longing in your tone betraying your desire to remain by her side.

Ser Harwin, ever the loyal knight, defended your mother, answering with a reassuring tone, “I am certain it is merely that your mother seeks rest, my princess.”

Reluctantly, you eased away from your mother’s embrace, turning slightly so she wouldn’t witness the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. “I’ll go find Helaena,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

You heard her sigh, a sound laced with affection and understanding. Then, you felt her hand encircle your wrist, drawing you back to her warm side. She pressed a firm kiss to your forehead, her love wrapping around you like a cloak. “If you wish to keep me company whilst I rest, I shall never protest, my treasure.”

And so, you settled back against her, safe and cherished, while Ser Harwin gently rocked Joffrey to sleep. Your mother cast the same tender look upon him that Ser Harwin had, her eyes shimmering with a light of love—a look you noticed she had never bestowed upon your father. With this curious thought lingering in your mind, you surrendered to the soothing comfort of your mother's embrace, drifting gently into a blissful slumber for an impromptu nap.

“This one has rings...and two pairs of legs on each,” Helaena whispered, her voice a gentle hum as she held a slithering black insect close to her face, its glossy body glinting in the soft light.

“That makes two hundred and forty,” she concluded, her gaze fixed on the peculiar creature, while you regarded it with wide, curious eyes.

“Yes, indeed,” the Queen murmured thoughtfully from her perch beside Helaena.

You had awoken to find your mother still lost in slumber after drifting off beside her. With utmost care, you slipped away from her warm embrace, seeking out Helaena as you waited for the boys to finish their dragon lessons — and by boys, of course, you really meant Aemond.

“It has eyes...though...I don't believe it can see,” Helaena continued, bringing the strange creature nearer to you. Instinctively, you leaned back, wary of its closeness.

“And why is that so, do you think?" Queen Alicent inquired, her brow cocked in gentle curiosity.

Helaena merely shook her head, a mystique in her expression. “Some things lie beyond our understanding.”

“I suppose you are right,” Queen Alicent replied in a soft tone, a touch of wisdom in her words. “Some things simply are.”

"That sounds quite scary," you ventured, finally chiming in.

Both heads turned to your direction, and Helaena regarded you with a gentle curiosity. "Why do you say that?"

You offered a slight shrug, your finger gliding over the peculiar, scaly texture of the insect before you. "I suppose I’d feel so helpless, not being able to see anything. It would be a sad too, not to behold colors or shapes."

Queen Alicent regarded you with a softened gaze, her expression a mixture of contemplation and warmth. While her heart held a shadow of disdain for your mother, Princess Rhaenyra, and your brothers, who bore the stigma of bastardy, she recognized the innocence in you. A precious blend of Targaryen and Velaryon blood, you were a vision of purity akin to a delicate flower springing forth amidst thorns. It certainly didn't hurt that your sweetness was reminiscent of the ripest strawberry tart.

"Well, since it has never encountered colors or shapes, my dear princess, it has no reason to feel sad," she said softly.

Your brow furrowed, the Queen's words weaving through your mind like threads of a tapestry, before a radiant smile broke forth on your cherubic face in understanding.

The calm of the Queen's solar shattered abruptly as the heavy door swung open, revealing Aemond, forcibly ushered inside by a stern Kingsguard. All eyes, filled with concern, turned toward the commotion, “Your Grace.”

Alicent sprang to her feet, her voice laced with accusation. “Aemond. What have you done?”

You trailed closely behind the Queen, keeping a respectful distance as she unleashed her frustration upon Aemond, who stood there, cloaked in ash from head to toe. “After how many times you've been warned, must I have you confined to your chambers?!"

Your heart twisted painfully at the sight of your friend’s distressed expression. “They made me do it!" he pleaded, desperation lacing his tone.

"As if you needed encouragement," Queen Alicent rebuked him, her hands firm upon his shoulders. “Your obsession with those beasts goes beyond understanding."

“They gave me a pig!” Aemond’s voice rose, indignation spilling forth, and you flinched at the raw hurt echoing in his words.

Alicent paused, her brow furrowing in confusion. “A what?”

He turned his gaze away from his mother, the shame evident, but when his violet eyes fell upon you, they swiftly darted back, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. “They said it was a dragon… but it was a pig.”

The stern lines of the Queen’s face softened, and she spoke with conviction. “You will have a dragon one day. I know it."

“They all laughed at me,” Aemond murmured, his sorrow palpable in the air.

You yearned to bridge the distance and offer solace, for in that moment, you understood his pain more profoundly than anyone else in the room. Yet, you recognized that he needed his mother’s embrace more than your support. As Alicent enveloped Aemond in a tight hug, his violet gaze met yours once more, and all you could offer him was an understanding look, a silent promise that you would be there when he needed you.

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting amber rays that danced across the ornate shelves of the Red Keep’s library, you found yourself seated beside your uncle, who had only just tidied himself after that unpleasant encounter. His eyes remained fixed on the pages of the book detailing Aegon's Conquest, but the tense silence between you weighed heavily in the air.

The heavy silence lingered, thickening the air around you. Restlessly, you glanced up at your uncle and whispered, "I am truly sorry."

He did not lift his gaze from the book, his tone icy as he replied, "Why do you say you’re sorry? You bear no blame in this."

Your heart ached for him, as you said softly, "I am sorry for what happened, for the pain it brought upon you. I will speak to my brothers about their behavior, I promise."

Aemond’s expression hardened, his lips pressing together in frustration. "I don't need you to save me, niece," he retorted, the sharpness of his words echoing in the quiet library.

Your heart sank, and you instinctively dropped your gaze. You could sense his turmoil; and you understood the pain and inferiority he was feeling. You had only wished to help, yet somehow, your kindness seemed to have been misread. You recognized when your presence was unwelcome, so with a small, resigned 'alright,' you began to rise from your seat, intending to leave him in peace.

Yet just as you turned, Aemond’s head snapped up, a wave of guilt crashing over him. He realized harshly that he had been unfair to you—his darling niece who was merely being her sweet, caring self. In a swift motion, he reached out for your hand, "Wait," his voice softer this time, “I did not mean to be cruel. I...I apologize.”

A warm smile crept across your face as you met his earnest eyes. “I accept your apology, uncle." You furrowed your brows playfully, a hint of mischief in your voice. "Come with me."

Before he could protest, your fingers intertwined, and you pulled him along with a gentle urgency. Aemond, caught off guard, found himself captivated by the warmth and softness of your hand in his. In the innocence of your youth, holding hands and being with each other everyday all day had felt natural, but with each passing day, as you both grew older, the simple act took on an air of unspoken indecency. Still, he let himself be led, wrapped in the comfort that his niece eagerly offered.

Aemond hesitated as you guided him into your chambers, pausing at the threshold, uncertainty written on his brow. However, any tension was quickly vanquished as you drew him inside. Your quarters brimmed with the elegance one might associate with a princess; the canopy bed was adorned with delicate pink linens and plump pillows, while vases scattered throughout the room overflowed with a lush assortment of pink and purple roses, their fragrance sweetening the air.

Yet, it was the object resting on the small table before the crackling fireplace that truly seized Aemond's attention. Nestled atop the table was a warming pot, housing a radiant violet dragon egg that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. "A dragon egg," he murmured, his fascination palpable.

You guided Aemond to kneel beside the table, where the two of you were drawn into the stillness of the moment. With a tender whisper, you began to recount the story behind the egg. "My brothers retrieved it when they sought an egg for my newest brother, Joffrey."

"Joffrey?" Aemond asked, a hint of skepticism lacing his tone as he met your gaze, "That name sounds far from Targaryen."

Your focus remained on the egg, brushing aside his remark. After a moment of contemplation, you finally shared the weight that had settled in your heart. "I fear it won't hatch."

Aemond's reaction was immediate; his head snapped towards you, irritation flickering in his eyes. "Do not speak such things."

"It is but my opinion, Aemond," you replied gently, undeterred by his sharpness. You understood that his frustration was not truly aimed at you; it never was.

“Why do you believe such a thing?” His voice softened, a hint of curiosity threading through his concern.

You averted your gaze, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. “It is foolish,” you murmured, hesitant to reveal the depth of your fears.

“And so?” he pressed, his intensity unyielding.

Drawing a steadying breath, you finally revealed your heart. “In my mind, the egg shall only hatch if I do not care for it deeply.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed, understanding dawning. “So, you do care, then?”

“No, I do not!” you insisted too quickly, casting a furtive glance at the egg as if it had heard Aemond's words.

Frustration etched across Aemond’s features, he clenched his fists tightly. “It is unfair that your brothers possess dragons while we remain without, since they are—”

“What?” you interjected softly, concern lacing your tone. “They are what?”

Your earnest look tugged at the fragile threads of his heart. He couldn’t assume you were unaware of the whispers that painted your brothers in shadows, nor could he believe you were deaf to the harsh truths woven through courtly gossip. Yet, he would never voice those words to you. Instead, he muttered grudgingly, “Not as special as us.”

A small pout formed on your lips, drawing his attention away from the dragon egg that lay neglected between you. “You do understand that it was most likely Aegon who orchestrated that prank, yes?” you pressed, your voice laced with a gentle resolve.

Aemond scoffed and turned away, the weight of your words lingering in the air like an unwelcome specter. “Are you truly defending them?” he challenged, though he felt the shake of his conviction.

“No, Aemond,” you replied, your voice as sweet as summer rain, “What my brothers did was wrong. But more often than not, you never hold Aegon accountable, despite him being the leader of their little group.”

His back remained turned to you, pride keeping him rooted as he mulled over your words. Deep down, he recognized the truth in them, though he loathed to concede, for Aegon was his elder brother. He longed for the bond that appeared so effortless between you and your siblings, and it felt far more convenient to direct his ire toward them instead.

As Aemond continued to brood, you glided closer, resting your chin on his shoulder, your presence as warm as the sun’s rays. “If my egg should hatch, perhaps we could share the dragon?” you suggested brightly, seeking to lift his spirits.

He let out a disdainful scoff, turning to face you so closely that your noses nearly brushed. “Now, that is simply absurd.”

“Aemond,” you admonished softly, undeterred.

“Never has there been a dragon with two riders,” he rebutted gloomily, his voice laced with skepticism.

“So we would be the first,” you retorted, rising to your feet with animated gestures. “There must always be a first, for only then can things be normalized. Just wait and see, Aemond—one day, a Targaryen will claim more than one dragon!”

He regarded you with an unreadable expression and replied matter-of-factly, “That is entirely selfish, niece.”

You huffed in exasperation, settling back down beside him, your patience wearing thin. At moments like this, Aemond’s stubbornness made him seem dreadfully dull. “You fail to see the vision, uncle."

It was curious how swiftly the tides of life could turn. You had often confided in your mother about your aversion to change, and her response was always the same: "Change is inevitable, my love." You were not certain what that meant, but you understood now, as the world around you shifted in the blink of an eye. The sudden sadness that gripped your heart was puzzling, especially since you were so young. Just like that, you had been whisked away from the familiar streets of King’s Landing to the distant shores of Dragonstone, all because of your mother’s choices, which felt like a shadow beyond your grasp.

Dragonstone loomed before you, ominous and strange. You had never set foot on its rugged shores, but a sense of dread weighed heavy in your chest, telling you you would despise it here. The library would be smaller, you thought—if Dragonstone even had one at all—and the gardens could not possibly rival those sprawling ones in the Red Keep. Most troubling of all was the thought of being separated from Helaena and Aemond.

Helaena, your sweet aunt, sometimes it felt as though you could almost imagine her as your sister. Though her peculiar musings often escaped your understanding, it was her delightful oddities that you cherished most, setting her apart from all the other court ladies.

And Aemond—nothing in this vast world could rival the bond you shared with your uncle. You both understood one another in a way that few could fathom. The two dragonless Targaryens united by the same unspoken grief, felt the weight of their inferiority hanging over them like a storm cloud. Yet within that shared pain grew a deep-rooted connection. Aemond was your anchor in a world that often felt lonely and overwhelming. With him, you never felt truly isolated; you were never alone.

As the time arrived for your departure, Aemond attempted to mask his feelings with indifference, but you could see beyond his brave facade. The glimmer of tears in his violet eyes and the strength of his embrace told you everything: he would miss you just as fiercely as you would miss him.

Once again, the sea had darkened, mirroring the heaviness in your heart. The next time the two of you would gather would be under the shadow of sorrow. Your Aunt Laena had passed, and your family was bound for Driftmark to honor her memory. Despite having never met her, a sharp ache coursed through you, all the more intense for the grief etched across your father’s face. Laena had been his twin, after all. Then there was the loss of Ser Harwin Strong as well, which weighed heavily on your mother and brothers. Yet, for reasons you couldn’t quite grasp, your own heart felt strangely untouched by sadness.

The funeral had drawn to a close. Your mother gently encouraged you and Jace to offer words of comfort to your cousins, Baela and Rhaena. But Jace spoke without thinking, a clumsy remark about how you all should have been at Harrenhal instead of Driftmark. You felt a rush of frustration rising in your throat, longing to assert that his pain didn’t lessen the tragedy of the day. After all, he was only voicing his own hurt.

With a quiet huff, you had marched away in silence, finding your perch beside a jagged stone wall, where you could observe your father from a distance. He stood in the shallows of the ocean, the waves lapping at his knees, as if being closer to Laena might ease the sorrow that weighed upon his heart. It pained you to witness him so downcast; the truth was, you had always thought your father impervious to sadness, having never seen his face devoid of a smile before this moment.

“How fares Dragonstone?”

A smile began to bloom on your lips at the familiar sound of Aemond's voice, bringing warmth to your gloomy thoughts.

"It is cold and windy," you replied quietly, shifting your gaze toward him.

Aemond paused, taking in the sight of you. It had been merely weeks since you left the Red Keep, yet in your absence, the loneliness had curled around him like a thick fog. Seeing you now felt like sunlight piercing through gray clouds after a long storm. He regarded you for a moment longer before nodding subtly toward your brothers. "My condolences for Ser Harwin. I assume that is what had your brothers weeping."

“The bond between him and my brothers was indeed strong,” you admitted, a furrow forming in your brow as Aemond stifled a laugh with a cough. “I am sad he has passed, just as I mourn Aunt Laena. But the sorrows I feel mostly arise from witnessing the devastation their losses have cast upon my mother and father.”

Your lilac eyes shifted back toward your father, worry etched across your youthful features. You bit your lip, glancing at the water below. Surely it had turned icy, “I wish I could help him, to see him smile once more. But I’m not sure what to say.”

This was a curious moment for Aemond. Throughout his life, he had cherished you as his dearest friend, his beloved niece. Yet, recently, he began to view you in a new light—the way your silver curls captured the sunlight, glowing as if spun from starlight, or how every gown you wore magnified the beauty of your lilac eyes.

He licked his dry lips and spoke gently, “I reckon there’s little you could say that would ease his pain. Instead, find a way to show him you stand with him. That might be enough.”

You nodded thoughtfully at Aemond's words, your gaze drifting toward Rhaena and Baela. "I feel so awful," you confessed, your voice scarcely above a whisper. "I could never imagine losing my mother."

"Me neither," Aemond replied softly.

After a moment of silence, you added, "I think I would die from the heartbreak." You could sense Aemond’s eyes upon you, a question hanging unspoken in the air between you. A small sigh escaped your lips as you said, "It didn’t hatch, if that’s what you were thinking?"

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Aemond's head lower slightly. "Oh," he murmured, disappointment lacing his tone.

You lifted your chin, trying to display strength despite the disappointment gnawing at your heart. "I suspect I am not meant for a dragon," you asserted, forcing a brave smile.

"Don’t say that," Aemond insisted, his voice firm yet gentle.

Turning to face him, you allowed your hopelessness to seep through your facade. "Three times, Aemond. Three times my egg has failed to hatch."

"There are many unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone," Aemond suggested with a hint of resolve. "Perhaps you could try with them?"

"At the risk of my life?" you replied, arching an eyebrow at him. But then, your lips curled into a playful smile as you reached out to take Aemond's hand in yours. "But really, why would I seek a bond with a dragon when my bond with you is far more precious to me?"

Your words made Aemond’s cheeks flush a deep crimson, his heart thudding like the wings of a dragon. Though you seemed to find comfort in his friendship over the absence of a dragon, Aemond couldn't shake the feeling of urgency. If a dragon was to be claimed, it would be up to him—the time had come, for both of your sakes.

He remembered that at this very moment, there was the legendary Vhagar, unclaimed and free, somewhere on the island, waiting for someone worthy to forge a bond with her. And he would do it in your honour.

You were jolted awake from your slumber, the sound of your name ringing insistently in your ears as someone gently shook your shoulders.

Opening your eyes with heavy lids, you frowned to see Jace’s eager face hovering over you, his hands gripping your shoulders.

“Jace, what is it?” you mumbled, pushing him away with tired reluctance as you struggled to sit up.

“Vhagar has been stolen! We must find out who did it!” he exclaimed, his voice bubbling with urgency as he tugged at you to rise from your bed.

“We?” you replied slowly, letting the word hang in the air. Your gaze drifted past him, landing on Luke, Baela, and Rhaena, who stood ready to storm out.

You groaned and collapsed back into your pillows, muffling your voice as you protested, “Can this not wait until the sun graces the sky?”

Once more, Jace insisted, pulling you upright, even as you felt something being slipped onto your feet. You turned your bleary gaze to see Luke kneeling beside you, fastening your boots with surprising urgency.

“No time for that! We needed a person of age to accompany us,” Jace declared, lifting you to your feet with determined hands.

You froze in place, fixing him with a look that was a blend of disbelief and exasperation. “Jace... I’m ten, and you’re nine.”

Yet your protest went unheard as Jace and Luke eagerly dragged you through the castle’s dim corridors, Baela and Rhaena leading the way with purpose. A terrible knot of dread twisted in your stomach, and you murmured under your breath, “Perhaps we could find a guard.”

“That would take far too long,” Rhaena replied sharply, her steps firm as the twins guided you deeper into the shadowy tunnels beneath the castle.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, and your mouth gaped open as you caught sight of Aemond standing before you, his hair tousled and a cocky smirk dancing on his lips.

“It’s him,” Baela exclaimed, realization dawning on her.

Aemond's smirk widened, and he drawled, “It’s me.”

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon,” Rhaena said, her voice trembling with indignation.

“Your mother’s dead. And Vhagar has a new rider now,” Aemond shot back, his words sharp as a dagger. You flinched at the cruelty woven into his tone.

“You claimed Vhagar?” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. Aemond’s gaze met yours, filled with an expectation of pride, but instead, he found only shock and hurt reflected in your eyes.

But before you could gather your thoughts, Rhaena’s voice pierced the air, filled with anger, “She was mine to claim!”

“Then you should’ve claimed her!” Aemond roared, his voice echoing through the tunnel. “Perhaps your cousins can find you a pig to ride. That would suit you better!”

Disgust twisted your features at Aemond’s taunts, yet your attention shifted as you saw Rhaena charging toward him. “Rhaena, wait!” you cried out, but it was too late.

In a heartbeat, Rhaena slammed into Aemond, pushing him with all her might. In response, he shoved her to the ground, and the chaos spiraled out of control. Everything happened so swiftly that you barely registered Baela darting past you until the sharp crack of her fist meeting Aemond’s cheek rang in your ears. He retaliated in an instant.

“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond roared, fury lighting up his features.

A gasp escaped your lips as you instinctively shouted, “Aemond!”

“She hit me first!” Aemond yelled back, his frustration spilling out around them like wildfire.

Just then, you felt a rush behind you as Jace charged forward, his own fury ignited. He struck Aemond squarely on the nose. In the blink of an eye, the fight erupted around you, with Jace, Luke, Rhaena, and Baela striking Aemond from every side.

It was only when you felt that surge of panic return to your mind and body that you tore yourself away from your stunned silence, sprinting toward the melee. “Stop it! All of you, stop!” you cried, your voice rising above the clamor.

But your pleas fell on deaf ears as the thrashing continued. In the fray, Jace’s elbow inadvertently crashed into your face, sending you spiraling toward the stone wall. Your head thudded sharply against the rough surface, pain blooming as darkness threatened to close in.

Time seemed to slow, and suddenly, the fighting ceased. Jace’s wide eyes met yours, filled with shock. “I—I didn’t mean to,” he stammered, guilt clouding his features.

Through the ringing in your ears, you attempted to open your eyes, focusing on the concern etched on your brother's face. “I know you didn’t mean to, Jace,” you murmured, your voice a fragile whisper.

Yet the fury of the confrontation did not relent; the struggle surrounding Aemond grew more fierce, spurred on by your injury. As blood trickled down your forehead, thick and unwelcome, Aemond's anger erupted. “You hurt her!” he roared, his voice laced with venom.

A throbbing pain radiated through your skull, swelling with every clash of voices and yells. Gritting your teeth against the discomfort, you finally opened your eyes wide enough to glimpse Jace, knife in hand. A pang of urgency surged within you, prompting a weak plea, “Jace, put that away.”

You longed to retreat into darkness, to let the cacophony fade away, but the din continued to swell. Jace unleashed a handful of sand, blinding Aemond momentarily, while Luke, with fierce determination, rushed forward carrying Jace's knife. “Luke, no!” you cried, though your words were nearly drowned in the chaos.

And then, before you could breathe another word, the world faded away into shadows, consumed by the horrifying scream that sliced through the air — Aemond's anguished cry as Luke struck at his eye.

To Be Continued...

[starogeorgina]

𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

Paring: Jacaerys Targaryen x reader

Warnings: Swearing, smut

1.02

Your fingers grip the loose fabric of your shift that was bunched up to your stomach while desperately biting down on your lip to stop any unwanted noises from slipping out.

Jacaerys had returned to his own quarters before you woke, but he came back while you were breaking fast alone in your bedchamber. He offered to teach you the basics of sword fighting later in the day, which you found exciting because you’d never held a sword before. Being a woman, you were expected to remain a spectator, but the prince was more than happy to help you learn.

You meant to give him a simple kiss on the cheek to thank him, but it quickly became heated.

“Oh.”

You slide down the chair ever so slightly as Jacaerys tightens his grip around your legs, his fingernails lightly grazing the flesh of your thighs. He was rubbing circles on your clit again to bring you pleasure as he did the night before, except now he was using his tongue.

“Princess!” Elinda gasps, her voice filled with surprise and embarrassment. “Prince Jacaerys. What are you doing?!”

Jace falls back on his heels, cheeks flushed red. He remains frozen for a few seconds, then gets to his feet. The prince was at a loss for words; what could either of you say?

Elinda keeps her head low. “The queen has sent someone to the training yard to inform you to go join the queen's council immediately, my prince.”

You swallow thickly as Jace leaves the room. Elinda closes the door behind him and, without saying anything else about what she just witnessed, goes over to the bed where you have multiple dresses laid out. “Have you chosen one to wear today?”

“The crimson one.” Your fingers tangle together. “Forgive me, I... I’m sorry for what you just saw.”

“Once you're dressed, you are to join the Queen's Council princess.”

Elinda was known for her gentleness and would have been shocked by what she just witnessed, but there was a sadness in her eyes that you didn’t understand. “Why is the meeting urgent? Has something happened?”

—

You stand in the chamber of the painted table, listening to various knights and lords as they inform Rhaenyra of the heinous acts committed against your sister and her children the night before. With the little information Elinda shared with you, you had expected to be told ill news, but nothing could have prepared you to learn of blood and cheese. At first, you hadn’t reacted, but anger was now bubbling inside you.

“But it's a lie,” Rhaenyra says, defending herself against the accusations she was behind the assassination. “Having lost my own son, that I would inflict such a thing on Helaena, of all people, an innocent.”

“The death of Prince Lucerys was a shock and an insult,” Ser Alfred, one of the men on the queen’s council, says. “A mother so aggrieved might, naturally, seek relief in retribution. I merely thought an action taken in haste may have led to the death of the child.”

“Jaehaerys.”

Ser Alfred shifts angrily where he stands. “What?”

“That is the third time you have referred to my nephew as ‘the child;’ his name is Jaehaerys,” you say, glaring at him. “The queen has already said she wasn’t behind this, and to even suggest she would order the decapitation of her own kin is dangerously close to treason.”

Rhaenyra avoids making eye contact with anyone, saying, “I do not know who would order such a thing.”

Daemon, who had remained stone-faced while everyone else was horrified, starts to smirk when Princess Rhaenys shoots him a look, and it suddenly dawns on you that he was behind this. Rhaenyra notices this as well and orders everyone to leave.

You go to walk towards Jace, who was waiting on you by the doorway, but your queen calls you back, “A moment y/n.”

“Your grace.”

Daemon remains seated with a smug look on his face while Rhaenyra gives you an apologetic look. “I truly hope you believe I had naught to do with what happened to Helaena and Jaehaerys.”

“I do not think of you as cruel, my queen.”

“There is another important matter we need to discuss,” she says in a more authoritative tone.

Oh gods, she knows what Elinda saw.

Rhaenyra toys with the rings on her slender fingers, obviously uncomfortable. “It’s regarding Midnight.”

“What of my dragon?”

Rhaenyra opens her mouth, but Daemon speaks before her. “Will you fight for your queen and burn the usurper cunts when the time comes?”

“I would fight for my queen, for Prince Jacaerys, but I would not fight for you, uncle.”

He chuckles, “You speak of Ser Alfred’s treason, yet you are openly saying you’ll not fight for your king.”

“Why should I do anything for the king consort, who is so weak that he has a child struck down?”

“Sister,” Rhaenyra’s tone wasn’t authoritative like a queen’s, but more like a mother warning her child to start behaving.

“It was a mistake. I paid them to bring me the head of Aemond Targaryen.”

Tears glisten in your eyes. Daemon smiles at you; he didn’t even seem remorseful for what he had done. In that moment, you wanted to make him hurt and make him suffer for what he had done. Your fingers curl around the edges of the table as you stand across from him; you know what threads to pull. “I was the closest to my father in his final years; I’d read out loud from his favorite history books while he was abed, and when lucid, he’d tell me stories of his youth. Of your parents, of Balerion. He’d always speak so highly of Rhaenyra and Queen Aemma, but with you it was different. He never forgave you.”

“Forgive me?”

“He never forgave you for making a mockery of his wife’s death.”

“You girl, speak nothing but lies.”

“Was the heir for the day comment made in jest?”

Daemon slams his fist against the table and abruptly knocks his chair backwards, causing it to land on the ground. Startling Rhaenyra, her kingsguard hands move to the hilts of their swords. He storms towards you and attempts to intimidate you by towering over you, but you don’t flinch. “Do not speak of things that happened before your whore of mother even married my brother.”

“Daemon!”

He glances at Rhaenyra, then back at you, “I have always protected my family.”

You laugh in his face. “You had to pay someone to kill a defenseless six-year-old boy because you weren’t man enough to go after my brother yourself.”

“I’ll have your tongue cut from your mouth and you thrown into a cell till the end of this war.”

Shaking your head, you walk away from him, “You’re pathetic.”

—

Your finger traces over the spine of the book in your hand. This version was older than the copy you had in the red keep; it was a favorite of yours. Without looking back, you ask, “How long do you intend to stand in the doorway?”

“What’s the story about?”

“It’s a fairytale; I used to read it to Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. A princess is taken prisoner, but the daring prince swoops in on his dragon and saves her, but it seems foolish now.” You hold the book closer to your chest, trying to hold back from crying. “I let them believe our dragons keep us safe.”

“I think it's better that way,” he says. “Keeps them innocent for longer.”

“I spoke out of turn during your mother's council.”

“Ser Alfred needed to be reminded of his place.” Jace sits on the edge of your bed, facing you. “I know the feeling of wanting to lash out while grieving those we’ve lost.”

“I don’t understand why he thought it was okay to question your mother like that.”

“To put it plainly, men get stupid when a woman has authority over them.”

“You don’t.”

“No, but my queen is my mother,” he smiles. Seeking comfort, he holds onto the side of your skirt in a non-sexual manner. “I admire your spirit; it pleases me to know you will defend her when needed. I spoke with my mother before I came here; Daemon has gone to Harrenhal.”

You suspect they discussed more than what happened in the council chamber, and that was why there was a guard waiting at the bedchamber door, which had remained open.

“A dragon should know when to show its teeth.” Sighing, you toss the book down onto the bed and take Jace’s hand. “I will apologize to the queen; I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the better of me.”

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part i)

a/n: I suppose this series will be a short one, 4 parts maybe? I just love Claere so much - she's my little unhinged weirdo :')

It was a rather secluded and quiet affair, the marriage between Claere Velaryon and Cregan Stark. There were no great halls crammed with noble witnesses, no bright banners flying high to announce the union of two ancient houses—only the low rustles of the breeze through the pines and the crackle of a distant hearth as the vows were uttered.

The ceremony took place beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods. The holy weirwood tree loomed with its gnarled white bark, etched with time, and ruby leaves swished in the cold Northern breeze. Claere, a priceless dream draped in rare emeralds, silver silks, and white furs akin to seafoam—a nod to her Velaryon heritage—eclipsed against the stark landscape of Winterfell. She made up for the glitz and grandeur that this lifeless gathering lacked.

Cregan Stark, silent and relentless, took her freezing hand with the kind of sworn resilience that marked Northern might—his bold grey eyes sceptical of the bride before him. Though the match had been arranged by the Sea Snake, the union between them was regarded as special—one for the histories. Theirs was not a marriage forged in the fires of splendour but in the subtle rendition of what they each represented: a union between sea and snow, Velaryon and Stark.

No songs were sung, and no cheers erupted, but in that stillness, something more meaningful lingered.

Cregan was first informed of Rhaenyra's second child and only daughter as if she were a fleeting nymph from a fairytale, a cold mystery whispered from beyond the Wall. "She is adrift in dreams," his maester had told him. Claere Velaryon possessed all of her mother’s fabled graces—from her haunting violet eyes and white-gold hair to the sharp, aquiline features that marked her as pure Valyrian. Her skin, fair and translucent as glass, only furthered the ghostly aura that surrounded her.

If summer snow had ever reincarnated in his time, it would have been Claere Velaryon. The rumours spoke of a 'beautiful freak', chiselled like an ice sculpture, who sang like the sweetest lark, whose fingers danced effortlessly over the harp, filling halls with melodies as delicate as her presence. She was drawn more to solitude and the quiet company of the stars than to her brothers, most of her nights spent soaring high above the world on her silvery dragon, Luna—hatched in her cradle and enormous beyond her years.

The whispers had reached him long before he’d ever seen her. She doesn't eat food, prefers the taste of human flesh and blood, they had said, each rumour darker than the last. She once tried to stab her uncle in the heart. She dabbles in blood magic with that wretched dragon of hers. Some claimed her visions could only divine the worst of futures, and that she would cut herself to the bone just to understand pain. It was said everything she touched withered into the gloom.

Cregan swallowed against the rising dread. He had been pragmatic in agreeing to this union, believing the support of the ancient Targaryens would strengthen the North. Yet now, as he stood face to face with the girl cloaked in a bizarre silence, he wondered if he had invited his own destruction. The North had weathered many storms, but this... this felt different. He had faced wildlings, dire winters, wars, and beasts, but Claere Velaryon might be his greatest unknown yet.

Perhaps this alliance, this bond forged for power, would be his ultimate undoing. The Sea Snake must’ve played him for a fool, tying him to a sorceress masked as a Valyrian princess.

As if her touch had stung him, Cregan recoiled and returned his hands to his sides, a flicker of unease settling beneath his skin. The girl’s violet eyes stayed distant at his reaction, focused on some invisible realm beyond the godswood, oblivious to the accusations that swirled around her name like storm clouds. Never meeting anyone’s gaze, she stood perfectly still, frigid as the legends surrounding her, the direwolf sigil on his chest holding her attention.

When the quiet ceremony was over and it was time for goodbyes, the weight of the moment settled heavily on them all. Soft whispers filled the air as hands were clasped, and final glances exchanged. The warmth of shared vows had already begun to fade whilst the mother and daughter, her three brothers and their grandsire traded farewells. Cregan wavered close by, observing his new wife's interactions.

No one cried except the youngest brother, Joffrey, who had refused to let go of the princess. Everyone around her, her own kin, had kept their distance in approaching her.

"Who'll sing to me now, Claerie? The moon song?" Her little brother wept, shedding his tears into her fair silk gown.

Claere’s eyes moved from her tear-streaked brother to the rest of her family. Her voice was glacial, her expression more bored than curious.

"Why does he cry?"

A brief pause passed between the lot of them.

"Because he... we will miss you, sister. We might not see each other for a long time." It was young Lucerys who eventually answered her, his tone painfully understanding. He must be the forbearing one among them.

"Then do not miss me," Claere said to them simply. "It is not my wish to cause you pain till then."

Her certainty unsettled them, a silent dismissal that left her words hovering unanswered. She seemed unaware, perhaps unconcerned, that her family could not comprehend her detachment.

"I love you, Claerie." He buried his face deeper into her gown, as if afraid she might vanish from his arms. Claere remained still as if brooking her brother's overflowing love.

There it was—a twitch in Claere’s blank eyes, a flicker of something almost human. She glanced down at Joffrey, and with visible reluctance, patted his head. The gesture was mechanical, lacking the warmth he sought. A moment later, Jace stepped forward, his hands firm as he pulled Joffrey away, his actions laced with an unspoken fear that any more time in her presence might invite something unwanted.

"Will you stay with me?" Claere asked them, though her voice, usually collected, wobbled just enough to betray the edge of apprehension.

"Not for long, my girl," Rhaenyra said to her, her smile strained, hiding some secret discomfort. "Your home is here now. You will grow to love this place and your husband. I am sure."

"A cage of stone and ice," she murmured, her gaze distant, as if already relinquished to the cold halls of her future.

Rhaenyra's smile faltered, her eyes narrowing slightly. She was unduly firm. "You speak too soon, Claere. You are a Velaryon and a Targaryen—power runs in your blood. You will learn your duty in time."

"And you'll have Luna on your side," Luke appeased her in vain. An unspeaking, fire-breathing beast for a companion. His tender heart did not hold a candle to his blind faith.

But Claere said nothing more, her expression as stony as ever. The distance between her and the life she was meant to embrace felt as vast as the sky beyond.

Cregan watched the exchange in silence, the chill in his chest deepening with each word. His worst fears were confirmed. Claere was a stranger, even to those who should have known her best. They spoke to her as if she were something fragile, something... unnatural.

A freak.

And now, she was his.

X

No one was more reluctant than Cregan to spend his first night with his new bride.

As far as obligations went, he had managed to ban the sickening tradition of a "bedding ceremony" from the occasion, much to the disappointment of some. The thought of parading the princess through a crowd of leering men felt like an abomination, yet even without that outlandish formality, he still felt the burden of duties and expectations ploughing down on him like an axe.

His familiar chambers felt chillier today, the fire crackling weakly in the hearth as Claere stood near the window, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. She was silent, as she had been throughout the feast, her face betraying little emotion. She refused to eat, revel in wine, or even speak. She had managed a quiet nod after well-wishes, sometimes pressing her lips tight to pass for a smile.

He recalled, with an involuntary tremble, the black rumours that had plagued him during the dinner. The mention of how his wife’s tastebuds were supposedly tempted not by the fine meats and ales of the North, but by the flesh of those who dared to covet a single glance from the Velaryon beauty. Fattened soldiers who sought her favour and found only their doom.

It was absurd, indeed. And yet, as he glanced at Claere, so still and detached by the firelight, Cregan couldn't shake the disturbing thought. What sort of woman had he brought into his home?

The distance between them felt more than just physical—it was as though she existed in another world entirely, one he had no access to. He didn't know what troubled him more: her silence, or the eerie calmness with which she met her fate.

As Cregan set down his ancestral sword and shrugged off his heavy fur cloaks, Claere moved to him with quiet resignation. Her fingers began to undo the delicate laces of her nightgown, her motions disconnected as if compelled by some unspoken assignment. The fabric slipped, gathering at her shoulders, poised to fall, when Cregan's voice broke the tense stillness.

"There is no need for that," he said sharply, cutting through the air between them, the words coming out quicker than he intended.

He stepped forward, his rough fingers gently, yet firmly, adjusting the cloth back over her bare skin. Every inch of paleness he touched was smoother than the silk she adorned, warmer than the ice-cold fingers he had held in the godswood.

Claere blinked, startled, her violet eyes searching his face for the first time that night. The vigour of that shade disarmed him for a moment before he looked away. Yes, she was his wife, but more than that, she was a mystery. And he was a man who distrusted what he could not comprehend.

"Rest. That is all for now," he added, softer now, the command awkward in his throat.

Claere scrutinized him still, her sharp gaze unrelenting as if she could unearth the truth behind his stoic mask. When she spoke, her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Is there another you hold dear, my lord?"

He sighed, sinking into a cushioned seat by the hearth. "No," he replied, his tone careful, meeting her eyes with conscious composure. "And you?"

A strange smirk flickered across her face, the barest twitch of her lips. "Everything I hold dear gave me away like a pawn on a board."

Her words struck him like a blow, twisting his gut with an uncomfortable pang of pity. He allowed for her loneliness as if somehow, he was responsible for it. Yet, a strange foreboding hung in the air and kept his response locked in his throat.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the flames, fists clenching against the armrests as the fire danced and crackled, its warmth doing little to ease the cold knot of guilt growing in his chest.

"I understand you favour peace and quiet," he began carefully, his words lingering in the space between them. "But would you consider sitting with me tonight?"

Claere, staring at the shadows cast by the firelight, turned her gaze to him. Her eerie eyes, unnervingly calm, gave no indication of her thoughts. For a moment, he regretted speaking.

The pause stretched, and Cregan felt the silence chew at his nerves.

"Why?" she asked finally, her voice as undisturbed as it was empty, as though the idea of companionship was foreign.

He hesitated, searching for words. "I thought it might ease... the strangeness of the night." His eyes flickered to hers. "For both of us."

Claere’s lips barely moved as she gave a soft hum of acknowledgement. The stillness in her made him wonder if she felt anything at all, and a deeper anxiety stirred in him.

Without answering, she crossed the room, her movements as fluid and graceful as a phantom. She sat across from him, her gaze never leaving the flickering flames. Even now, such a short distance felt insurmountable.

"Ask away, my lord," she said quietly, reading into him deftly. "I do owe you many answers."

Cregan’s gaze faltered as Claere contested, and for a moment, the heat of the fire did nothing to chase away the chill crawling up his spine. Something was unnerving about the way she stared at him, something impenetrable, as if her pale eyes held some ancient secret he wasn’t meant to uncover.

"Do you hear them?" His voice was low, almost lost to the sound of the crackling wood. "The whispers about you."

Claere’s expression remained unchanged, her face as still as a porcelain mask. "What do they say?"

"They say that I was a fool to take a girl like you," he said, keeping his emotions hidden. "A girl who walks in dreams, who doesn’t belong to this world. They fear you."

Her gaze did not move an inch, unaffected by his claims. "People fear what they do not understand."

Every rumour, every whispered story of her strange tendencies crept back into his mind, grinding at his resolve. The tales of oddity, rituals, and things best left unspoken—they clung to the air between them.

"Are you afraid of me, my lord?" Her question cut through the silence like a blade.

Cregan swallowed the lump in his throat, his heart lurching in his chest. He wanted to say no, to deny the concern that gripped him, but something in her gaze made him feel exposed, powerless in a way he had not been before. He forced himself to meet her eyes, but the intensity there—the dark, unfeeling stare—made him feel as though he were sinking into a frozen lake.

His jaw clenched for a moment, as though wrestling with the words he ought to say to her. He leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter, but no less intense.

"I will not be made to live in dread of my wife," he countered firmly. "Though, beyond question, those words waver my trust for you. Upon your integrity. Time will tell."

For the first time, a glimmer of something passed over her face—a brief crack in the mask. Hurt? Confusion? Whatever it was, it was fleeting. Claere tilted her head slightly, studying him from head to toe like one might a curious specimen. He shifted back into his chair, unease unfurling in his stomach.

"You should be afraid of me," she said softly. It wasn’t a threat, but a statement, as if she were merely acknowledging a truth he had yet to accept.

Cregan did not sleep a wink that night. His ancient sword, Ice, lingered closer to him than expected, leaning on his bedside. He laid utterly still as Claere slumbered gingerly, uncaring of the shadows that danced around her, like a tarrying chill that would not leave him alone.

As the sun crested over the horizon, spilling its golden light into their chamber, there was one thing he made certain: Cregan understood that his fear was not of Claere herself, but of what she represented—an unknown force that defied everything Winterfell was. Truth and unity.

X

As the days wore on, Cregan Stark found himself perpetually on edge, his mind halved between the secret suspicions that crept through Winterfell and the cold reality of his new wife. Claere moved through the castle like a careless sprite, floating just beyond reach, drifting from room to room, always apart from the people around her. She left a wake of uncertainty in her path, tales trailing behind her like a fog.

Scarcely did she remain grounded; more often than not, she soared into the skies with Luna, her dragon, a creature so tremendous that many in Winterfell whispered it had outgrown the older beasts of war—Vhagar's equal in size and perhaps ferocity. The sight of it, gleaming silver scales slicing through the frozen air, sent shivers through the keep. Claere’s infrequent appearances at suppers left the hall feeling incomplete, her absence punctuated by muttered resentments from the courtiers and smallfolk alike. The duties of a lady to Winterfell—tending to the hearth and home, overseeing the castle’s workings—were not simply ignored but utterly abandoned.

And yet, Cregan could not bring himself to care. As long as Claere caused no disturbance, as long as she kept to the law, she was no hindrance to him.

As it went, Cregan had not slept in her bed since their wedding night. In fact, they had barely spoken. Claere had quietly suggested moving to a nearby chamber, giving him "his breathing space," as she put it, and he hadn’t objected. He offered up the one with arched ceilings, for when she dabbled in her music, and nearest to the enclosure where her dragon was housed.

Her peculiarities deepened with every passing day. In the dead of night, her harp’s haunting refrain would echo through the passageways, its melody weird and hypnotic. At other times, he would hear her soft footsteps racing through the corridor, out into the courtyard, lost in her dreams until dawn. Most of his courtiers noticed her out on the ramparts after nightfall, laying across the roof—how she got there was a mystery—and staring at the sky for hours on end, speaking to herself. But most unsettling of all were the obscure songs she would hum—songs that danced on the edge of his consciousness, unnervingly poignant, yet cruel in the sweet voice they reached. As if she were singing of things far beyond this world.

Blood and shadow, ice and flame, Sing the tune without a name In the frost, their voices hum Of dead unseen, of eyes aglow Of footsteps deep beneath the snow Ice will crack, and winds will wail, Have you seen the end unfold, the secret that never sleeps?

Claere's songs instilled an image of the most unspeakable cold he knew, distant woods beyond the Wall, where horrors awaited, ready to engulf the unwary. Sometimes, the songs became too much, stirring a dread in him so deep he would storm down the hall, ready to confront her. But each time he did, within her room, like a figure of utmost naïveté, she went by weathering her own storm.

This time, she had ensconced herself by the hearthside, rent of her sleeves, weaving dried winter roses across a vine.

"Did I wake you?" she had asked up at him.

His words faltered. Rather a hollow noise whooshed out his lips, his resentment fleeing at the sight of her. How could someone so callow invoke such unease?

"The hour grows late, princess," he would reply stiffly, the reprimand hollow even to his own ears. "It would be wiser to find some sleep before the morn."

"I adore the night," she had said to him. "Without it, you cannot see the stars. There are no shadows, too."

Cregan had expected to hate her. He had expected to find her burdensome, a hardship forced upon him by duty. But he did not. Indeed, he endured her and accommodated her. As unfamiliar as Claere was, there was something fragile beneath the mantle of her mystery. He found himself unable to despise her, though neither could he truly be fond of her. A part of him, born of compassion, wanted to protect her from the world that had turned its back on her. Perhaps, buried beneath her oddities, she yearned for some semblance of a connection she had never known.

It was one of the handmaidens who had come to him, trembling with unease, to speak of her lady’s growing detachment.

"She barely eats, my lord," the young girl had said. "I fear she grows weaker by the day, surviving on little more than water and grain."

"Have you asked the princess what she would prefer? Surely, our larders are rife enough to sustain her... distinct palate," one of the lords from Cregan's council interjected before he could react.

Cregan shot him a sharp, warning glare. He had long since grown weary of the whispers—the looks exchanged behind his back, the way people averted their eyes when his wife entered a room. The court treated her as if she were a curse, a spectre they wished to avoid. It only stoked his resolve to defend her, to ensure she was not devoured by their disdain. Claere was different, but she was not an object to be mocked.

The maid shifted uneasily. "I have spared no effort in this. Though, there is another issue, my lord."

The Stark lord sighed. "Aye, go on."

"Her ladies have dwindled to nought. I am only charged to tend to her meals, if not no one."

Cregan's heart sank at the thought. He wanted to believe that Claere was merely adjusting to her new life, that in time she would settle. But with each passing day, it became harder to ignore the isolation tightening its grip around her.

"And what, pray tell, has come over them to spurn their service to the Lady of Winterfell?" His voice was low but the threat in it was unmistakable.

The handmaiden lowered her head, unwilling to speak the truth aloud, yet the answer was clear enough. Fear. The court, the smallfolk, her own attendants—everyone was frightened of Claere.

When his eyes bore into her, she hesitated whilst wringing her hands. "We see strange things where the dragon sleeps. My lady's songs... people say they hear them echoing in the courtyard when there is no one."

"These slights must cease at once," he hissed, his voice barely above a murmur, but the weight behind it made the girl flinch. "Claere is a princess of the realm, moreover your lady. Any who fail in their duty will answer to me. Am I clear?"

She nodded hurriedly. "Yes, my lord," she stammered, bowing before retreating from the hall.

And when the next issue reached him, it was, once again, centred on the most pressing concern: Claere's dragon.

"We are unable to feed the beast, my lord," a nervous steward reported, his voice trembling as he stood before Cregan. "The men refuse to go near it. Even the bravest among them say they hear odd noises from its holding."

Cregan's brow furrowed deeply. "Are they afraid of a dragon doing what dragons do—eat?"

"It's not just that, my lord," the steward began, his voice shaky. "We simply do not have the numbers to sustain it. We've lost livestock faster than we can replenish, and there is not enough game in the woods this season. Our people will be left with nothing if it continues like this."

Cregan stood from his chair, pacing toward the hearth as the steward’s words sank in. Feeding Claere's dragon was becoming a task fraught with superstition and suspicion—neither of which he could afford in Winterfell. And now that dragon was a looming menace not just for its size, but even for its insatiable appetite. If they couldn't meet its needs, there was no telling what havoc it might wreak.

"I will take her out to hunt on the morrow," a hushed voice spoke up from across the room.

Cregan turned sharply to see Claere standing in the entrance, her pale little figure silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. No one had even heard her approach.

A rush of murmurs, of "my lady" and "your grace", went across the sparse crowd in the hall.

For the first time, he noticed how discomfited she seemed with the attention on her. She had courteous bows for the little council of lords before she stood before Cregan, silvery hair left dishevelled and her thin lavender silks trailing by her feet. The toll of her attendant's dearth was evident, how she had to cope alone these past days.

“You heard all that?” he muttered to her, trying to mask the unease.

Claere nodded, unruffled. Then she mellowly addressed the rest of the council who was seated and the anxious steward.

"Luna will no longer be a burden to you," she assured. "Thereafter, I will fly her beyond the Wall. There must be plenty of wild herds there that would satisfy her. And it will keep her from Winterfell's rife supply for a time."

While the disparaged lord hung his head, Cregan's breaths began to constrict. The idea of Claere—of anyone—venturing beyond the Wall unsettled him, but the alternative was just as threatening. It was dangerous to let someone so young, so inexperienced roam in the ancient, Northern wilderness. The risks were too great, even for a dragonrider. His argument would be proved right by the last Targaryen who visited the wall, Claere's own great-great-grandmother, the Good Queen Alysanne and her dragon, Silverwing.

His gaze never left Claere as the lords around them voiced their concern, exclaiming how unwise it was for her to embark beyond Castle Black in such perilous times. Yet, she stood before them as cold and unbothered as ever, her violet eyes betraying no hint of fear or doubt.

"You plan to hunt beyond the Wall alone, as winter draws nigh?" Cregan asked, laced with tension. "You would risk that?"

One of his bannermen, old and discerning to the dangers of the North, came forth with an incredulous look. "A Southerner such as you would have no idea of the true perils beyond Whitetree, my lady. Five hundred years have passed since the last great threat, and still, we are not entirely certain what lurks in the darkness. If it isn't the cold that claims you, it might be wildlings or worse—barbed, spindly creatures, drawn from the blackest legends."

Claere tilted her head slightly as if the lord’s words were of little consequence to her. As if she knew something about the Land of Always Winter that he did not.

"Do not fret, ser," Claere replied, gentle yet astute. "Luna is fearsome when she needs to be. She is not just any dragon—she is the last living relic of Old Valyria, a mere egg when Aenar the Exile first claimed Dragonstone. She will protect me."

Her words should have been reassuring, but they left Cregan with a hollow pit in his stomach. It wasn’t her confidence in the dragon that troubled him—it was her complete lack of concern for the threats she would face. He had seen fear in men’s eyes before, but Claere’s violet gaze was barren, as though no amount of danger or uncertainty could touch her.

"You speak of Luna’s strength as if it is enough," Cregan finally said, his voice low. "But what of your own?"

"You needn’t concern yourself with my safety," she replied, her tone as impassive as her expression.

He studied her closely, weighing his options and her obvious solutions, searching her enchanting face for some flicker of apprehension. There was nothing. It irked him to no extent. Did nothing shake her? Did nothing put her off?

"I am the Warden of the North," he bit out. "Your safety is under my jurisdiction."

She shrugged one side of her shoulder. "Then it appears we have reached an impasse, my lord."

Her words were calm and detached, as though she were discussing the weather. Cregan's patience wore thin, his protective instincts clashing with her indifference.

He strode to her side, towering over her, his imposing figure blocking them from the view of the council. Claere leaned away, her eyes dipping down, her face contorting in disquiet at his proximity. Yet he pressed on, tucking a finger under her chin, forcing her gaze back to him.

"Don't," he tried to protest.

"Look at me," he urged, his grip tightening as frustration bled into his words. "I cannot risk you for something as feckless as a hungry pet. Do you understand me, Claere?"

Her gaze flicked up to meet his. For a brief moment, it was as if she were on the verge of revealing some hidden truth, some implicit fear or vulnerability.

"You do not risk me. 'Tis I who take the risk," she said, her voice painfully even.

Cregan's jaw clenched, his exasperation palpable as he released her chin, stepping back but still glaring at her. He could protect Winterfell, the North, and his people—but her? He was not so convinced anymore.

"Fine. Do as you wish," he surrendered. "Ride past the Wall."

She offered him nothing more than a parting curtsey as if she had already said too much. With that, Claere turned to leave the room but his words stopped her dead in her tracks.

"However, I will ride with you."

For a moment, she remained still, her back to him. Slowly, she turned her head, glancing at him over her shoulder. And finally—there it was.

A flicker of astonishment in her violet eyes. A break in the mask of indifference she so carefully maintained. Her lips parted, but no words came. Something deeper, more vulnerable, flickered in her violet gaze, a shadow of doubt or unease, quickly concealed again behind her calm facade.

"Why?" she asked, her foremost intuition to always suspect goodwill.

"It's not a request," Cregan replied, his tone brooking no arguments. "If you are to face danger, you will not do it alone."

Claere’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer before she gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Without another word, she turned once more and left the room, the heavy doors closing behind her with a quiet thud.

Cregan stood still, watching the place where she had just been, and where no one could see him, broke out into a triumphant smirk. This was it then, a game at which two could play. If she was a tempest, then he would be the steadfast mountain, immovable against the storm.

X

thank you for reading! idk how a taglist works but I'd love to hear your thoughts <3

[almondmilktargaryen]

Duty & Sacrifice (Part Three)

Summary: Aemond is married with two kids to Floris Baratheon, as it was his duty. But it's when he ventures into Flea Bottom in the night that he faces his sacrifices.

Couple: Aemond Targaryen/Fem!Reader

Category: Flangst

Content warnings: Mourning child loss (written by someone who's not a parent), lying

Word count: 4.6k

Also on my Ao3

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four ✍️

Just as when he left Flea Bottom, the guards do not look twice at Aemond as he walks through the Keep. They do not see his face, nor the two cloaks he wore (Criston gave him his to hide the blood). No, all they see is his boots as they bow upon passing. The only words they utter are, “My prince.” Aemond faces forward. His eye does not stray. And his head stays up.

He turns sharply after climbing the stairs, finding his chamber doors in the east wing. The guard outside mimics the expected behavior before Aemond pushes himself through.

Out of all things unexpected in one night, Floris being absent was jarring. She sticks to a routine, just like him. With the candles already snuffed out, the smell of smoke had been replaced by the open air from their balcony. She should’ve retired hours ago.

Perhaps the gods wanted to leave him alone after… all of it, reminding him how alone he truly was. Still, Aemond looks around, peering past corners and squinting into dark areas at the far ends of their chambers, straining his vision with the distance as he feels the chains in his chest. They weighed down his heart and lungs as he staggered and lifted the bedcovers. Caution camouflages with his grief and takes hold just as strongly. Floris could be anywhere.

The weight, the chains stacked on themselves. Aemond discards the cloaks and mixes them in their shared dirty clothes. The view of King’s Landing taunts him; the capital he once saw from a safe distance nearly two years ago. Even in daylight, the people were nothing more than specks of dust. None of them could hurt him. He never thought it would be the reason, once again, why he felt this way. It was only more proof that he has not changed, still stupid. Three and ten, self-loathing, and stupid.

Luc used to represent his self-loathing. Now he sees Alyssa.

She was warm whenever he held her to his chest, like the sun washing over the cityscape. She was a blaze as fiery as her hair. Now she’s snuffed out like the candles in his chambers, but this time far away from home.

Aemond grips the barrier of the balcony as he falls. The stone scratches his skin as he clings to it like a cliff’s edge, yet he sinks down and down. A heave escapes him, squeezed out of him as the imagery of it all floods back, every angle pouring in as he convinces himself there was something he could have done. Before the alleyway, before Chataya’s. Surely, there was a step he missed. He had to have, so he retraced it all while shivering, like winter was here.

The door creaked open, making Aemond’s head spring up like a deer hearing a twig’s snap. He plugged his grief, picking himself up in the shroud of darkness and rubbing his face.

“Aemond!” Floris’ silhouette is barely in view, but he still recognizes it as she pushes her bangs from her forehead. Her rapid breaths grow louder with each step toward him before she’s fully in the moonlight. She’s in her nightgown. The black one from her mother that matches her hair, both now in crumpled waves. “Where have you been? Daeron has been in a state demanding to see you.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

A hand remains in her hair, the other on her hip. “He won’t stop crying. A nightmare, maybe? I put him to bed hours ago, and the handmaidens said he woke up screaming.”

“I’ll go to him.”

“Wait.” A palm meets his chest, square in the center. “What’s wrong?”

Aemond stares into the dark of their chambers just above her head before falling to her blue eyes. It was wiser not to speak.

The tips of her fingers are cold as they brush under his eye. Her short nails barely scrape his unmarred cheek. The wetness shines under the moon as she turns her palm to him.

He pulled out his usual excuse, putting a hand over his patch. “Eye pain.”

“Eye pain?”

“Yes.”

“Your upsets usually force you to rest, not tears.” She observes the residue before wiping it on her gown. “I haven’t seen it this bad since Baelon’s last name day.”

“Well, it happened. It comes in waves. Or sometimes a moment’s fit.” Another way to cover himself in the future. He’s discovered grief rises in him at inconvenient times. Gods love to torture. “I can’t control when they occur, Floris.”

“I never said you could. I just—”

“I need to see Daeron.”

The children sleep in the west wing of the Keep now. After what happened to Jaehaerys, Aemond insisted their rooms be away from the royal quarters. He made sure there was a guard at their doors day and night. Jaehaera included. Tonight, however, there were two guards outside Daeron’s door, appearing dazed and confused. Yet they still had the sense to bow to their prince.

Aemond opened the door to find five handmaidens completely helpless. But like the guards outside, Aemond was also confused when finding his son not screaming. His body only bounces in place like he had the hiccups. His head was down and he gripped his little golden blanket.

“He’s tired out his throat, my prince,” one handmaiden says. Her voice shakes.

Daeron looks up when hearing the title. His little eyes are puffy from crying so hard, and Aemond’s heart, merely hanging by chords, can still twist in on itself as he watches his boy’s lip quiver.

“Leave us, please,” Aemond says.

“Forgive us, my prince. We tried our best.”

Daeron rubs an eye with the heel of his hand. “Papa, my… throat hurts.” His voice sounds like he swallowed gravel from the training yard.

“I’m sure, sweetling. Hold on,” Aemond turns his head to the group. “My son is thirsty. Please, one of you fetch him some water. Add some essence of nightshade to help him sleep.”

Their curtsies blend with their departure. The door shuts behind him.

The candle on Daeron’s bedside table revealed the redness across his face, hot and sticky with tears. Aemond walks to the foot of the bed. He’s careful not to let his weight go too suddenly, recalling the height difference this time between this bed and Baelon’s. He’s not hesitant though with stretching out his arms. “Come here,” he says.

Daeron springs from his covers, leaving behind the small golden blanket as he crawls into Aemond’s lap. He hugs him at the neck while Aemond holds him at the waist. It’s a long hug, something they both need. He smells like outside, earthy yet sweet. He lets himself feel the boy’s fragile ribs steadying themselves. His father was here now. There was no need to worry. So they took in air as they needed it—with ease. When he pulls back, Aemond grabs the spare handkerchiefs left behind. Daeron still sniffled, but refused to blow his nose. Aemond pinches it instead.

“What’s upsetting you so much?”

“Am I to be Lord of Storm’s End?”

“What?”

Snot dribbles on the handkerchief. “I had a dream.”

Aemond cocks his head. “Tell me about it.”

“I had a dream that… that we went to Storm’s End to see Uncle Royce. But I was alone. And-and—”

“It’s alright.” Aemond rubs his son’s back. “It’s alright.”

“You wouldn’t let me fly Morning. I couldn’t get back home.”

Aemond gave pause as he listened to Daeron. The boy’s lip quivers again as Aemond’s thoughts swirl, shushing his son as he remembers Helaena. Aemond clears his throat. He smiled down at his son. “I know what this is,” he says with an exhale. “Come with me.” He holds him close as he stands up, walking across the rooms to settle at his window, the other side of King’s Landing before them. Aemond used Daeron’s fleshy arm to point. “What’s that building there?”

“S-Sept?”

“That’s right. The Grand Sept. Your Aunt Helaena is there. You never got the chance to meet her.” He petted Daeron’s head, white fluffy hairs that swept to the front and covered his forehead. He looks back up at Visenya’s Hill. The sept’s cylindrical corners and golden domes draw eyes to the center of the city. One of them held three bejeweled urns with their ashes inside, and Aemond dares not sniffle. “She would have dreams like yours, except she would often be awake. They would overwhelm her all the same. We didn’t understand them.”

“What happened?” He doesn’t look up at Aemond when he asks, only straight ahead at the sept. Meanwhile, Aemond blocks the memories; gore and blood still trailed the back of his mind if he ventured far enough. His leg bounces as he exhales slowly through his mouth, sounding like a haunting wind. Daeron didn’t notice. Aemond couldn’t gather an answer. What could he say? His sister went insane. She killed herself. He found her on Maegor’s spikes. She blamed herself for something that was his fault, and he never got to apologize.

“She lost her sons in the last war. Your cousin Jaehaera’s brothers.”

“Were they soldiers?”

“No, no.” He’s perfectly between Jaehaerys and Maelor in age. The ages they remain for the rest of time. He skips that. “But she loved them so much, losing them was too much to bear for her.” He rests his chin on Daeron’s head, just catching the tear streaking down his cheek before it dripped onto his son’s scalp. Observing the sept again, he longed to be ignorant of such despair. He shook Alyssa from his mind (as best as he could) to come back. “That’s how I feel about you.”

Daeron relaxed a little, his back touching Aemond’s chest. “But what about—” he coughs. “Uncle Royce.”

Aemond ignored the name. “These dreams can be very vivid. About things we already know. Your uncle named you heir, so you will be Lord of Storm’s End one day, yes. But you will go when you are ready.” He kissed Daeron’s head, inhaling his scent as he tried sniffling subtly. “We will ensure your brother receives proper training in royal proceedings as king. Your mother and I will ensure you’re prepared as a lord.”

Daeron doesn’t speak. He picks at the leather of Aemond’s jerkin.

Aemond, in return, hugs him tight with both arms. He gets close to his ear. “You’re not leaving me for a long, long time. Is that what you needed?”

He finally nods. His little white sideburns tickle his nose.

“Good. Because it’s the truth.” He picks him up again. “Now, time for bed.” His sniffling boy buried his head into his neck as he cuddled close, his fingers wrapped around the back. It was painful to do so, he could admit, but he still pried him off. His fingers slipped off him like broken stitches as he made him settle back in bed. He was reluctant, but gave him the golden one, avoiding the black stag sewn in the corner. He kissed the boy one more time before walking to the door.

“Papa?”

“Hm?”

“Uncle Royce. Where is he?”

“I assume at home.”

“But in my dream, I didn’t see him there. I said I was alone.”

Aemond blinks rapidly. “Perhaps… you didn’t venture far enough to find him.”

He rubs the satin edge of the Baratheon blanket.

“He loves you very much, Daeron. He wouldn’t leave you alone.”

“I know. I just don’t feel like he’s there.”

Aemond said nothing, only watched his son. His purple eyes, swollen and exhausted, darted up at Aemond briefly. They eventually went back down as he pulled his bigger blankets over his lap. Aemond could feel there was something else there, more his son wanted to say. And Aemond, for all the love he bears for his children, didn’t want to hear it tonight. So, he slowly turns on his heels.

“Papa?”

He suppressed his curse. “Yes?”

“Was… Aunt Helaena… were all her dreams true?”

Aemond swallowed thickly as he saw his wife do hours before he left for Flea Bottom. The truth is painful to keep down as he hears Helaena’s voice speaking of rats, then Jaehaerys’ head rolling on the floor just hours later. Still, Aemond looks his son in his beautiful purple eyes as he sternly says, “No. Now go to bed.”

Daeron doesn’t move for a moment, but eventually lays down. Neither of them say goodnight.

Finally, Aemond exits and heads back to his room. Keeping his head up, he pushes down his anguish with each step. He’s not out yet.

Floris barely waited for the door to close before she pounced. “Where have you been?” She is now the starkest thing in the room, all the candles alight again and casting a deep orange across their chambers and she is as dark as tonight’s sky. Only her cream skin contrasted with her hair and attire.

“I told you,” Aemond said. “At a meeting with the City Watch.”

“Her arms crossed over her small belly. “For two hours?”

“Yes.”

“When have you had a City Watch meeting last two hours?”

“Just now.”

“Aemond.”

“Floris, please.” He walks past her, cornering himself on the damn balcony. He lacks the courage to even glance at the city, choosing the brush below instead.

“What did this meeting consist of?” Her voice gets closer.

“My business with the City Watch.”

“Our baby boy wailed for his father.” Aemond can hear the way she bares her teeth. “And wherever this City Watch meeting occurred in the Keep, you were nowhere to be found.”

“It was a meeting in the city.” He spat out the first retort in his mind. “A dire meeting.”

“What could be so dire that you could not tend to your own son?”

“Someone killed a baby.”

The brewing storm halted with a catch in her breath. Her suspicion, though, is still strong around her. Aemond could smell it like rain in the air. He didn’t speak further. Rather, he found the nearest chair and fell into it. The barrier’s small columns blocked the city, similar to a cell as he thought of the woman he loved near the Old Gate. He cannot tell which one is the prisoner, as he pressed his temple with two fingers.

Floris crouched in her gown. Her gaze was heavy as Aemond did everything to keep from letting unnecessary information slip from him. “We took care of the killer. That’s what matters.”

Floris’ pale hand meets the crook of his arm. A thumb doesn’t brush back and forth like it did when his mother succumbed to her fever. The other arm does not wrap him in closer like it did when his nightmares of war jolted him and woke them both. Her thick brows didn’t slant in sympathy. They were straight and stern. “Whose baby was it?”

“What?”

“Whose baby was it?”

Aemond rips his arm away, the leather of his sleeve squeaking sharply from her grip. “What relevance is that?”

“Because you’re a kinslayer.” It rolls off her tongue so naturally.

“I’ve told you not to—”

“It’s what you’re known for, Aemond. I don’t understand how one baby would concern you.”

Aemond slams a fist on the arm of the iron chair as he stands, turning his back to his wife before facing her again. “You know I lost my nephews in the Dance.”

“After killing another.”

“Don’t!” His fingers curl into a fist. It’s when his father crosses his mind that he throws the force against his hip and lets out a shaky exhale. “Floris.”

“With your brother’s bastards rotting in the alleyways, I just don’t understand the difference.” She picks herself  up, pushing with her knees  and holding her belly. Aemond doesn’t help her.

“Because she wasn’t a bastard.” He spits out the words. Another lie, but he doesn’t care.

“Then whose baby was it?”

The chamber doors groan slowly. Aemond doesn’t move from his wife, but refuses to answer. Even as he sees her anger boil her skin and streak her cheeks, he keeps his mouth shut and watches the doors.

“Forgive me, my prince. Princess. I do not mean to disturb.”

“Cole.”

Even in a tunic and linen breeches, he stands like he wears his Kingsguard armor: feet apart, hands collected at his front. No blood in sight, and his hair is disheveled as if someone tore him from bed.

“Leave us,” Floris snaps over her shoulder.

“Cole, what news?” 

He delays in reply, clearing his throat. “Once again, we require your presence, my prince.”

“With what?” Aemond slips around Floris before she can stop him.

“With, uh, burial arrangements.”

Aemond stood still, frozen.

“If the baby has a family, they can decide for themselves,” Floris says. “I don’t understand why such matters require my husband.”

“The family is quite… distraught, princess. As a mother, I’m sure you can understand the idea of such pain.”

Floris’ eyes falter slightly to the floor before glaring back at Criston

“The maesters have wrapped the body and prepared her for her final journey.”

“I’ll go,” Aemond says.

Floris snatches Aemond at the arm. “No!” Her heels skid on the stone floor.

“Do you wish to see the child’s body yourself?” Aemond snaps back at her. “For proof she’s real and your husband has a heart?”

He expected Floris to let him go, in every sense of the phrase. But her small fists only coiled tighter around his forearm. Everything hard about her expression fractured before him. The blue in her eyes glisten brilliantly as she shakes. “Please, Aemond.”

“It won’t take long, princess. I assure you. Your husband will be back soon.”

“Don’t leave.”

Aemond sighs. But he looks his wife in the face as he pulls his arm from her hold a second time. He walks to Criston.

“Please.”

It falls on deaf ears.

Neither speak a word as they make their way through the Keep, nor create any sense of urgency with their footsteps. The only ones who look them in the face are a number of Gold Cloaks, either nodding or appearing extra sullen.

They don’t exit through the front doors. No disguises with them now. Instead, the pair navigate through Maegor’s tunnels to find their escape, opening one (of many) secret doors. The scale of Aegon’s High Hill meets them, the white waves of the Blackwater and a bobbing rowboat just below.

“How did you do it? Is Alyssa—”

“Not now.”

Criston jumps down first, landing on a small area of flat rock. He scales down the small mountain with ease, and Aemond follows with enough distance to not disturb each other’s footing. They hug the jagged walls and Aemond keeps his eye focused down on his own feet, his impaired sight working against him more than ever, with only moonlight just barely revealing shadows here and there. Criston even turned around to help him with some of the hill’s slimmer edges, but he refused, wanting to retain his focus. Over time (and with an absurd amount of patience), they meet at the bottom. They let the steep decline guide them to the small beach, meeting the rowboat.

“We have paid some Gold Cloaks to act as alibis in case your wife wants to inquire. They have already spread the word to others.”

The pools of Floris’ Baratheon blue eyes stick with him. She barely faltered upon word of her father’s fall in battle, nor a tear shed at his funeral. She maintained a grace fit for an unmoving force like her. Yet it was Aemond who pushed her tonight. He pushed her to tears. “And the maesters?” He inquires while clearing his throat. “What you said back there, that was true?”

Criston stretches his arms out to steady the boat. “Watch your step,” he tells him. But before Aemond can even take a step, he’s holding out his hand. Aemond looks down at it.

“I can get in fine on my own, Cole.”

“Just…” He gestures again and keeps it out until Aemond reluctantly takes it, one palm meeting the other. Criston guides him in and continues holding tight as the wood creaks under his boots. He doesn’t let go until Aemond sits down, the boat wobbling. Then Criston steps in on the other side, the Blackwater just missing his ankles, rocking the boat all the same. He grips the edges as he steadies it before reaching down.

Even the late night couldn’t hide the bundle of white waxy cloth, the small bloodless being that he held himself just hours ago. He can still feel the phantom wriggling in his arms from her twin’s screams. Now she is here, still. Still and cold as Criston handed her over. But even as the wind blows, Aemond hovers over her to shield her from the chill. He whispers to her as he does.

“I asked Maester Orwyle to wrap her, so we have another alibi should we need it. With her… injury…”

Aemond traces over her eye. Where her eye would be.

“There was no reason to suspect she was anything but a peasant child.”

“And Royce?”

“The less you know, the better.” Criston then pulls their weight with the boat’s oars as Aemond’s fingers brush the outline of his daughter’s face. The noise of moving water surrounds them as he pictures her. He pulled her into the world first, and he never thought bringing his third child into the world would affect him as deeply as his first two. He never imagined she would leave the world the way she came: wet and screaming.

It wasn’t until Criston docked the boat on the other side of the bay that he thought about asking where he—they—were being taken. He still stood unsteadily when stepping out, eyeing the breathing mountain amongst the young trees: his Vhagar. White birds that were perched on her spine flew when she picked up her head. She doesn’t yawn as she normally does when she wakes up, leaving Aemond to wonder, again, just what they’re doing here.

She peers from her high vantage point, neck fully stretched out as her acid green eyes peer at them both, watching them trudge through the brush of her dwelling. She sniffed the air harshly, sounding like a long hiss if Aemond wasn’t looking. Criston continues pushing the vegetation aside (as he had clearly done before, given the faint imprints of feet in the lush grass). It’s not until they make a circle around her that he sees the pyre; a shadow of dry black timber. Thick logs made the foundation as smaller sticks crossed each other to make the bed.

“She was a Targaryen,” Criston says. “She deserves a proper sendoff.”

Aemond clings to the cloth, securing her against his chest as if he is concealing her under his cloak all over again. He stares at the stick bed, and Vhagar lying behind it. Her chest rumbles, something like a hum that causes the earth to tremor under them. Her neck cranes down for a closer look, and Aemond can see the slashes in her pupils as he feels the creaking of her ancient joints when she tries standing.

“Lykirī, Vhagar.” Aemond tries adding some force behind his High Valyrian.

She doesn’t listen. One foot forward, and the ground quakes. Roots and leaves shiver. The length of yellow teeth come into view as she takes another sharp breath.

“Lykirī!”

Still nothing. Her snout is inches from his forehead as her sniffs are smaller and more rapid. Her pupils drop to his chest, then back to him as she nudges him. Aemond has to step back to replant himself, but doesn’t order her to be still. His hold on Alyssa remains firm, closer to his chest than her mouth. She closes her lips, and the vibrancy of her eyes disappears when they do the same. Aemond’s forehead meets her snout, and Vhagar is silent as Aemond keeps his sobs down. He clenches his teeth hard and his jaw already aches from the tension.

Eventually, Vhagar steps back, leaving Aemond to walk to the pyre. He was not sure how long it took him to get there. Neither Criston nor Vhagar spoke. The strain from his temples to his eye, and now his jaw, made every step feel glacial. But eventually he did. He couldn’t imagine the sticks being more comfortable than that cot, but he didn’t pick her back up. He swallowed the snot and bile, meeting in the middle of his throat as he stepped back. Criston stood next to him. Vhagar looked at him.

“Dracarys.” He orders it as pathetically as he did before.

Again, she doesn’t follow him. She opens her mouth with no dragonfire. Her massive head twitches to one side, looking at him as she did the first time he ordered her to fly at Driftmark. But just as Aemond can feel the ache in her bones, she can feel the chains in his chest.

Neither of them wants to do this.

Aemond takes a breath, swallowing something like courage. “Dohaerās, Vhagar! Dracarys!”

Her head drew back with another hiss and her pupils thin out before her eyes close. Her neck curls back and she stretches her jaw. It’s always slow. Even the green color that lights up her mouth. He would be convinced that the pyre lit at the same speed, but Aemond fell into the grass; his knees giving in like the wood did under the intense heat.

Criston is still there as Aemond sobs freely, the sounds of it drowned out by the cracks of sticks and logs. He holds Aemond tightly as he buries his face into Criston’s shoulder. “It’s beautiful,” he tells him. “She’s ascending to the heavens where she belongs. No one can hurt her anymore.”

Aemond blocks his nose in the cloth of Criston’s shirt, sucking in air through his mouth so he doesn’t smell any of it. He remembers how Helaena wailed when she held Jaehaerys, his body limp and the blood soaking into her dress. The woman he loves screamed the same way. The cry of emptiness, a gaping wound inside. Aemond doesn’t have the lungs to scream like that. He just thinks of Helaena on the spikes. “I have to go to her,” he finally says. He pulls away, and Criston’s silhouette is nothing but a bleary shadow. “I have to before—”

“You know she doesn’t want to see you.”

“It doesn’t mean she won’t need me. We still have a child to take care of.”

“She has a child to take care of. You have three. Two of them are here. Another will be in the coming months, and your wife does not need the extra stress of questioning your whereabouts.”

Criston now sandwiches Aemond’s face between his hands. He doesn’t scream at him, but the force of the bones in his hands is hard against his skull.

“Don’t make me build a pyre for your fifth child, Aemond.”

His voice catches in his throat. Neither mother of his children wishes to see him now. Helaena once felt the same, but Aemond’s mistakes called him and Aegon to war, leaving her to grieve on her own. He turns to the pyre, a green haze that occasionally spits at the sky. The smoke burns his nose, making his eye clench shut against the sting. In that darkness, he remembers his mother and the knife to Rhaenyra’s eye. She understood sacrifice. And it was now his turn.

Criston stands up. His outline is still blurry and black, but Aemond can just see his hand outstretched for him. “Your family needs you.”

Aemond remembered his role. And he took Criston’s hand.

Taglist: @paprikaquinn @immyowndefender @teal-anchor @dixie-elocin

[cod-dump]

What would happen if Price got contacted to say his mother or father had died? Would he care? Would he go to the funeral? Would he simply pretend he never saw the letter?

Even worse if someone else found the letter first.

previous

more richborn Price? hell yea

___

Price getting mysterious letter in a PO box he had long forgotten about. It had a hand written name on it, it was familiar, an upon opening it he spotted a name t the bottom, signed off elegantly. One that made his heart almost stop.

Amelia Victoria.

She left out the surname, certainly knowing he would throw it the letter out upon sight of it alongside a name that wasn't his own. He would've crumpled it up by now, but he didn't. All previous attempts at contacting him was from his parents, his siblings had never reached out. Never.

His brother simply didn't care to, he had everything to gain from Price not being present. Of course it had to be Amelia, she was the only person Price would ever considering listening to. It had to be her.

Price stuffed the letter back into the envelope, not bothering to read anything beyond his sister's name. He didn't have the energy for those people, his sister included. It was his own fault, leaving himself open to their attempts at communication, cruel enough to never answer and cowardly enough to never have it in him to respond.

He could disappear, they never would be able to find them. But he never did it.

He threw the letter in the trash as he walked out of his office. If the janitor didn't have the trash dumped by morning then he'd consider reading it.

Of course it wasn't left in the trash.

Price was nursing a morning cup of tea, still waking up when Ghost walked into the lounge. He had a look in his eyes, guilty but also a bit miffed. He looked at Price before he walked over and sat across from him. No words were spoken as he took out the letter and dropped it on the table.

Price felt his eye twitch at the sight. This wouldn't be the first time Ghost had poked around in his trash, Price knew he should've shredded it upon discovering who sent it. It was his own fault for being weak, for being open to reading it.

"Your mum's dead."

Price felt his heart drop, almost dropping his mug. He shakingly put down his tea, breathing as he looked away. Ghost's eyes widened and he looked even more guilty.

"You didn't know."

Ghost spoke upon the assumption he had read it. Of course, he wouldn't have said anything otherwise.

"She's-"

"I'm sorry."

Price took the letter, trying to not rip and tear as he opened it. He skimmed over the words until he found the passage mentioning his mother's death. He was supposed to feel something more than a numbed dread. He was a child who learned his mother was gone, why wasn't he feeling more than this? The shake in his hands wasn't enough, there should be more emotion.

Price honestly didn’t feel much as he read his sister's letter, describing their mother's last moments and the funeral they would have. She wrote as if she already knew he would never attend, and there wasn't any blame. Just sorrow and understanding. Sorrow, it didn't feel enough.

His dear mother, might as well have not been there at all. He vividly remembered her faraway stare, like her spirit wasn't even present. She used to be much more alive when he was much younger, while she was pregnant with his brother. She argued with his father with determination, no fear. Then... it just went away. She never showed much emotion after she became pregnant with his sister. Their father had full reign of the household, of their children.

He wondered if she died that way, numb and absent minded, allowing their father to have his way until the bitter end.

"John?"

Ghost didn't like his silence, probably didn't like the lack of a more earnest reaction. Price never told him about his family or upbringing. Never told him he joined the military to get away from them. Any judgement he was receiving was deserved. Ghost clung to his family when he had them, he loved them fiercely.

"I probably should tell you a few things about me... and keep all of this between us, yea?"

Ghost nodded while watching him carefully. Price really didn't want the others to learn about this, learn everything about him he frankly didn't want them to know.

[kiame-sama]

Dragon headvanon guy here again because a few more dropped into my head (also sorry for the typos, I'm not used to my phones big keyboard yet xD also 100% relate to you on the plushies, I have a big collection on my.own and love them with all my heart)

1. Most if not all Creatures love to be pet, it's common to see children & sometimes young teens being pet by their parents, older siblings or close friends. The older they fet the less likely they get petted tho, older Fae's and long lived Creatures tho remember that Humans would pet anyone who allowed it with great joy.

2. We know that Humans are seen as Peackeepers (or Beast Tamers) but I like to headcanon that they are also a symbol of Loyalty in many Kingdoms. Some older Creatures, like Lilia even remember Humans going through great dangers or sacrificing themself for their Pack.

An old Rumor has it that one of the Great Seven was actually once pack bounded with a human who sacrificed themself for them. (It would be an intresting idea if it was Scar and after he died many mistook the Human Sacrificing themself for him as him killing them & eating them. But you guys can go wild with this one)

3. Angry humans were a raresight to see and most only learned how dangerous humans could be once a Creature attacked a child and had to be send to a hospital after the Parent of said child got their revenge. It's also at that point that many learned how dangerous a human bite can be thanks to the bacteria in their mouth (that information sadly got lost to time though)

4. This is the last one for now, promise xD A lot of Kingdoms who were safe for humans, would have human daycares where they would watch over the Creatures kids. It was something unheard of since a lot of Creatures dont trust their young and rather weak children around others they dont know (and sometimes even close friends & family couldn't get close to the child without nearly being mauled.)

But it was a bit sucess and since it was free, low income familys would adly send their kids there to get food and have a chance at making friends. Some daycares even allowed sleepovers for Creatures who worked during the night, kids who were night active or those who weren't picked up because their parents worked late.

Sadly after humans went extinct these establishments were shutdown.

Ok one last one, this one is for the Fleur City; It's belived that humans created the Bell as a gift to the Rightous Judge who them upon getting this gift enchanted the Bell to ring in a specific tune when a human entred Fleur City.

Legends say that once the last human in Fleur City died and they went extinct as last that the Bell rung in such a sorrowfull way with the Rightous Judges cries that the spirit of the last Human in Fleur Ciry granted him a last gift. The Firelotus, so that any Magical Creature who dares to harm an Innocent Creature will be punished by humanitys judgment.

(No worries about the typos, I'm pretty bad about it too)

I'm down for all of these actually. Absolutely love how some canon things can so easily fall into place with just a little adjustment and work so wonderfully in an AU all its own.

I can see almost all of them wanting to be pet and of course hoping the soft human will pet them. Rook's already been pet by those little Human hands and he is already hooked. I could absolutely see Jack and Ruggie going nuts for petting. Lilia's already made it clear that group grooming is common so petting would likely be too. Maybe that's the Human's way of returning the grooming behavior to make Lilia sleep? Lilia has already petted Grim.

The last Human Lilia met was the surrogate mother of a young fox fae child and he will be forever haunted by how injured she was and still standing, unsure how long she must have fought to keep her young safe. Lilia had arrived near the end of the poor Human's desperate battle, stepping in himself but it was quite too late for the Human mother. He took in the child and raised them himself in Briar Valley, Silver is not the only child the old fae has taken under his wing. Lilia knows the sheer drive humans have to protect those they truly love because he saw it firsthand and he knows better than to mess with little Grim regardless of how much fun it would be. No need to upset the Human.

Humans were quite good at taking care of others young and many had a natural proclivity to protect infants regardless of what species it was. Humans aren't really all too threatening, so many mothers of the more protective species didn't feel that threat to themselves or their young like they did with other species or even their own family. Many are quite manageable as children and almost harmless, meaning the soft Humans could take care of them with no problem.

To make a world of magical creatures tremble in fear is a mighty feat and one only the fire lotus could achieve. After all, so many looked down on humans for their lack of magic, why not suffer the same fate for those who brought Humanity to heel?

[kikyoupdates]

For Tomorrow's Sake ⭑˚💫⭑ 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡'𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒

various!jjk x f!reader

reverse harem, isekai, jujutsu kaisen x fem!reader, slowburn

You never believed reincarnation was possible, least of all in the fictional world of Jujutsu Kaisen. However, from the moment you meet Gojo Satoru, it’s impossible to deny. Whether it’s a miracle or some kind of curse, you find yourself growing up alongside the strongest jujutsu sorcerer. Unfortunately, you know what the future holds in store. You know exactly what kind of tragedies await. Perhaps that’s why you were brought into this world. If it means saving people from a gruesome fate, you’ll gladly suffer in their place. You’ll do whatever it takes. All for the sake of a better tomorrow.

prologue | story masterlist | next

When faced with the demands of the strongest sorcerer, your family can’t possibly protest. Well, not that they would have wanted to, anyway. They must be happy they don’t have to deal with you anymore. 

Out of sheer spite, your mother insisted you live with the rest of the clan and be forced into a life of cruelty and discrimination, but even she would never dare defy Gojo Satoru. Besides, her wish has already been fulfilled. You still won’t have a shot at a normal life. Even if you had been given the right to choose for yourself, now that you’ve met Satoru and discovered what world this is, there’s no way you would ever take the easy way out. 

For better or worse, you will be a jujutsu sorcerer. 

True to his word, Satoru was able to convince the Gojo Clan members to let you stay with them. You’re not sure exactly what he told them, but he may as well be their deity. Granted, he’s still only a kid, but in the grand scheme of things, bringing in a single girl to stay at the estate isn’t that big of a deal. It isn’t a difficult request to fulfill. Based on the way everyone turns up their noses at the sight of you, however, you can tell they aren’t too happy about it. 

“No one here will ever hurt you,” Satoru promises. He keeps glancing over at you every few seconds as he leads you through the grounds of the estate—which is massive, might you add. He’s a lot more attentive than you were expecting. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re a weak, helpless baby bird. Which you might as well be, in all fairness. 

You nod and smile brightly. “Okay. Thank you, Satoru. I’m really happy to be here.” 

“Are your injuries really painful?” he asks with a frown. “We don’t have anyone here that knows how to convert cursed energy into positive energy. But if I try asking, maybe they can reach out to another clan and bring someone over to heal you.” 

“You don’t need to go to the trouble. I’ll be okay.” 

Satoru watches as your grin somehow gets even wider, despite the fact that the bruised, swollen parts of your face must be aching uncontrollably. He’s not sure why you’re always smiling so much. It’s not like you ever had any reason to smile. Not with how horribly your family has always treated you. 

Then again, that’s exactly what drew him in. Your warm, sunny disposition, which is so starkly different from what he’s used to. Even if it doesn’t make much sense, a smile suits you. He likes seeing you smile. 

He’s already decided that he’s going to protect that smile of yours.

You’re given a nice place to stay. Satoru insisted that you live in the same building as him. It’s obvious that he wants to keep you nearby, in case anyone dares to try anything. Although you’re willing to bet that they won’t risk upsetting him. Not when he’s made it clear that you’re off-limits. 

It’s kind of crazy how much power and authority a literal child has. 

Gojo Satoru is in a class of his own. The details of his upbringing were never openly disclosed in the anime or manga, but you know for a fact that he didn’t have anyone he could truly call a close friend. Not until he met Suguru. 

You may be hopelessly weak for now, but if nothing else, you’ll make it so that he never has to feel lonely.

That night, you settle into your big, spacious room. You didn’t bring anything along with you for the move. It’s not like you had any personal belongings to speak of. Certainly nothing valuable, either. Your new room is a bit empty right now, save for a few decorations here and there, but you resolve to brighten it up and make it your own. All in due time. 

Before you tuck in for bed, Satoru stops by. 

“Hi,” he greets, poking his head into the room. “You don’t mind if I come in for a bit, right?” 

“Of course not,” you smile. “Go right ahead.” 

He nods and steps inside. There’s a clan member waiting by the doorway, and they flash you a brief glare before turning their back towards you and sliding the door shut. As expected, you’re far from popular. They probably think you’re just a hindrance, or maybe even a distraction. You’re not sure if they’ll ever change how they feel about you, but it’s definitely better than staying with your own family. 

Besides, as long as Satoru likes you, that’s more than enough. 

“Is this room okay?” he asks, kneeling down onto a cushion. “If you don’t like it, I can get you a different room instead.” 

“It’s perfect,” you reassure. 

“Really? You can be honest. I can tell that you’re the kind of person to hide how you feel because you don’t want to upset anyone else. I already know your dad is the one who beat you, but it didn’t look like you were going to rat him out.” 

“I just didn’t want to stir up even more of a fuss. Besides, seeing other people get hurt won’t make me feel any better. I’m happy enough just to be here. Again, thank you, Satoru. For helping me.”

You sure like to thank him a lot. He’s not really used to being thanked—for anything, really. He’s being trained and brought up as the strongest sorcerer. It’s a given that he’s meant to save and protect those who are weaker than him. But you don’t take any of that for granted. You’re never shy about showing your appreciation. You want him to know how much every one of his gestures means to you. 

He likes that. He likes it a lot. 

“If it’s alright, I’m going to try and go to sleep now,” you say. “I’m pretty tired. I can hardly keep my eyes open. Oh. Did you want to spend the night in my room? Like a sleepover? Would you be allowed to do that?” 

Satoru blinks. The invitation catches him off guard, and he watches as you pat the spot beside you, on your futon, still smiling brightly. 

He turns away in a hurry, cheeks red. 

“I-It’s fine,” he stammers. “I should sleep in my own room. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. It seems like you are, so… I’ll leave now. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” you happily reply, but Satoru is already out the door, nearly tripping over his feet in the process. 

You giggle at the sight. He’s so adorable. You can’t even express how happy you are to be here. The future may look grim, but you’re determined to change it, no matter what it takes. 

That night, you dream of a world where Gojo Satoru is saved. 

“Satoru. Here, try this. I made yummy rice balls for us to eat. There’s a secret ingredient inside. Can you guess what it is?” 

Satoru reaches out and takes a rice ball into his hands, furrowing his brows as he looks it over. As far as rice balls go, it looks pretty normal. It’s actually rolled up really neatly. He’s surprised you made this yourself. You did a pretty good job. 

“Secret ingredient, huh?” Satoru shrugs. “Sure, I’ll try it.” 

He takes a big bite, and although he’s not really sure what he was expecting, it definitely wasn’t this. 

“Gross!” he exclaims, immediately spitting it out of his mouth and onto the ground. He then proceeds to stare at the inside of the rice ball he just bit into. “Did you… you actually put chocolate inside of this? Disgusting! What’s wrong with you?!”

You frown. “What, you mean you don’t like it? I actually think it’s pretty good. I was sure this combination would be a hit.” 

Satoru watches, horrified, as you bite into your own rice ball, smiling all the while. There might actually be something wrong with you after all. He’s starting to realize that you’re slightly unhinged. 

“Remind me not to eat anything you make ever again,” he shudders. 

“I’ll pick something better next time, don’t worry. Oh! How about this? What do you think of rice balls stuffed with ice cream—” 

“No.”

This is what most of your days look like. It’s been just over a week since you arrived at the Gojo estate. Your injuries have almost fully healed. Also, you’re no longer required to do chores at virtually every waking moment, so whenever Satoru isn’t busy with training, you spend all of your time together.

Satoru has to do a lot of different things. It’s not just honing his jujutsu abilities, day in and day out. He isn’t allowed to slack off when it comes to academics, either. It’s clear that his family intends for him to be perfect in any way possible. They refuse to let him settle for anything other than the best. 

It’s a lot of pressure for a kid. Satoru makes it look easy, but nevertheless, you feel sorry for him. Which is why you always try to make sure that he’s having fun when he’s with you. You want him to have some semblance of a childhood, at the very least. 

Of course, you still can’t grant him the freedom you wish he had. It’s always inevitable that someone gets in the middle of your time together. 

“Master Satoru. It’s time for you to work on your studies.” 

One of his usual attendants comes to pick him up. Satoru clicks his tongue in visible annoyance, but as always, he doesn’t protest. He has a strong sense of duty and purpose. A determination to uphold his responsibilities as the strongest. 

Before he leaves, though, he turns back towards you. 

“I want [Name] to come with me today,” he says. “She can at least sit in the room while I’m doing my work, right?”

The attendant blinks. He’s bewildered, of course, and you’re not sure what else to do but bat your eyes at him with a bright, hopeful expression. You may be weak, but you’d like to think that you’re a pretty cute kid. It’s about time someone developed a soft spot for you. 

“She’ll distract you,” the attendant refuses. He narrows his eyes at you in frustration, so apparently, you’re not that cute.

Satoru pauses for a moment, then grabs you by the hand and pulls you close. 

“I want her there,” he insists, interlocking his fingers with yours. “She’s coming. I’ve already decided.” 

“Master Satoru, you can’t—” 

Too late. It seems like he’s in an awfully stubborn mood today, so for better or worse, you find yourself in the same room as him while he has his lesson. 

It’s a bit awkward. Satoru told you to sit right next to him the whole time, and although he doesn’t allow himself to get distracted, it still feels weird to be sitting in on a private lesson. While the teacher glares at you the whole time, no less. 

“Do you know what the answer to this question is?” the teacher asks, pointing to one of the questions in the textbook Satoru is learning from. 

Satoru chews on the inside of his cheek, deep in thought. “It’s… B. The answer is B.” 

“Sorry. I’m afraid that’s not correct,” the teacher says. She scribbles something down onto a piece of paper. “It’s alright. That was an exceptionally advanced question, so I can’t blame you for—” 

“It’s C.” 

To be honest, you didn’t mean to voice your thoughts aloud. It was a reflexive, absentminded remark. The answer was just so obvious that you ended up blurting it out. 

But now, both Satoru and the teacher are staring at you in bewilderment.

Satoru turns towards the teacher with a frown. “Is she right?” 

“...yes,” the teacher replies, looking somewhat reluctant to do so. “But it was a multiple choice question, so I’m sure it was just luck. Let’s move on to—” 

“[Name], what about the next one?” Satoru asks, pointing towards another spot on the page. “Try answering this one, too.” 

So, you do. You don’t just answer that question, but the next one, and the next one after it, and the next one after that, and so on and so forth. The teacher looks both amazed and horrified. Even Satoru can’t seem to hide how taken aback he is. They’re both staring at you like you’ve been hiding this incredible intelligence all along, when really, you’re kind of cheating. You died when you were sixteen years old. Satoru is incredibly smart for his age, but even taking that into account, your years of lived experience give you an obvious advantage. 

Still, you have to admit, it feels kind of nice. Finally being acknowledged for something, that is. 

Satoru’s lesson ends, and you can see the teacher whispering to the other Gojo Clan members about what just happened. Their eyes all widen in shock as they glance your way. They believe you’re ‘gifted’ all of a sudden, and while it doesn’t mean much for a jujutsu sorcerer, at least they might think a bit more highly of you from now on. Maybe they’ll finally approve of you being by Satoru’s side. 

“I didn’t know you were smart,” Satoru admits. “To be honest, up until now, I thought you were kind of dumb.”

“...oh.”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” 

“Is there a good way to be dumb?” 

“I just meant that you seemed a bit dumb, because of how straightforward and simple you are. And you’re nice to everyone, no matter how badly they treat you. You’re easy to take advantage of, so… yeah. I thought you were dumb. Sorry.” 

Satoru chuckles sheepishly. You snort in response, amused by his uncharacteristic shyness. You suppose it doesn’t really matter whether people think you’re smart or not. From the moment you were born, it was clear that you would have to defy everyone’s expectations. You’re going to have to work harder than most in order to prove yourself. In order to have a chance at saving people.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Satoru remarks. 

“What thing?” 

“It’s a thing you do sometimes. You drift off, and even though you’re usually smiling all the time, your face will get all serious for a few moments.” 

“Oh. I guess I have a habit of getting lost in my thoughts. Sorry. I just really want to get stronger. I end up thinking about it a lot.” 

Satoru doesn’t know how to respond to that. It’s strange that you’re so fixated on improving yourself. He’s the strongest, so of course, there’s a heavy burden upon his shoulders. He has to be the best. It’s both his birthright and his destiny. There’s simply no way around it. 

But as for you…

Come to think of it, do you actually need to become stronger? 

He’s already decided that he’s going to protect you. Even if he hasn’t known you for very long yet, he likes having you around. There’s no reason why he can’t look after you. It’d be nice if you got stronger too, he supposes, but it’s not like you’d ever be stronger than him. With him by your side, your future is already assured. 

Which is why it’s weird. There’s this urgency and desperation he senses from you, almost constantly. It’s not like your family is around anymore. And even if they ever tried to take you back, he wouldn’t let that happen. 

And yet, you’re still determined to become stronger. It’s almost like there’s something you’re not telling him. Something more than just a simple desire to prove yourself. 

…then again, maybe he’s reading into things too much. 

Word travels fast, and soon, pretty much everyone in the clan has discovered that you possess intellect far beyond what they imagined (not really, but whatever, you’ll take it). Satoru keeps insisting that you be allowed to sit in on his lessons from time to time. They reluctantly allow it, and sometimes, you even help answer some of the questions he has—instead of the teacher whose literal job it is to do so. She doesn’t seem to like you very much, unfortunately.

One night, as you’re preparing to go to bed, Satoru stops by your room again. 

He does this a lot. He usually makes a point of saying goodnight to you before he goes to sleep. It’s adorable, and it warms your heart to see that he’s starting to care for you so much. Sometimes, you still can’t believe this is the life you’re living. 

You were expecting him to poke his head into the room before exchanging a few words, as usual, but this time, he turns up with a futon of his own. 

“I’m sleeping here tonight,” he declares. 

You blink. “Oh. You got permission?” 

“Yes. They whined about it a lot, but I said I didn’t care. It’s not even a big deal. You said before we could have a sleepover, right? Unless… you changed your mind.” 

He averts his gaze, looking a bit bashful. Perhaps he’s worried that you’ll refuse. Although you’re not sure who in their right mind would turn away this adorable little sweetheart. 

“I definitely didn’t change my mind,” you grin. “I’m always happy to have a sleepover with you. We can stay up all night telling each other scary stories! I know a few really good ones.”

“Why would I be scared of some stupid stories?” Satoru brushes off. “I’ve already exorcized all kinds of cursed spirits. And none of those were scary, either. I’m too strong to have anything to be scared of.” 

“You’re just saying that because you haven’t heard them yet. You act tough now, but I bet you’ll be crying later.” 

Satoru rolls his eyes as he lays his futon down next to yours. He doesn’t think much of it at first, but once he’s lying down, facing you, and when he realizes just how close the two of you are… he’s embarrassed to admit that his heart starts beating a bit faster.

“If this is weird, I can leave,” he mumbles. 

“It’s not weird at all. Like I said, I’m happy you’re here. Ah. You’re not just trying to come up with excuses so you don’t have to hear my scary stories, right? I see right through you, Satoru. You’re not sneaky.” 

Satoru laughs. It’s a pleasant, melodic sound, and you hope you’ll be able to hear it more often from now on. 

Before you can start telling your stories—you really do have some good ones you’re excited to share—Satoru scoots in a bit closer, then gently places his hand down on top of yours. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and since you’re not sure what he’s referring to, you just frown. “I mean, it’s okay if you’re not strong, because I’m strong enough for the both of us. Before, I said I’d be your friend if you showed me how you planned on getting stronger, but… it’s fine. You don’t need to do that anymore. I’ll still be your friend. I don’t care if you’re weak or not. So, don’t worry about what anyone else says. I’ll stay with you no matter what.” 

Through the dark of night, you can’t tell, but he’s blushing profusely right now. He feels like he just said something really cheesy. But he’s not going to take it back. He doesn’t regret it. He means it wholeheartedly. 

You, his first ever friend, are irreplaceable. 

More time passes, and as much as it pains you to admit, you still haven’t gotten any stronger. 

While Satoru is busy training, you do the same. You try your absolute hardest to make some kind of progress, and yet, the changes are minimal—if any. It’s as if your body simply isn’t cut out for this, which is a bitter irony. To think that you’ve been reincarnated into a world where you have the potential to do a lot of good and help a lot of people, but your weakness is holding you back. 

The knowledge you have is invaluable. You know that. Even if you’re not all-powerful, you still have the ability to make a difference. But this is Jujutsu Kaisen. A world in which death isn’t just possible; it’s more common than surviving. If you don’t have any way of protecting yourself and others, who’s to say you’ll even last long enough to save everyone? 

It hurts. You hate being weak. You hate that your efforts yield no results. Unlike in the real world, where people can usually make up for talent or skill through sheer dedication and hard work, here, your fate may as well be sealed. 

“Not like that,” Satoru says, shaking his head. “Do it like this.” 

He proceeds to give you yet another up close demonstration of his cursed energy at work. He flattens several pop cans in one fell swoop, while you’ve been struggling to do the same to a single one of them. 

You exhale tiredly. “Stop saying it like it’s second nature. You have better control of your cursed energy than anyone else. I can’t possibly compare.” 

“Well, I don’t really know how else to explain it,” he shrugs. 

Your shoulders slump. A while ago, you had your sixth birthday. Which means it’s been slightly more than a year since you’ve gone to live with the Gojo Clan. A whole year, and still, you’re as weak as ever. You know it’s still too early to give up, but it’s hard not to feel discouraged when you have Satoru by your side, and every day, you’re reminded of the fact that you’ll be helpless to change his fate if this continues. 

“You’re getting upset again. Even though I keep telling you that it’s okay if you don’t get stronger. You have me. You won’t ever need to be scared.” 

Satoru smiles and wraps his arm around you, pulling you into a loose hug. During your time together, he’s become a lot more cheerful and expressive, which is of course due to your influence. It makes you happy to see, and you’re overjoyed that he cares about you to this extent. If you didn’t know what the future holds in store, you would’ve been more than willing to sit back and let him protect you.

He doesn’t realize that he’s destined for an early death. He’s so sure of himself, so confident in his strength, that he doesn’t even consider it to be a possibility. Which is why you do need to become stronger. Even if he doesn’t understand why. 

You hug him back for a few moments, then pull away—much to Satoru’s disappointment. 

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To train some more. I already talked to one of the clan members earlier. They agreed to help teach me. Reluctantly, but still.” 

“But we’re supposed to be having a lesson together soon,” he says, making a point to pout at you. 

You smile weakly. “Sorry. I’ll be there next time. I just… can’t afford to slack off. If I keep working hard, then eventually, something will give.” 

Of course, as you expected, your supervised training session doesn’t go much better. You can see the clan member repeatedly rolling their eyes at your lack of talent. The only reason they’re helping you at all is because Satoru insisted they honor your requests. 

Once again, you’re left feeling hopeless and deflated. You wonder if you’ll ever see any improvement, or if you truly are beyond salvation. Destined to be so weak that you can’t protect a single person. 

Not even your dearest friend. 

You stare down at your feet, gaze glassy, and for a moment, it feels like you’re about to cry. Isn’t there anything you can do? Anything at all? Some kind of trick that will allow even a weakling like you to have a fighting chance?

Some kind of… trick? 

All of a sudden, your eyes widen. 

Since meeting you, Satoru’s life has become a lot more fun.

He enjoys having you here. He never thought it would make that big of a difference, being able to spend time with a kid his own age. And not just any kid, but someone who’s taught him how to smile, laugh, and appreciate simple moments he used to take for granted before. He’s glad he made the decision to visit you again that fateful day. If he hadn’t done that, every day would still be just as monotonous and boring. Every day would be unbearably predictable. 

Satoru can never predict what you’re about to do next. It’s strange, because at first glance, you seem like a simpleton, but you always manage to find new ways to surprise him. 

Like right now, for instance. 

“[Name],” Satoru calls out. As always, he knows exactly where to find you. He can tell everyone’s cursed energy apart, and although yours is scarce, it easily stands out the most to him. It’s comforting and familiar. He’s fully committed it to memory by now, and if he wanted to, he could write a whole essay describing it. 

It doesn’t take long for Satoru to find you. For some reason, you’re standing in place and staring off into the distance with a vacant expression. You’re also holding something in your hand. Is that… a knife? 

“[Name],” Satoru repeats. He frowns as he steps closer to you. “What are you doing? What’s the knife for?”

You don’t respond at first, but then you turn towards him, in a rigid, unsettling manner. Your eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them before. Even your lips are slightly parted, as if something has you in awe.

“I understand now,” you mumble breathlessly. 

Whatever it is that you understand, Satoru definitely doesn’t. He’s unbelievably confused. And seriously, what’s with the knife? It’s starting to freak him out. 

Satoru knits his brows together. “What are you talking about? You’re being weird. Also, put the knife down before you end up hurting yourself.” 

“Okay. But first, let me show you something.”

You take a hurried step backwards. Satoru still doesn’t understand what’s going on. You’re never this cryptic. It’s throwing him off, and for some reason, he’s getting a bad feeling about all this. 

That bad feeling turns out to be right, because moments later, he watches as you drag the sharp end of the knife across your skin.

“Don’t—!”

Satoru cries out, but it’s already too late. There’s blood everywhere. It’s a deep gash. A serious injury. You’re wincing, looking lightheaded from the pain, as if you’re about to pass out any second. Satoru instinctively knows he has to get help, and yet, he’s too shocked to move. This has never happened before. He’s never watched someone get hurt in front of his eyes—someone he cares deeply about—and been helpless to do anything about it. He’s the strongest jujutsu sorcerer. A special, chosen existence. But right now, all of that feels pointless, because you’re in pain, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. 

“It’s okay,” you breathe out. “Just… watch.”

Satoru is about to cry out again, more desperately this time, but suddenly, he sees it. 

Your body is… healing?

It’s true. The gash on your arm, the one you just inflicted with the knife, has already fully healed. You pause for a moment, then wipe the blood off your skin, so that he can see more clearly. Sure enough, it’s gone. There’s no trace of the wound that was there a second ago. Almost as if what happened just now was a figment of his imagination.

“Reverse cursed technique,” Satoru mumbles in disbelief. “You… when did you learn how to do this? You never mentioned it before. And I didn’t notice any changes in the flow of your cursed energy, either.”

“I learned it just now.” 

“What?” 

“A few minutes ago. Before you came to find me. All of a sudden, I just knew how to do it. The knowledge appeared in my mind.” 

Satoru frowns. Something isn’t adding up. Converting cursed energy into positive energy is a very complex technique. Few individuals are actually able to pull it off. Even he doesn’t know how to heal himself. But such an ability was able to manifest in you? He supposes it’s not impossible, but given the nature of your cursed energy, and your overall lack of skill… it seems unlikely.

“I wanted to become stronger.” You pause for a moment, then shake your head. “Sorry. I needed to become stronger. So, I did. I wasn’t sure if it would work, but just now, I was able to confirm it.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I think you already suspect it. That I didn’t obtain this ability naturally. I was frustrated that nothing was working, no matter what I did. I just couldn’t seem to improve, regardless of how hard I trained. So, I… took a gamble. I made a Binding Vow.” 

Satoru blinks. “A self-imposed vow?” 

You nod enthusiastically, but it still doesn’t make any sense. Would someone really gain the ability to use positive energy through a simple vow like that? It’s the first Satoru’s ever heard of it. And since healing is a rare, valuable power, most people would love to get their hands on it. If it was that easy, surely everyone would opt to do it, one way or another.

Once again, Satoru has a bad feeling about this. 

“I already knew that by imposing restrictions on yourself, through a Binding Vow, it’s possible to increase your cursed energy and empower your technique,” you say. “I wasn’t sure if it would work for me. Converting cursed energy into positive energy is complicated, after all. I knew I had to make it a pretty serious restriction, in order to have any chance of succeeding. Even then, it still might not have worked.”

You pause yet again, while Satoru’s breath hitches in his throat, and the next second, you’re smiling brightly, like always. 

As you utter the most horrifying words Satoru has ever heard. 

“In exchange for gaining the ability to use reverse cursed technique, I’m never allowed to use my cursed energy to harm anyone else, whether it’s a human or a cursed spirit. And if by some chance I do… I’ll die. Instantly.”

Satoru’s jaw drops open.

“...what?!” 

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[starzzmissthesun]

i think you should totally drop whatever hc/ideas you have lying around honestly...i would love to see more into ur brain...pls <33

:DD

Hi!!!! Sorry this is a little late, I got so distracted with an animatic im working on(😈) and then a stupid essay😭😭 being honest rn... Almost all of what I've been thinking about is my fic.. 😔

But!! I can still go a little into that without spoilers. I've finally figured out The Perfect ending for this story that I feel fits with the overarching themes I wanted to tell. I've been making sure that every little detail fits with the themes I wanted to show, I wanted it to overlap Regulus and barty's characters and their overarching themes with PD. I also didn't want to just replicate PD cause I feel like that doesnt have the depth or commentary I want to out into it. Idk ive always thought it's super fun to put everything as some sort of symbol or metaphor or foreshadowing. I'm like literally so close to being done drafting and then I can actually talk about it a little more😭

Anyways! I've also been thinking about barty post regs death 😔(when am I not) But more specifically how every memory he had would almost be tainted, everything now would have an air of questioning and unsureness. Even memories where Regulus isn't there, just wondering where was he? What was he thinking? Am I remembering this right? What could've I changed? What was the domino that caused all of this to happen? Eventually finding it hard to accept the way it really was, having the "I guess it was" and feeling it, but overintellectualizing it. His logic and reasoning is his downfall in this situation, that's what makes him go crazy. (Side note I NEED to make a little post about his intersection between intelligence and madness) Hes doing a complicated version of when there's a task that seems so simple that you think it's a trick, but it's not, it's just that. What happened with Regulus was just that.

Also, I've recently self reflected and realized that a lot of my barty characterization is similar to how I think of Leonard Cohen's art(who I LOVE LOVE LOVE) Idk if you've listened to him or read any of his work, but I HIGHLY suggest it, it's perfect for fall. Anyways, a lot of his songs and poems carry themes of having a twisted self image, not completely self deprication though it may seem, but something else. It's closer to understanding and knowing that you are. Different. And unconventional. It's an uncomfortablility he has with himself. Being soemthig twisted from what you should've been. A lot of his stuff is also to do with tragically losing someone, out of their own choice, and still feeling very loyal yet bitter. Also of loving something so much that it turns dark, or it goes too quick, it spirals. Also his love songs are very barty's perspective on bartylus to me. And like, obvious war mentions. I could give some specific recs similar to barty or them if you'd like.

Another thing is of Regulus and his relationship with his dad. Though I see it completely reasonable if his dad was just kind of, not there and neglectful, it could give very interesting implications to his character, I like it the other way around. Orion seeing what a more carefree attempt at raising a child does and keeping Regulus even closer than he did before. I think Orion always liked Regulus more, despite him being the second, because he was a model son. I don't think he wanted this life or even to have kids, so Regulus being so complacent and in line with what he was supposed to be as a pure blood made him the decided favourite(as much as he could have one). He was always keeping a close eye on Regulus and he could feel it, but he didn't do anything out of place anyways. Orion could tell when he was even thinking something he wasn't supposed to. I believe that, no matter how much she tried, walpurga was too caught in her own head about her duty as a mother to see S+R as anything other than Her Kids, as property that she was supposed to care for and tend to, she obviously loved them, but couldn't see through them. But Orion was there around every corner looking through regulus' eyes into his soul to search for any thing out of his perfect kid.

Anyways.... That's all I can think of rn😭 but if you have questions about ANY of them lmk!!! I love yapping about my little thoughts 😁😁

[magicalmanhattanproject]

okay i have to talk about my obscure blorbo fíriel ondoheriel. literally no one cares about her except me. not even tolkien cares about her. she has Zero canon traits. no personality, no physical appearance, not even a death date. here's what we know about her

in 1940 TA, Arvedui, then-prince of Arthedain* marries Fíriel, daughter of King Ondoher of Gondor, uniting the two realms after a long estrangement

[loads up Tolkien Gateway to cross check dates] HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS

in 1938 TA, Aranarth, eldest son of Arvedui is born. Now, if we're being real with ourselves, Jirt made an oopsie here and no one caught it. But, no one caught it and the only numbers we have are Aranarth, son of Arvedui, is born in 1938 and Arvedui marries Fíriel in 1940.

So, like, what's up there? Did Arvedui and Fíriel meet before their wedding and elope? Was Aranarth born in Gondor and hidden to protect Fíriel's reputation? Or did Fíriel have to make an excuse to stay in Arthedain and hide her pregnancy and then abandon her child until a proper marriage could be arranged? Was Arvedui married to someone else first and a widower? Was Fíriel a second wife and a stepmother to the real heir? Was Aranarth a bastard and Fíriel brought in to produce the real heir? Had Fíriel ever left home before? Did she have any feelings about being sent away from her whole family to be a queen for a man who already had an heir? Did she have a child she had to travel with? That she was desperate to reunite with? That she wanted nothing to do with? Did she love travel? Hate it? How did she feel about Gondor? Arthedain? We don't know. Tolkien doesn't care.

Anyway, back to what I already knew about.

in 1944 TA, Ondoher and both his sons are killed in the invasion of the Wainriders.

How does Fíriel feel about this? What's her relationship with her father like? Her brothers? Presumably she has a mother in there somewhere too? We don't know. Tolkien doesn't care.

Now, the doozy.

later in 1944 TA, Arvedui sends messages to Gondor claiming the throne both as a descendant of Isildur and as the husband of Fíriel, who would have been ruling queen according to Númenorean law.**

How does Fíriel feel about that? How does Fíriel feel about claiming the throne of her father and her brothers and her homeland through her blood for himself? We don't know. Tolkien doesn't care.

This is the last mention of Fíriel in the text. We don't know what happens to her after this. Maybe she trips and falls down the stairs the very next day. Maybe she lives a long life and dies of old age in her sleep. We don't know. We know what happens to her family though and it's not pretty.

Arvedui ascends to the throne of Arthedain in 1964 with the realm already struggling under invasion from Angmar. In 1974, the Witch-King invades and captures the capital of Fornost. Arvedui escapes to the Ice Bay of Forochel where he is aided by the locals over the bitter winter. Aranarth, a young man at this point, gets word to Círdan that his father is stranded there and Círdan sends a ship to bring them aid. When the ship arrives, Arvedui wants to leave immediately, but the locals warn him against leaving, saying that the Witch-King's power wanes in the summer and the bay is too dangerous.

Let's backtrack a moment. The name Arvedui means "last-king" and was given to him at his birth by Malbeth the Seer. Though, the seer said, "a choice well come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become ruler of a great realm."

Arvedui does not. He takes the ship Círdan sent, which is sunk in an ice storm. Arthedain falls. Aranarth becomes the first Chieftain of the Rangers.

There's one last piece to all this. Name meanings. Tolkien likes them. I was looking through canon name meanings for OC names and I decided to check Fíriel out and I got fucking flashbanged.

See, something you gotta remember about the descendants of Elros is that a lot of them resent his choice. It's said that the line of Gondor failed because the kings were too busy contemplating immortality and their ancestors to look to the future and have heirs of their own. That's maybe not fair to the kings whose lines failed, but it's certainly a trait they all share.

So, what does Fíriel mean?

Mortal Maid

Look at everything else about her and everything that happened to everyone she loved and realize that she was born to the name She Will Die

How did she feel about that? We don't know. But I want to.

*The northern kingdom of Arnor had long ago split into three kingdoms. Arthedain is the one from which the eldest and true line of descent from Elendil continued. The other two had already fallen by this point.

**For the record, Ondoher was the 31st king of Gondor and somehow the issue of a ruling queen has not been litigated before now. Not a single time in the past 30 generations has a daughter been the eldest child or only available heir. That... stretches plausibility. This is easily explained by Tolkien forgetting that women exist until they become immediately plot relevant, but it certainly gestures in the direction of things about Gondorian kings that are rather unflattering.

[seedlings-stuff]

Beneath the Surface - Chapter 1

Tommy Shelby x Female Reader

Tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, angst

Word count: 1.8k

Decided to write a mini series! Please let me know what you think so far x

(Y/N) sat comfortably at the kitchen table, cup of tea warming her hands. Across from her sat Polly, listening intently as (Y/N) filled her in on her growing relationship with William. (Y/N) thoroughly enjoyed kitchen catch-up chats with Polly, especially now that William and her were spending much more time together.

She had practically grown up in the Shelby household with the Shelby boys. When they all left for France, (Y/N) stuck around with Ada, keeping Polly company and looking after John’s young ones. Aunt Poll had become the closest to a mother figure she had ever had.

As she poured her heart out about her confusing relationship with William, she could see that Polly disapproved, and it was apparent why. He was a copper and had only arrived in Birmingham a few months ago. She had met him on a night out with Ada, and while caught off guard, she was immediately captured by his charm. Not once before had she successfully been asked to dance, not with Tommy Shelby consistently over her shoulder. But she didn’t care that evening, fed up with Tommy’s cold behaviour towards her. She had decided to have some fun.

That fun had now grown into a rapidly progressing relationship with William, one she struggled to keep up with. Recently, he had asked her to move in with him; this is what she was discussing with Polly.

“I’m just not sure if I’m ready, Poll.” She lowered her eyes to the steaming tea, feeling its warmth through her hands. “I mean, it feels too quick.”

Polly’s lips pressed into a thin line. “So why do it?”

She also knew that the move would mean less time with the Shelby family; William lived on the outskirts of town while she currently stayed only a street away from the Shelby’s.

(Y/N) hesitated. Because he wants me to. She shrugged, forcing a small smile. “It’s just... everything’s moving so fast.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to love; you should know that,” Polly reassured.

“Yes, but you should see his home! It’s a castle compared to my old flat.” She laughed. Admittedly, a part of (Y/N)’s attraction to him was his comfortable life. Formally a sergeant in London and from a decent family, he had enough money to spoil her with new dresses and beautiful floral arrangements regularly. Growing up poor in Birmingham, she had rarely seen this wealth before.

“I just feel like it’s too soon, you know?”

“Well, if you decide to stay with him and it’s not for you, you will always have a bed here.” Polly reminded her, careful not to be too obvious with her disdain for the man while remaining supportive.

“Thank you, Aunt Poll,” (Y/N) replied, relieved. Glancing to her watch, she gasped, standing up from the table. “I'd best get going. I’m meeting William for dinner soon, and he doesn’t appreciate my tardiness”, (Y/N) huffed.

Polly embraced the girl, then paused. Sensing something, (Y/N) broke the hug, and a questioning look was thrown at Polly as she placed her hand on her belly.

“Did you know you’re pregnant?”

~

The dinner with William felt like a blur, each bite of food turning to ash in her mouth. Her mind raced, replaying Polly’s words over and over. She needed space, a moment to breathe, to truly absorb the weight of it. How could she be carrying a child when she felt so unprepared for the future? But William’s eager gaze bore into her, demanding her attention. He wanted to know all of the details from her tea date with Polly.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, darling,” William said softly, reaching across the table to take her hand. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” she lied, stomach twisting. No. The truth was, ever since Polly’s words, she didn’t know what to think.

She moved her food around her plate, stalling.

“We just talked about womanly things”, she half lied, hoping to get him to change the subject. She didn’t want to tell him just yet. If she struggled with the idea of moving in with him, how could she have his baby?

“(Y/N), are you unwell?” William pried, concern washing over his face.

“No, I’m fine,” she replied a little too harshly. He looked hurt.

“Have I done something, darling?”

Yes, you have, she thought. “No. Sorry, it was just a long day looking after the kids.”

He stroked her hand, her anxious fidgeting calming. “You know, when you move in with me, you won’t have to go to work, right?” She took a deep breath, trying to focus on the soft touch of his hands. There were too many decisions to be made.

He searched her face, prying with his eyes. “Why don’t we go somewhere for a drink once we finish up here?”

~

William and (Y/N) walked side by side into the Garrison. She had suggested they go somewhere else for a drink, knowing that Tommy and his brothers would most likely be there, but William insisted. She was too tired to argue.

The lively chatter of the Garrison greeted them like a wave as (Y/N) stepped inside, but the warmth of the atmosphere did little to ease the tight knot in her stomach.

As soon as they had entered, (Y/N) felt a cool stare from across the room. She was correct; Tommy Shelby and his brothers sat at their table in the corner. They were all looking at William and herself, but the stare that she felt bore into her the deepest belonged to Tommy.

“Shall we go and say hello to your friends?” William inquired. (Y/N) couldn’t help but feel like he was showing her off as he strode towards their table. “Evening, gentlemen,” William spoke, nodding at Tommy. He stared back. “Evening, William,” replied John. As William left to buy himself a drink, John slid closer to (Y/N).

“He’s a brave one,” spoke John. (Y/N) threw him a questioning look. “Coming here with you. Showing you off like his prized horse.”

“Shut up!” (Y/N) laughed, hitting him on the shoulder. “Seriously though,” he whispered. “Look at Tommy. He’s fuming.” “There is no reason for him to be”, she whispered back. “I can make my own decisions. Even if he doesn’t approve”.

As William returned, he brushed his hand along the small of her back, moving her towards him.

The evening progressed, William consuming noticeably more alcohol than (Y/N) was used to. He tried a few times to buy (Y/N) a drink. She kindly refused, citing her ‘tiredness’. Towards the end of the evening, as she pushed away yet another glass of gin he’d bought for her, he jokingly mumbled, “You’re not pregnant, are ya?”. (Y/N) winced at this, although he didn’t catch her reaction, wandering off to the bathroom for the third time.

(Y/N) looked around her. She was always at the table with the Shelbys, but tonight something felt different. She didn’t feel a part of the family. It’s not like she wasn’t welcome; it was quite obvious that he was the cause of some unspoken tension.

Looking away from the direction William went, she found Tommy staring at her again. They had barely spoken for the past few months; he seemed to have drifted away from her as soon as she became close with William. She was frustrated. Why could he not be happy for her or treat her like he did before the war? Like a friend?

As if he had read her thoughts, he walked up to her. “I haven’t seen you dance yet tonight”. This was the first thing he’d said to her in weeks.

“William’s not much of a dancer”, she replied, coyly.

“Oh, I thought that’s how he caught your attention?”

It was true. Despite William’s charming moves when he first swindled (Y/N), he hadn’t had much time for dancing since.

“Would you care for a dance?” Tommy asked, holding his hand out to her. She was taken aback. “Oh, I don’t think that William…” she stuttered. “Just a quick dance then.” Tommy interrupted, taking (Y/N)’s hands and moving her onto the floor.

(Y/N) giggled as Tommy and she began to sway to the music. She did miss this. A lot. (Y/N) almost tripped on a fallen glass, but Tommy gracefully steadied her. “I thought you weren’t drinking tonight,” he teased. “You need to stop watching me like a hawk, Tommy. I’m okay.” “As long as you’re happy,” he said reluctantly.

“Sorry!” She gasped, laughing as she accidentally stood on his foot. Tommy took her in. If she was happy, then maybe he should just let her be. Tommy lightly stood on her foot in response. “Tommy!” she giggled. Looking up, (Y/N) was surprised to find a rare smile on his face. As they swayed, the world around them faded into a soft blur; the music wrapped around them like a warm embrace, grounding her amidst the chaos of her thoughts.

As the song ended, Tommy released (Y/N) gently, their hands lingering for a second too long.

Tommy’s expression suddenly turned cold once more. Feeling a hand on her lower back, she turned around to find William breathing down on her.

“Enjoying yourself?”

His tone was pleasant, but the sudden force of his hand at her lower back startled her. She stiffened involuntarily. His breath was warm against her cheek, laced with the scent of whiskey. “I thought you were feeling tired, darling.” His smile tightened as he leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur. “Or was that just an excuse?”

His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her face, his smile from seconds before vanishing. What the hell? She shot a glance back at Tommy, confusion welling up inside her. “William?” she murmured, genuinely taken aback. She cringed at the way he grabbed her wrist. He had never manhandled her like this before. He never…she recoiled slightly as his fingers dug into her wrist, his eyes flashing with something unfamiliar to her.

But it was Tommy’s stormy gaze that caught her attention, a flicker of concern and something darker passing through his eyes as William’s grip tightened.

“I’m sorry, Tommy,” William slurred, almost cheerfully. “I think I’ll have to take this one home. Not feeling well, apparently.” He tugged on her arm, and for a second, she stood rooted, frozen with shock, before she let herself be pulled by him towards the doors of the Garrison.

She glanced over her shoulder at Tommy, a silent plea in her eyes. But he stared back unmoving, unreadable apart from a clench of his jaw as William led her away. (Y/N) couldn’t help but feel that that she was being pulled away from a safety net she never knew she needed.

part 2

[aolwherekewlzhaxorzare]

This is all crazy amounts of irrelevant now, weird chance, but.

Jahar Tsarnaev and I have genuinely seen eachother in real life, he sat on MY childhood couch and I've been in the same room in my own home as him. I talked to Jahar as a child more than once. Him and my mother used to smoke weed together, I'm freaking the fawk out. She gave me an anecdote about him after I said something about "the boston marathon bomber" where she referred to him by first name without me refreshing her, and I have multiple relatives who can confirm when and where he's been in my former house when I was in the single digits. Not only that, but he was present and involved in the situation for one of my weirdest childhood memories. She answered very strangely specific personal questions I had about him so I could guise how close the two were.

I HAVE MET THE BOSTON MARATHON BOMBER PERSONALLY!

[blackenedsnow]

Heyy, if you’re comfortable doing so could I please get some Beetlejuice x fem!reader who’s a single mom? Just pretty much him being soft and comforting letting her know she’s doing a good job etc? Thank you in advance 💕💕💕 can be a proper fic or headcanons I’ll let you decide xx

beyond it

WARNING: References to the stress of single motherhood

PAIRING: Beetlejuice x Single Mother! Reader

NOTE: I absolutely loved writing this!! I hope you enjoy this, and thank you so much for the request 💕💕

SUMMARY: Beetlejuice surprises you by being a source of comfort, helping you see that you’re doing better than you give yourself credit for.

It was late—too late for you to still be up. But as a single mom, you didn’t have the luxury of falling into bed as soon as the day ended. No, there were dishes to clean, laundry to fold, and tomorrow to worry about. And of course, your child had woken up twice already, needing reassurance from a nightmare.

You were running on fumes, slumped on the couch, your face buried in your hands. It felt like all you ever did was work. Just when you thought you could finally close your eyes and sleep, your thoughts picked up again—worrying about what needed to be done tomorrow, whether you were doing enough, whether your child was okay.

“Hey, dollface, rough night?”

This fucking guy.

That voice—raspy, familiar—cut through the fog of exhaustion like nails on a chalkboard. Beetlejuice. You didn’t bother looking up. He was probably lounging in his usual spot, perched on the armrest of your couch with a stupid grin plastered on his face.

"Go away, BJ," you muttered half-heartedly. "Not tonight."

The ghoul groaned dramatically. "Aw, come on! And here I thought we were past the whole 'piss off, Beej' stage of our relationship." You felt a cold presence next to you, then his hand—decaying yet surprisingly gentle—lightly brushed your shoulder. "I mean, after all the times I’ve stuck around, don’t I get any appreciation?"

You exhaled sharply, finally lifting your head. "Appreciation? For what, exactly?"

"For being a goddamn delight, babes!" Beetlejuice beamed, leaning back against the couch and spreading his arms wide. "For hanging around when no one else does. Gotta say, not a lot of folks could handle a single mom with your level of stress."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't hide the tiny smile tugging at your lips. "If by 'hanging around,' you mean constantly being a nuisance, then yeah, sure."

Beetlejuice chuckled, his voice rough yet oddly soothing. His eyes, usually wild and manic, softened just a bit as they focused on you. “Ah, you love it. Don’t lie, babe.”

You shook your head, sinking deeper into the couch. "I’m just… tired, Beej. I'm really tired."

For once, he didn’t launch into another sarcastic quip. Instead, Beetlejuice shifted closer, his body language relaxed but attentive. “Yeah, I know. I can see it. You’ve been runnin' yourself ragged for, what, weeks? Months?”

Your eyes welled up, but you quickly blinked the tears away. “I just… I feel like I’m not doing enough. There’s always something I’m missing, something I should be doing better.”

Beetlejuice’s hand rested fully on your shoulder now, his touch surprisingly solid. "Oh, come on, you're killing it out here, babe. You think your kid’s got it bad? They've got you. And lemme tell ya, you’re doing a hell of a job. Better than most."

You glanced over at him, surprised by his sincerity. "Really? You think so?"

“Are you kidding? Babe, I see it. I see you juggling work, taking care of the kid, making sure they're happy. And yeah, it’s messy and chaotic, but guess what? They're fine. They're happy, ‘cause you’re busting your ass for 'em.” He leaned in a little closer, his expression for once free of mischief. “You’re doin' more than enough."

His words hit you hard, in a way you hadn’t expected. You didn’t know why, but hearing it from Beetlejuice—someone who you never thought would care about anything—meant something. It eased the tight knot that had been sitting in your chest all day.

“I just don’t want to mess them up,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. “They deserve better than… than this.”

"Whoa, whoa, slow down there, sweetheart." Beetlejuice’s voice softened. He slipped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close. “They've got you, and that’s more than enough. You’re not perfect—who the hell is?—but you're trying. And that's what matters. Trust me, when they grow up, they're gonna see that.”

You allowed yourself to lean into him, resting your head against his chest. His suit smelled like a mix of dirt and decay, but there was something oddly comforting about the way he held you, like he was actually trying to be there for you, to support you in his own weird way.

“Hey, tell you what,” he said, his voice low. “Next time you feel like crap, I’ll stick around. We’ll cause some shit together, huh? Might help take the edge off.”

You chuckled softly, wiping at your eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”

Beetlejuice grinned, but it wasn’t the mischievous, cocky smirk you were used to. It was softer, almost tender. “You’re doin' good, doll. Don’t let anyone—including yourself—tell you otherwise.”

You looked up at him, and for the first time since he’d shown up in your life, you realized how much you appreciated him. Not just as the obnoxious ghost who wouldn’t leave you the fuck alone, but as someone who—despite his crude humor and questionable ethics—actually cared. Maybe not in the typical way, but in a way that mattered.

"Thanks, Beej," you whispered, closing your eyes as you let the exhaustion finally catch up to you. "I mean it."

Beetlejuice stayed quiet for a moment, just holding you close. "Anytime, babe. Anytime."

[chiropterancreed]

lestat: unfortunately is a father. whether or not he's a good dad is up for interpretation, but he's always ready to father some forgotten kid. claudia? evil of his evil, his pride and joy. rose? loves her so so much, adopts her and gives her a better life than what she could have without him. viktor? highly unexpected child kept secret from him, but you know what lestat does Not do? leave a kid behind. look at this boy, he's three inches taller than lestat and he's never met him a day in his life, but that's his son now and always will be. (not to mention the countless bastard children he might have fathered when he was a mortal man - being the 18th century nobleman through and through, unfortunately).

louis: father is his assigned gender, but he definitely is more of the nurturing figure. becomes a mother whether he intends to or not. he's here, there's a sad lonely child, well, there's no other place he'd rather be. claudia may have not have been the smartest choice but he loves her all the same. rose and viktor were surprises, but happy ones none-the-less.

armand: does not have children, does not want children and should not be left alone with them. he's a better friend to children than parent. please, dear god, don't let him parent.

[frankenkyle19]

I’ve Always Been Right Here

this is a little fic I wrote about Peter and Erik actually discussing everything because the movies suck and never let us see them have any sort of father/son relationship :(. I’ve been obsessed with dadneto lately so like obviously I had to write this. And sad Peter :( but it’s okay because it’s a happy ending! This takes place after Apocalypse where Erik ended up staying or whatever idk :/ the x-men timeline scares me and I try not to think too much about it. Enjoy!

word count: 1.7k words

Charles had been pushing both parties involved to talk about it. Little encouragements here and there because unbeknownst to Peter, Erik did know that he was his child. Had found out a while ago from Charles himself and decided not to say anything. He had good reasoning but was sure Peter wouldn’t see reason in anything once he found out he knew and hadn’t come to talk to him about it. The poor kid was just as stubborn as he was. 

Charles kept pushing the two of them together. Probably thought he was being helpful but really he was not. The atmosphere between them was always tense, the both of them walking on eggshells around the other, careful with what they said. It was awful for both of them. All the other X-men noticed it too. 

Finally one night after dinner at the mansion Peter had had enough. Him and Erik were the last two at the table to clean up and he thought about it all for a moment before it just became too much and he picked up his plate, slamming it down so hard against the wood that it broke in his hands.

“I’m your son! There, dammit I said it! I’m your fucking son. Remember now? Leaving my mom while she was pregnant because you were so scared to have a family. You left her to figure it all out on her own! And where were you when I needed to learn how to ride a bike or throw a football?! You weren’t there! You’re my father and you’ve…” Peter’s voice broke as he blinked rapidly, trying his hardest to avoid tears as years of anger and resentment flew from his mouth without any warning. 

“You’re telling me you didn’t know? When I broke you out of the Pentagon you just…” He trailed off, shaking his head as he paced back and forth. He had half a mind to punch the stupid son of a bitch right in the face, but he didn’t.

“You never wanted to find me? Weren’t interested in seeing how your kid turned out? Well here I am. HERE I AM!. I was waiting to see how long it would take you to notice but I guess I gave up.”

Silence fell between the two of them, both refusing to look at each other. 

“Peter…” Erik started, trying to de-escalate the situation which was almost comical. He’d never been the level headed one before. 

“I don’t expect you to understand.. My life… I have been through hell. I was trying to spare you from it all. And selfishly.. I was scared.” He admitted, finally looking at Peter now, who was shaking with barely restrained anger.

“I was scared because I didn’t know what to do with a child..” 

“Well you could have figured it out. I don’t want to hear excuses, that’s not… Not going to fix things now. I’m not even sure if things can be fixed. Y’know, I remember seeing you on the news after I broke you out of prison. Something clicked in my mind that you were my dad. I’m surprised it took me as long as I did but I’ve never been known to be the smartest.. My mom told me I should be afraid of you but I told her I wasn’t.. I’m not afraid of you.”

Erik looked at him befuddled for a moment before he shook his head, deciding to sit back down in his chair. This conversation was probably going to be a long one.

“I don’t want you to be scared, Peter. I’ve never wanted you to be scared. I.. I truthfully don’t have an excuse for what I did to you and to your mother. I am sorry.”

Peter must not have been expecting him to apologize so easily because he looked at him in shock, hands shaking around the broken pieces of plate he still held, eyes welling with tears. Shakily he sat down in his seat at the table, setting the pieces of the plate down before he clenched his fists, hard. Dammit! He didn’t want to cry..

“I’m here now, Peter. And I’ll explain it all to you if you want. Any questions you have, I’ll answer them.”

“When did you know? When did you know I was your son?” Peter asked, sniffling softly as he wiped the tears from his eyes before they had the chance to fall. 

“Charles informed me. Well… He confirmed it. I’d had my suspicions since Apocalypse. The way you looked at me… I realized it then but I didn’t want to accept it. Especially not in that moment.”

Peter took a deep breath before nodding. Right now Erik was an open book and was going to answer any of his questions so now was the time. 

“Am I the only one? Kid of yours I mean.. Do I have any siblings I don’t know about? I’ve got my little sis but like.. I dunno it was a dumb question-“

“Nina.” Erik said, a sad look coming over his face. He didn’t look at Peter now, instead he looked at the broken pieces of the plate in front of him. His boy. 

“She was your little sister. She was- Everything to me. My whole world.”

Peter perked up for a moment before the tone of Erik’s voice and the look in his eyes had him expecting the worst. An uneasiness took hold in his stomach now, churning. He felt like he knew what Erik was going to say but he didn’t want him to say it. It would hurt him worse then he’d expect it to.

“She was killed. By humans..” anger rose up in Erik’s voice now as he spoke. He was still so bitter to the humans because they’d caused him nothing but suffering. He recalled that grim day in the woods. How eerily silent it all fell after the fact. The blood on his hands.. It was the worst day of Erik’s entire life and he’d lived through a lot of unimaginable things.

Peter swallowed thickly, zoning out when it was confirmed. He’d had another sister and he’d never gotten to meet her. And now.. she was gone. How weird it was to grieve someone you’ve never met and never would get to. She had still been part of Peter. They’d shared a father after all.

“I-“ Peter started until he felt his voice waver in the back of his throat, eyes burning as he cast his gaze back down to the broken plate. Everything was broken.. Not just the plate, he thought.

He didn’t want to ask how. Knowing she’d been killed was enough. Maybe one day in the future he’d ask for more but neither man was ready for that conversation yet.

Erik moved to pull something out of his pocket, showing Peter the small necklace with a little locket. 

“This is the only thing I have left. They’ve taken everything from me. Everyone I’ve loved.”

Peter’s heart was crushed at the words because… he was sitting right there! He’d always been right here.. Right in front of Erik’s face.. Did he not love him? Did he care at all for him in any sort of way? 

“… I’m right here. I’ve always been right here.. You know how many nights I laid awake crying because I thought I wasn’t good enough for you? Every time me and mom passed a man on the street I’d wonder. Wonder if maybe one of them was you. I wondered why as a child my father didn’t love me enough to stay.”

The words stung. They hurt Erik but Peter was far too lost in his emotions to try and hold anything back now. He’d say what he meant, after all he’d been waiting over two decades to say it. 

“Peter please…”

“No!” He yelled, slamming his fists on the table again, just barely avoiding the pieces of the plate. He moved away from the table now, standing in the middle of the dining room as he glared at Erik. “No! You can’t tell me what to do and you can’t tell me to stop. You ruined my life!! You ruined my life by not being in it!” Peter’s tears fell heavy now. The weight of the past two decades washed over him in waves. A choked sob clawed its way up his throat and he tried hard to not let it out but it did. All of his brokenness was on display. He wasn’t just the weird silver haired speedster who cracked jokes at the most inconvenient times. He was a person with real feelings, many of them ugly.

He pawed at his eyes with the palms of his hands, an angry sigh slipping from his lips. He’d been so focused on not letting Erik see him like this, faced away from him that he also hadn’t noticed that he’d gotten up from his chair and made his way over to him. 

Peter flinched when Erik wrapped his arms around him and cradled his head to his chest. He felt sick because fuck he’d needed this hug for years now. Something he’d never thought he’d get, here it was. 

He tensed for just a moment before he hugged back, practically clutching onto Erik’s shirt as he cried into his chest. Cried into his father’s chest. His dad. This was his dad.. It had all hit him and he was spiraling.

Erik held him through the tears, the quiet sobs that wracked his whole body. He held him through it, still in disbelief that this was the first time he’d held him. He never got to hold him as a baby, never got to watch him grow up. In so many ways he’d failed him. Never again. 

He pressed his face into his silver hair, letting out a shaky exhale. “I’m here now Peter. I promise. I’m going to be here for you from here on out.”

It went on like that for longer than either of them cared to count until eventually Peter pulled away shakily, letting out a half hearted laugh at how wet Erik’s shirt had become after soaking up all of his tears.

Their eyes met, Peter’s brow furrowed in such a similar way to Erik’s that for the first time it was so obvious that they were related.

Erik reached out and patted Peter’s shoulder gently, giving it a squeeze before letting go.

“It’s late, you should head to bed, kiddo.” 

“I know.” Peter zipped around the room, cleaning up the mess he’d made before he stopped in the doorway, glancing back at Erik.

“Hey-“

“Yes?”

“Goodnight, Dad.”

“Goodnight, son.”

[fandomxo00]

imagine if…reader is Logans daughter in a different universe but he dies when she’s very young and becomes the next wolverine at like 14 or something. And Wade being Wade brings her the “worst” wolverine and they have like a emotional reunion together 🥹🥹 (maybe dogpool can have a little cameo lol)

note: Writing about Laura cause I love her sm all she wanted was to be with logan just wanna protect her and not really writing in the pov of Laura but the reader but hope you enjoy 💕

Laura had been devastated at Logan's passing. She hadn't even know the man long but there this sense of understanding that she had with him. They were made as monsters. You were a much younger version of her mother, when they met in the void when she was only 14, she looked up to you and you protected her the best you could. You tried to give her the life she deserved but it was rough when you were both exiled from your timelines.

But when Laura looked at you she saw her eyes reflected back in your own and she felt safe. You raised her the best you could, you knew that missed her father and everything that their relationship could have been. Little did you know that a random guy in a red suit and an annoying voice would Logan back into her life.

Though Laura explained that this version of Logan was grumpier than hers. He drank a lot more and complained a lot for someone who was living for free on your couch. Laura was now 19, she worked at the diner with you. If Logan didn't find a job in the next week, he could find somewhere else to stay. Though you don't think Laura will allow that. You have a rather weird relationship with Logan.

You had gotten pregnant and had Laura in your world, endured the torture of being there and having your daughter taken away with you. You never met Logan but you had his child. Sadly, you also had to feel the loss of your Laura when Piece killed her right in front of you with adamantium bullet before shooting you. Luckily, they hadnt shot you with an adamantium bullet, because Laura's blood had been in your DNA since you first got pregnant with hers. You were able to heal but she wasn't.

You had wished every day for years that it was you instead but you were fortunate enough. But then you found her again and you swore with your life that you would do anything for her. Even let her deadbeat dad lay on the couch, no matter how many times he walked around shirtless or smiled over at you didn't mean anything. You watched Logan's walls crumble as his daughter slowly tore the through the rumble and started bonding with the man. Even getting him to bake with her, you had smiled getting a picture of the two.

Then one night she had a date, he was surprised when he saw a young mutant who was nonbinary. Laura glowed as she looked at them, Logan tried to do the whole scary dad thing, but wound up just nodding and letting them go. The two of you sat at the couch, a joint passed between you as you spoke lightly into the night. Opening up about your past as your inhibitions lowered and the two moved closer to each other.

At some point his lips wound up yours his hands on your waist while he cradled your head in his hand. Your lips slotted with his, as your hands gripped his shirt. The two of you pulled away breathless before taking it back to your room.

A week later, Logan got a job, he also started sleeping in your bed. The three of you grew close as a family and you've never felt more full in your life. But eventually Laura wanted to spread her wings and wound up moving into the X-Mansion. She came to visit the two of you frequently and always came to hang out with her younger siblings.

tags:@ohtobemare @jessjessmarvelandhp @chronicallybubbly @delicateholland @bubblegumholland @mega-kittyglitter-1

[kikyoupdates]

Bloodthirst ⭑˚💋⭑ 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒: 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡

bnha x vampire!reader

reverse harem, my hero academia x fem!reader, my vampire!reader, slowburn

As punishment for your sins, you, a young vampire, are banished — not just from your home, but to a different world entirely. Now, you find yourself in a foreign place where Quirks and heroes are the norm. In addition to coming to terms with your new life, you must also face your greatest challenge: controlling your massive thirst for blood.

story masterlist | next

The intoxicating scent of blood. The feel of it being smeared across your cheeks, some of it even dripping down your chin. And best of all... the taste. On the night you nearly killed someone, that was all you could focus on.

“...[Name], please...”

In the darkness, a voice quietly choked out those words. It was a desperate cry, weak and hoarse. They’d been calling out to you like this for several minutes on end, but you were too entranced to take note of it. You just kept on drinking from their neck, relishing in the sweet flavor that enveloped your throat and tongue.

If your parents hadn’t intervened when they had, you would have become a murderer.

“What in the world are you doing?! Stop it right now!”

Before you could make sense of what was happening, you were being pulled away from your prey. All you could do was thrash about furiously. In your present state, you were no better than a feral animal. All logic and reason had left your mind a long time ago. What remained was nothing but hunger and selfish desire.

It wasn’t until someone slapped you across the face, hard, that you finally came back to your senses. At first, everything was fuzzy, but eventually, the images stopped dancing in front of your eyes, and you were able to take in the scene.

A friend of yours, a rather close friend, as a matter of fact, was laying helplessly on the ground, blood staining the length of their neck. A good deal of it had even soaked into the front of their shirt. They weren’t moving either. You could barely even tell that they were breathing, what with how subtly their chest was moving up and down.

Eyes wide, you slowly patted the sides of your face, fingers coming back coated in crimson. Their blood, and it was all over you. So much blood... it was too much. You did this? You took this much blood from them?

“Wait,” you started, but it was too late to bother making excuses for what you’d done. Your friend was lifted up by someone and taken out of the room in a hurry, no doubt to receive immediate treatment. Their body looked limp in the arms of the person carrying them. If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought they were already a corpse.

And you had no one but yourself to blame for it.

“You foolish girl!” It was your mother, the same person who’d slapped you in order to bring you back to reality. She grabbed hold of your shoulders, teeth viciously grit from anger. “Do you have any idea what you've done? How could you possibly lose control and do that to your own friend? You nearly killed them! They might die because of you!”

You blinked, tears slowly slipping down your cheeks. “I... I didn’t mean to—”

“No! There’s no excuse! I’ve told you time and time again not to get carried away. Not to let your thirst for blood cloud your reason. What am I meant to say to that child’s family? They’ve been devoted retainers of ours for countless generations. You’ve single-handedly destroyed the trust we worked so hard to build up!”

She clenched her fist, looking as though she wanted to hit you again, but unlike you, she was able to control herself. Then, she stood up, expression devoid of any emotion.

“This was the last straw,” she said coldly. “You never learn, [Name]. Us vampires are more powerful than we even realize. You cannot simply take what you want, whenever you want it. There are limits to your greed and gluttony. As your mother, I cannot continue to excuse such irresponsible behavior.”

“So... what are you trying to say?” you gaped. It was all too much to process at once. It hadn’t even really sunk in that you’d nearly killed your friend. You still couldn’t believe that you were capable of such a thing.

Your mother turned away from you. “Enough is enough. You haven’t corrected your mistakes after all this time. I’ve given up on trying to get through to you. As for the severity of your crimes... you will be punished accordingly.”

She left without explaining any further. Still shocked beyond belief, your entire body sagged. Once again, you touched the sides of your face, marveling at how much blood was staining your skin. It wasn’t normal for a human to lose this much blood. It wasn’t normal for anyone to lose this much blood.

Your mother was right. What you’d done was disgusting and inexcusable. Whatever the punishment was, you wholly deserved it, and you would accept it without protest.

At least, that was what you’d thought.

“Banishment?!” you cried out, panicked. “I understand I committed a grave mistake, but surely that’s taking it too far!”

You stood in front of your entire family. The king and queen, your mother and father, were seated at the forefront, staring down at you with remorseless eyes. Everyone else had gathered too—your many siblings, your uncles and aunts, your cousins. Even your grandparents, who were normally nowhere to be found, had made an appearance for your judgment day.

“It has already been decided,” you father glowered. “No one else in this family loses control of themselves the way you do. Time and time again, you allow your craving for blood to render you blind to the suffering of others. As the rulers of this kingdom, we cannot allow such conduct to go unchecked, even if you are our own kin.”

You could feel your entire body shaking. “But banishment... just what am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to even go? I’ll take any other punishment! Just not this! I’m afraid. Please... mother, father, everyone... don’t get rid of me. Don’t make me be on my own.”

“It isn’t a permanent solution,” your mother sighed. “But for a while, this much is necessary. We cannot continue to be soft with you. You’ll learn the consequences for your actions the hard way. Once you’ve matured and learned to act in a manner befitting your position, you may return.”

“But I—”

“There is no room for arguing. We’ve already made up our minds.”

Tears continued to well up in your eyes. Of course. You understood the weight of a life, and how close you’d come to nearly extinguishing it. But you still couldn’t help but be afraid. You were only fourteen years old. To be cast away like this, left to fend all for yourself... it wasn’t such an easy thing to stomach.

So, this was it, then. This was the last time you’d see your family, for god-knows how long. Until they somehow decided you were worthy of returning home.

While you wiped at your eyes and kept from sobbing outright, a few cloaked figures stepped forward. You didn’t recognize any of them. These people weren’t from your family. In that case... who were they?

“Mages,” your mother answered calmly, having all but read your mind. “We brought them here in order to carry out your banishment.”

“Why would you need mages to do something like that?”

No sooner had you asked the question, you felt a horrible sense of dread, even worse than what you’d experienced thus far. The mages made a circle around you and ignored your pleading expression, opting instead to pull out some crystals from their cloaks and extend them towards you.

“Mother, father,” you trembled. “What... what’s happening?”

Not just your parents, but all of your family members looked solemn. They clearly knew what was about to come next.

“It is a fairly complicated spell,” your mother eventually said. “A large amount of magic is needed to transport someone to a different world.”

Wait, what? A different world?

You understood now what that horrible sense of dread was. You weren’t just being banished from your home. You were being banished from the only world you’d ever known.

“Please!” you cried out, trying to rush forward as a last-ditch effort. It didn’t work, though. The magic tethered you in place, making your entire body feel as though it had turned to lead. You couldn’t move. You could only squeeze your head as the gravity above you more than doubled, forcing you flat to the ground.

The last thing you saw was the grave look your parents gave you.

“Remember, [Name]. Remember this feeling, and never take a life for granted ever again.”

Light surged before your eyes. It was a foreign, disorienting feeling, and the scream you let out died in the back of your throat. It felt like everything was happening in the span of an inhale, but somehow painfully slowly as well. Whatever the case, you were helpless to do a damn thing about it.

After what was either a second or a whole eternity, you finally came to.

“Miss! Hey, miss! What’s the matter with you?!”

You peeled your eyes open, letting out a soft groan. Some middle-aged man was hovering over your fallen frame, lightly poking you on the shoulder every few seconds. Based on his expression, he was concerned, bewildered, or some combination of the two.

And he wasn’t the only one.

You quickly realized you were surrounded by a group of people, all of whom were staring down at you in visible confusion. Apparently, you were still lying flat on the ground, but in the middle of what looked to be some sort of road. Not only that, but there were strange contraptions all around you. Machines with four wheels that were travelling along the road, although most of them had stopped because you were dead in the middle of it.

Wearily, you pulled yourself to your feet. The group of people kept on pestering you and asking if you were alright, but you ignored them and breezed past. You needed to get your head on straight, but a quick look at your surroundings was really all you needed to confirm your worst fears.

This definitely wasn’t the world you were used to. Your own family had just kicked you out with no regard for your wellbeing, although you supposed that was the price to pay for the sins you’d committed. Crying about it more wouldn’t accomplish anything. You had no time to wallow in self-pity either.

Now, then. What the fuck were you supposed to do next?

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