#and i think that’s what a father is— a blade that never stops cutting

[tasteofgrave]

ABIGAIL — “FATHER’S JOY”

different house, different man, different blade — but she’s still stuck in that kitchen with her father slitting her throat

tory adkisson // sylvie baumgartel // safia elhillo // unknown // desireé dallagiacomo // catherine lacey

[sunflowervolum-6]

why are dads always mad?

[spider-stark]

SWORN RIVALS

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!Reader

Summary - Taking up sparring with your sworn rival is likely never a good idea.

Warnings - barely edited, blood, implied fighting, suggestive language but no real smut, likely ooc given that the episode hasn't even aired yet lmao

Word Count - 1.1k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Pain splinters throughout your hand as your knuckles collide with his jaw. He stumbles backwards—just barely managing to keep himself from falling right onto his ass. 

“You fight like a girl,” you jeer, purposefully antagonizing him. “Though I suppose that’s to be expected of a Blackwood.” 

A raspy laugh rumbles through Benjicot Blackwood’s chest—a bitter, deep sound that sets your toes curling. 

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you.” Forcing his chin high, he flashes his crimson-stained teeth in a wry grin, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He muses, “But perhaps we should put it to better use, don’t you think?” 

You cut your eyes at the bawdy implication. “You’re disgusting, Ben.” 

Another chuckle as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, inadvertently smearing blood along his bottom lip. The sight is entrancing—in a morbid sort of way. It glistens like pomegranate juice and, for a mere breath, you wonder if it would taste half as sweet. 

“C’mon!” Ben’s teasing tone slices through your thoughts, forcing some sense back into you. “Don’t act like you’ve never thought of it before,” he says, waving a hand between you both, “the two of us–” 

You don’t let him finish his sentence, cutting him off with a sharp glare. “I haven’t,” you practically snarl, taking a half-step towards him. “And you shouldn’t either,” you add, “I’d much prefer to be left out of your…" you blow out an exasperated breath, "depraved fantasies!” 

“Oh, but you are my depraved fantasies, sweetheart.” Ben’s grin widens as you groan, shaking your head at him. “You're also a liar, Bracken,” he adds, “and a shitty one, at that!” 

“You can believe whatever you want, Blackwood—but that won't make it true.” 

“Just admit it,” he continues. Swinging one foot forward, he takes a lazy step towards you—then another. “That’s why you train with me, isn’t it? ‘Cause you’re so desperate for someone to put you in your place—and none of those pansies along the Red Fork are fit for the task, are they?” 

You grit your teeth, knowing that his words aren’t entirely false. 

Training with Ben hadn’t necessarily been a purposeful decision. It was something that just sort of happened. Yet, in spite of the rivalry between your families, you’re willing to admit that you do prefer training with him over the Tully or Roote boys. 

He fought you like a true opponent—unlike the others, who felt the need to pull their punches or slow their own strikes, forever treating you like a helpless maiden rather than an equal. 

In many ways, you found Ben to be more tolerable than any other boy in the Riverlands, anyway. He was fierce and tough and undeniably skilled with both blade and fists, making him your ideal sparring partner. 

You still despise him, though—if only because that is what’s expected of you by your father, the Head of House Bracken. 

“Big talk from the boy who hasn’t gotten a single hit in today,” you smugly remind him. “Perhaps if you spent as much time training as you do thinking with your cock, you might actually stand a chance at victory, Benji.” 

Less than a foot-or-so of space separates the two of you when he finally stops, his grin souring like rotted fruit. 

“Don’t call me that,” he chides, his bottom lip jutting slightly. Your brow furrows, trying to discern if he’s pouting or if it’s simply swelling from when you hit him. “Besides,” Ben continues, “have you ever considered that maybe I’m just going easy on you?” 

You don’t buy his weak attempt at goading you—though you do entertain it, asking, “And why would you do that?” 

His shoulder lifts into a languid shrug. “Maybe I like it when you push me around,” he drawls, teasing. 

Another step and he’s towering over you, his chest mere inches from yours. His scent—a blend of leather and rich sandalwood—floods your nostrils, stirring your senses and leaving you dizzy. 

“Although,” Ben’s smirk returns, laden with his usual mischief, “I think I’d like you even more if you were on your knees-” 

A scoff rips from your throat, cutting him off with a rough swat to his chest. “Oh, go fuck yourself, Blackwood!” 

“Only if you’ll watch, Bracken,” he croons, mocking you. 

Every inch of your body is suddenly humming to life, an unrelenting blaze of rage—or was it desire?—setting your nerves alight. Before you can muster a response, a comeback, his fingers have closed around one of your wrists. 

“Go on,” Ben murmurs, his voice tantalizingly low. Your breath hitches as he presses your hand to his chest, feeling his pulse beat beneath your palm. “Hit me,” he dares, louder now. “Push me.” 

You don’t speak—don’t move, as those storm-cloud eyes dip once again. “Fucking do it—” 

You cut him off, fingers curling around the scarlet fabric of his tunic—you should kill him for being so crude, for acting so utterly lascivious! 

And yet, despite all logic and reason, you tug him closer. Pulling him down to your level in one swift motion, crashing your lips together in a kiss that is anything but soft. 

On instinct, your other hand slips to the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in soft, brown hair. You feel his heartbeat stutter beneath your fist, still gripping his tunic. For no more than a breath, you worry you’ve fucked this whole thing up. 

This is wrong! You scream at yourself. Wrong wrong wrong! 

But then he moves—hooking an arm around your waist, his nails sinking into your hip in an effort to bring you closer—and you loathe just how right this feels. 

Your legs tremble as his tongue slides along your lower lip, a soft moan spilling into his mouth. You feel him grin against you—can taste the blood on his lips, the bitter sweetness dancing on your tongue as he utters, “Eager, are we?” 

Tightening your grip on his hair, he hiss slips from his teeth. “Shut up.” 

He obliges—his mouth drifting from your lips to your jaw, leaving a bloody trail of kisses in his wake. You try not to think as he finally reaches your neck, earning a soft whine as he nips at your flesh. You try to forget who he is—that you’re supposed to hate him—as he shoves his leg between yours, offering you the very friction you so desperately desired. 

“This changes nothing, Benji,” you pant. 

He bristles at the nickname, letting his teeth sink deeper into your flesh, a deep bruise already blooming along your neck. “Sure." His own breathing is frantic and uneven as he rasps, “Whatever you say..” 

Your hand falls from his chest to his breeches, fingers already fumbling with the laces when you choke out, “I still think you’re disgusting, Blackwood.”

His own touch disappears beneath your tunic, fingertips trailing along every inch of your skin until his palms finally skim along your bare breasts. He gives one a rough squeeze before flashing that stupid, bloody grin of his. 

“And you’re still a liar, Bracken.”

a/n - writing fan fic for a character that hasn't even appeared on screen yet is wild. (hbo, this better be bloody ben or else I'll riot because this is perfect casting). anyway, I don't wanna be held accountable for how terrible, short, and rushed this is (I was bored and didn't feel like putting more effort into this than necessary rn) OR how wildly ooc this will likely prove to be come Sunday.

also---turns out that writing without actually knowing the character is hard! who'd have thunk, am I right?

[pianta]

and i think that’s what a father is — a blade that never stops cutting.

[tra1nchi]

I just had this thought

So like a yandere who’s in love with another and your one of their victims for getting to close to their darling so when they are about to kill your able to somehow able to convince them not to like a i don’t kill you you get me info to help me get me set up with darling cause your one of their close friends

So blah blah you spend more time with yandere and they slowly start to fall for reader and becomes possessive meanwhile reader is scared shitless cause their wondering what in the world is going on

Anyways really bad explanation but i just had to get it out somehow 😥

I went a bit overboard with this one,,MINORS DNI!! Bttm male reader,,this might be my longest fic on this blog lol,, Toxic ass dude,, stalking,,masturbation,,attempted murder,,N0n-c0n

When you first met him,,he was just that weird kid that always tried to talk to your friend,,never paying attention to any of the rest of his darlings friend group and Claude would only ever talk to him,,

He had noticed you,,definitely,,you were a high priority on his list,,you were handsome (not as much as his darling) but most importantly,,you were in his way,,His darling wouldn't talk to him whenever you were around,,Claude wasn't one for sharing

He would dream each night of his darlings touches,,how his darling would whisper in his ear at how grateful he was for the deaths of his friends,,they were only distractions for what was truly the only important thing,,their love

Waking up the next day alone in his bed was whiplash for Claude,,his bed was cold and so was his house,,he knew the only thing that could fill it with warmth was his one and only darling,,

College,,He only went because his father forced him to,,but despite his hatred for the man,,he couldn't help but feel grateful,,how else would he have met the love of his life? But he couldn't think about that today,,today was doomsday,,

He decided to pick you first,,you were growing into a bigger threat when he saw your hands on his darling,,he had to hold himself back from cutting off your hand right there on the spot,,even during class,,

He waited until it was dark,,he had been tracking you for a few days and knew you liked to feed the local alley cats after sunset so you wouldn't get caught by anyone,,Claude only thought that it was embarrassing for you,,who has that low of confidence?

Claude noticed you with a cruel smile,, a shiny butcher knife in his hand as he crept silently behind you,,though he stopped as he noticed what you were doing,,you were hunched out with a skittish looking kitten at your hands,,he could hear your small and quiet coos when it grew closer,,

He couldn't get distracted! This was for his darling,,his love,,he jumped slightly when you turned suddenly,,you both didn't know how to react as the kitten fled,,his instincts set in as he tackled you to the ground,,his weapon pressed against your neck,,

"Think you can get so loving with my darling? You are nothing compared to what we have!" He was close to yelling,,but kept his voice down,,his blade digging into your neck but he stooped when he felt his hand get damp,,

Glancing up he saw tears pouring down your cheeks,,you were sobbing and trembling underneath him,,you looked like a scared little bunny as you started desperately begging for your life,,He felt conflicted,, are killers meant to feel sympathy for their victims?

You managed to squrim out of his hold when he froze up,,holding your hands out in a protective manner as you started to try to reason with Claude,, anything to keep your life from ending,,

Claude listened to your begging,,his hand tight on the handle of the knife,, "you can get me closer to him? You better not be lying to me." His voice was harsh as he trusted the knife towards your neck again,,

When you rapidly nodded,,he gave in,,allowing you to keep your life at the exchange you bringing him closer to his precious darling,,

He felt himself growing closer to your side,,watching how you would talk about his love,,he would catch his eyes falling down to your lips as you talk but would quickly glance away,,he felt like he was cheating even if he wasn't even dating his lover yet,,

Despite your rough first meeting,,you grew closer with him,,noticing that above his weird obsession with your friend,,he wasn't all that bad,,though you didn't want to grow any closer with him then you were now,,you wouldn't want to risk it,,

Claude over time stopped thinking about him,,his dreams were replaced with you,,waking up with in a cold sweat after a particularly lewd dream,,when did he start thinking off you,,his little bunny in that kind of way?

The more he hung out with you,,the more he realised how bland your friend was compared to you,,you were so much better then he could ever be,,he started to unknowingly treat you the same way he did to your friend,,

Trying to isolate you,,talking over your friends whenever you tried to communicate with them and especially taking up stalking,,he already knew most of your routes from when he wanted to kill you,,but now he stalks you just to make sure youvget home safely at night,,

You were scared shitless of course,,you knew how he acted with your friend and now he started acting that way with you,,luckily he hasn't started staking you,,that would be the worse case scenario,,right?

he would get more daring with his little bunny,,sneaking into his darlings precious room at night to watch you sleep,,he would shuffle through your drawers taking out shirts,,socks and if he felt especially excited,,he would swipe a pair of underwear or two,,

He would lose sleep for what he was doing,,not out of guilt but he couldn't stop himself,,jerking your clothing up and down his cock,,wishing it was you,,craving for your touch and not the clothing that felt so rough,,

One night when he tried to return your cum filled boxers,,he would step on a creaky floorboard he would always avoid,,waking you up almost immediately,,your eyes wide with fear,,just like a prey animal

He tackled out back down onto your bed,,his hand covering your mouth roughly to keep your scream muffled,,"Shh, don't cry. It's only me, go back to sleep yeah?" He puts on his most soothing tone but you don't seem to be sleeping,,

He shoved your dirty underwear into your mouth to keep you quiet,,you could feel his hard-on press against your leg,,He let out a soft moan at being so close to you

"Oh my darling, my sweet precious love..I'll just be a second, okay? I'll be so gentle.." He groans softly in your ear,,his hand moving down to yank your pajamas,,he seemed pleasantly pleased when you didn't squirm,,you knew better,,

He started kissing your tummy,,down to your cock,,his hands moving down to his fly to free his own,, "Good boy! Just stay nice and still like that." He smirks moving down to spread your legs and with only using his pre cum as lube,,he shoves himself roughly inside of you,,

You were his darling from now until the day you die

[saphronethaleph]

He's the Calm One

“Give yourself to the dark side,” Vader advised, as he stalked through the darkened areas of the throne room. “It is the only way you can save your friends. Yes, your thoughts betray you. Your feelings for them are strong. Especially for…”

He paused.

“Your sister,” he said, interested. “So, you have a twin sister. If you will not turn to the Dark Side, then perhaps she will!”

“No!” Luke shouted, springing out of cover, lightsaber held ready.

Vader moved his own blade in a block, then stopped a moment later as he realized Luke wasn’t actually attacking.

“You mustn’t make her turn to the Dark Side,” Luke said, voice laced with urgency.

“I must not?” Vader asked. “That is not up to me-”

“No, father, that’s not what I mean,” Luke replied. “It’s a matter of safety. Personal and… galactic.”

Vader’s expression did not change, because he was wearing a helmet.

“You realize that I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said. “Who is your sister?”

Luke paused.

“Leia,” he said. “You should know that, father. Maybe now you’ll understand.”

Vader’s helmet tilted slightly.

“What?” he asked. “I never felt a thing. Her emotions never betrayed her.”

“She didn’t know,” Luke pointed out. “I didn’t know until you told me.”

“Still…” Vader mused. “The Force can be strange… but you seem insistent on keeping your sister from the Dark Side.”

“You’ve met her, haven’t you?” Luke asked.

Vader paused, giving that due consideration.

“...I suppose she would probably be suited to the Dark Side,” he said. “She would make a good apprentice.”

“You’re not listening,” Luke complained. “She would be a terrible person to have as an apprentice in the Dark Side of the Force, specifically.”

Vader attempted to glare at Luke. “You fail to understand the value of passion to the Dark Side.”

“Why have you stopped fighting?” Palpatine demanded, from the other side of the throne room.

“We are having a moment,” Vader called back. “I am attempting to turn Luke to the Dark Side by using his family members against him.”

“Very well!” Palpatine said. “Continue! That usually works.”

Vader inclined his head, slightly, the only sign of what was probably a frown under his helmet.

“I may need to think about that,” he said, under his hissing breath, then returned his attention to Luke.

Who was gesturing for emphasis.

“Maybe I’m not getting this across properly, Father,” he said. “But perhaps… you sent Han to Jabba the Hutt, didn’t you? You knew him?”

“I do not know Jabba the Hutt, son,” Vader retorted, his voice dark with rage. “I know who Jabba the Hutt is. But I fail to see the relevance.”

“As part of the plan to rescue Han, she got captured,” Luke explained. “Jabba chained her up and made her a dancing girl. The moment I began to fight during the rescue, she cut the lights and strangled him with that very chain.”

He stared into the eyes of Vader’s helmet, unblinking and unbowed. “Do you understand, Father?”

Vader considered that, then nodded, very slightly.

“I begin to see your point,” he said. “Damn.”

“If Leia turned to the Dark Side and was made an apprentice to you or the Emperor, it would be extremely bad for the health of everyone inside this room,” Luke summarized. “And also for the galaxy, more generally, though it would at least be run efficiently.”

“The Emperor has brought order to the galaxy,” Vader said, in a sort of distant voice like he wasn’t fully paying attention to the conversation.

“Have you seen how much he’s spent on pointless superweapons that get blown up by the Rebellion?” Luke shot back.

Vader held up his free hand, and for a moment Luke wondered if his father was about to use the Force… only for it to mean nothing more than a request that Luke be silent for a moment.

“...humour me, son,” Vader said. “What, exactly, is your plan here?”

“With surrendering myself to you?” Luke asked, and got a slight nod. “I hoped to be able to convince you that you’d done something wrong, and that you could realize that there was still good in you. That you were not trapped in the Dark Side, and could – if you truly wished it – return to the side of good.”

He paused. “...I will say, Obi-Wan and Yoda both told me it was impossible.”

“They do that,” Vader said, still sounding distracted. “And my daughter was raised by Bail and Breha, and she ended up… hm.”

“...Father?” Luke asked, after several seconds of silence had elapsed.

“I am just realizing that you are, apparently, Padme’s child of the two of you,” Vader said. “She killed Jabba the Hutt? Really?”

“Really,” Luke agreed. “Since you send Han to Jabba, we came up with a plan.”

He twirled his lightsaber. “First, I gave Jabba the droids C-3P0 and R2-D2, after concealing my lightsaber in R2. Then Leia turned in Chewbacca for the bounty, while disguised as an Ubese, and threatened to set off a bomb. Finally I came in to ask politely for Han’s release, offered Jabba one last opportunity to free us while about to be thrown into the Pit of Carkoon, and when he refused I killed… about half of Jabba’s entourage. Leia got Jabba and the other half when she rigged his sail barge to explode.”

“...this is a new feeling,” Vader said, almost to himself. “This must be paternal pride. Damn.”

“Have you turned him yet?” the Emperor called, waspishly.

“I’m working on it!” Luke called back.

Vader missed a breath, then his respirator worked overtime to recover.

“I still want to turn my daughter to the Dark Side,” he said, once he’d recovered. “But mostly to find out what would happen.”

“Fair,” Luke admitted. “I’m curious as well, but I don’t want to be in the blast radius and I’m fairly sure the entire galaxy would be the blast radius. Even if we were both trained Jedi I’d insist on being the one who came along, because I’d rather see you alive instead of a sort of faint ozone sheen in the air.”

“What is taking you so long, Vader?” Palpatine demanded, stalking over. “By this point, someone in this room should be dead. This delay is entirely tiresome!”

“All right,” Anakin replied, and pushed Palpatine off the bridge.

“...do you think that counts as dark side or not?” he added, glancing at his son. “I’m genuinely not sure, he was a very old man…”

[everythingacotarbxm1012]

They're Mates - with Y/N Pt 3

Summary - Y/N decides she wants to learn to fly again.

Warnings/Other Notes - This one is in 2nd person pov because the first two chapters were looking at Y/N and Az’s relationship from a source not within their relationship. 2k word chapter- Again, some of these lines/plot points are inspired by, or directly quoted from, ACOMAF. This chapter takes place prior to the first two chapters.

Injury mentioned, though not super graphically. Reader relives/remembers having her wings cut.

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Masterlist

✨💫

You could feel the blade cutting into your wings. Tears spilled down your face as you screamed in pain, begging the Mother to make it stop. You were never going to fly again. The one thing that brought you unending joy, your only source of freedom, was being taken away.

“Y/N?”

The edges of your memories blurred. That voice, you recognized that voice.

“Y/N?!”

That sweet, honey-like voice called you. Something in you warmed and the pain lessened. Like you were basking in the sun.

“Y/N!”

You shot up in bed, your legs tangled in the sheets. A cold sweat dripped down your face and that same smooth voice kept saying something, but your mind was still catching up and couldn’t process them, not right now. Your chest rose and fell rapidly and then there were hands cupping your face. Not those smooth hands in the romance novels, but hands with bravery and adventure etched into them. Hands that felt like home. Your eyes shot up to meet a pair of hazel ones. Azriel.

“You’re safe. I’m here, your safe. Your father can’t touch you anymore,” the shadowsinger whispered to you. 

You nodded and leaned forward to wrap your arms around him. He reciprocated. You chased away the nightmare, remembering where you were. I’m here with Azriel. With Cassian, and Rhysand. With Rhys’s mother. Az saved you. Your arms tightened slightly around the shadowsinger, burrying your face into his muscular shoulder. His shadows curled around the both of you. His scent felt like home. The same scent that you had become familiar with every time you fell asleep, the one still lingering in the bedding when you woke up and he was gone off to train, with a promise to come back in time for dinner.

Sharing a bed with the Illyrian didn’t start right away, not on purpose. It just happened one night. Azriel never made it back to his own bed, instead he fell asleep comforting you from the same nightmare. Then it became purposeful, falling asleep and not returning to his own chambers. And one night the shadowsinger didn’t even bother finding his way into his own bed, Az just went straight to yours. You certainly didn’t mind and Rhys’s mother never said anything.

“Azriel?” You asked against his shoulder.

He placed the gentlest kiss to your temple. One that reminded you of a waltz you heard one day in Velaris. “Yes?”

You lifted your eyes to look at Az’s face. “What if I never fly again?” Your chest started heaving again. You broke away from the shadowsinger and looked away. It felt like someone had lit a fire inside you. Not one that someone makes to keep you warm on an incredibly chilly night, but a fire started out of malice, one to kill and destroy.

Azriel’s features became softer, contemplative if that was at all possible. “Impossible…because I’ll teach you.” 

Your eyes shot up to his face. “Are you…certain? Do you not need to train? I don’t—”

“I would spend the rest of my life in that damned cell for you again, Y/N.” He paused. “Don’t think I wouldn’t teach you to fly. Unlike Cass and Rhys I remember learning. Both of them would tell you to just flap your wings. I understand the fears and mental blocks of being older.”

You let out the softest laugh, wiping a drop of sweat from your forehead. “Thank you, Azriel.”

He nodded in his silence, considering something a moment. Az stood from the bed, his pants sitting low on his hips as he disappeared into the washroom and reappeared a few moments later with a damp cloth. “May I?”

You nodded and he gently pressed the cool cloth to your forehead, making the sweat disappear as if it had never happened. His shadows flitted through your hair. Whispering to you. Care. Care. Care.

The shadowsinger tried to call them back, but they had a mind of their own, especially around you. You chuckled lightly. Silly little guys, acting like a bunch of toddlers. When Az decided he had done a sufficient job of wiping your face he pressed another kiss to your forehead before hanging the cloth to dry and returned. 

You were lying down in the bed when he returned. He climbed in next to you before pulling you against him. You both fell asleep and slept soundly for the rest of the night.

The following day you went into Velaris with Rhysand’s mother to run a few errands. Her skills as a seamstress were impressive and she used it as an opportunity to occupy a portion of her time. You stopped at your favorite bakery to pick up a few things for dinner that evening. You also found a used book on diplomacy that was on sale. Rhys’s mother kindly bought it for you; well maybe more for Azriel’s shadow who seemed desperately intrigued with it. When you returned home, to your surprise, Trouble, More Trouble, and Too Much Trouble, were already there. (Nicknames you had aptly given to Azriel, Rhysand, and Cassian.)

Too Much Trouble grinned when he saw you and clapped his brother on the back. “This one here got us kicked out early today for starting not one, not two, but three fights. I mean he looked like death coming to collect souls for the next life. Don’t insult, Y/N!!”

“Shut up, Cassian,” Rhys said, giving a pointed look.

“You weren’t any use, Cassian,” Azriel growled back while shoving his brother’s hand away from his shoulder. Az had a black eye and dried blood along his cheek bone. He didn’t meet your gaze but his shadows happily slithered over to you. Protect, Protect, Protect, they whispered to you. Then you understood the shadows’ need to be near you, hovering. The reason why you had a shadow over your shoulder since Az saved you from your father. A form of protection, something to keep you safe, something to report back to the shadowsinger if you were in danger. 

And that’s exactly what Azriel had done earlier that day. Defended you without remorse. 

You glanced at Cassian who had a bruise on his jaw and then to Rhys who also had a black eye. Rhys’s mother looked far from pleased. “Cassian. Rhysand. Upstairs! Clean yourselves up.” Her gaze turned to the shadowsinger. “Azriel. Sit .” She announced as she put the bags down from your earlier trip to Velaris. 

For all her softness, Rhys’s mother certainly had a sharpness to her not often seen. Rhys and Cass’s wings hung ever so slightly and only for a moment before they shifted again and they disappeared up the stairs. You followed them.

When you got to your room, you opened the book bought earlier that day and began reading on the bed. The sheets still smelled of him, of both of you. The shadow rested on your shoulder, appearing deeply engrossed in the words too. About fifteen minutes later you could hear the shadowsinger coming up the stairs. You knew it was him for the sole reason of his footsteps. You had learned how Azriel, Rhysand, and Cassian walked. The heaviness of their feet, the pace.

You could hear Az and Rhys out in the hall. “Your mom wants you,” is all you heard before Rhys is walking downstairs and the shadowsinger is walking into your room. You closed your book to look up at him.

“C’mon.” The shadowsinger stepped towards the small balcony and opened the doors. “You can’t learn to fly in here.”

“What,” you asked him, confused.

“You think I started the third fight for the fun of it?” Azriel asked, offering his hand out to you.

You only gave him a confused look, remaining on the bed.

He walked back towards the bed where you sat reaching for your boots. He knelt down on his knees. “Sure, the moron had it coming. That doesn’t change the fact that fighting with him for a third time got me the afternoon off to teach someone how to fly.”

Your mouth fell agape. “Azriel,” you admonished and a smile came over the shadowsinger’s lips before pulling on your boots. “I am perfectly capable of putting on my shoes, Az.”

He only offered you a hand after he tied them up. You took it before he swept you into his arms. You craved his embrace, more than so many other things. Azriel walked back towards the balcony and shot into the sky.

You never imagined how some people hate this, because Gods this felt good, felt like freedom. It reminded you of your childhood when you flew whenever you could, as if flying up into the sky might take you away from all of your problems. You just hoped the next time you flew it would be on your own wings.

Azriel landed in a clearing, gently placing you down on the ground carefully, to make sure you didn’t fall. “I want you to be careful. If anything hurts too—”

“I promise I’ll tell you,” you said to him with a nod. 

“Is it…is it okay…okay if I touch your wings? For correction I mean? Should it be… necessary?” The shadowsinger asked from behind you, almost nervously. For good reason. The concept of touching someone’s wings without permission, in particular females, was beyond inappropriate. 

You nodded, you could sense the shadowsinger behind you, observing your wings carefully. You could feel his eyes scanning up and down. “Azriel?” You asked quietly.

“I can’t say I am a healer and know the anatomy well, but perhaps we start at the beginning. Test the muscles, the ligaments.”

You nod, something feeling oddly intimate about the moment. You turn to face the shadowsinger whose face had contemplating written all over it.

“Try spreading them and tucking them in,” he said as you faced each other. 

You nodded, spreading your wings as best you could. Mother above you hadn’t actually tried to do this in a while. You grimaced but managed to spread them, pushing them to your full extent, spreading your feet to offer you more balance.

A small smile of pride was clear on Azriel’s face. “Now fold inward.”

You did, slowly, afraid to tear or rip something in your wings. You couldn’t stop the smile when you folded inward with success. 

“Good,” he said with a mild amusement in his eyes. “Try again.”

You spread your wings again, your muscles ached, but that was good. That meant they were there, that meant you had a chance. 

Azriel’s eyes followed the movements, and cauldron boil him if your form wasn’t the most stunning thing he had ever seen. The shadowsinger had to put more concentration into not letting his knees buckle under him than he would like to admit. Beautiful. Stunning. Lovely. Beautiful, stunning. Lovely, his shadows whispered in his ear.

You pulled your wings shut rather than slowly closing them which caused you to lose your balance slightly, falling forward. Azriel reached out to catch you before you could land on the ground with a light amusement in his eyes before he suddenly realized how close in proximity you were to him. 

You’d been this close before. By the Gods, you shared a bed every night, but something felt different. You gently rest your hands against the shadowsinger’s chest in silence. 

“Y/N?” He asked quietly, hands shifting to cup either side of your face.

You looked up to see his face leaning down slightly. “Azriel.”

You don’t know who leaned in first, maybe Azriel, maybe you. It didn’t matter, because moments later the shadowsinger’s lips were on yours. They were sweet, and salty, and soft and warm. Like a warm biscuit on a cold night. Your fingers wound up in his hair before he pulled away. “Was that okay?”

His response was pulling your lips to his again, harder, more desperately like he had lived in a dry desert for centuries and you were a tiny pool of water in the middle of it all.

You returned to opening and closing your wings, building the muscle until it was as easy as walking, though it certainly felt like the cauldron was burning you alive when you woke up the following morning. But you couldn’t be bothered, you were going to fly again.

Taglist: @5onedirection5

[munsons-hellfire]

Lost Part 1 | Cassian

SUMMARY: You were the princess of the Spring Court. But you no longer wanted to follow behind your brother. When Feyre decides to leave, she takes you and Lucien. But with the discovery of your mate and a war on its way you start to feel so lost.

PAIRINGS: Cassian x Tamlin!Sister!Reader

CONTENT WARNINGS: Mentions of abuse, mfw, part 1, I might have missed something but I don't think this really has a lot of warning in this part. Enjoy!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So I ended up turning this into a few parts. There are a few points I want to touch and I don't think it would've been a good idea to do one whole part. If you wish to be added to the tag list for this please let me know down in the comments. The sumary will most likely stay the same I'm not sure yet.

WORD COUNT: 2.0K

It felt like forever. The torture you faced under your bother’s ruleing. It wasn’t protection as he liked to call it. It was a prison, Tamlin had taken over after your father had been killed. You hadn’t been able to shed a tear when it happened, you always assumed that you weren’t meant to be in the Spring Court. When Feyre arrived as a human, you knew she was your chance for an escape.

So when she took the opportune moment to leave, you followed right behind her. Currently you didn’t understand how you had found yourself in this situation. You, Feyre, and Lucien had been on the run from the Spring Court. Little cuts littered your chest, arms, neck, and face. It was so cold, you didn’t know if you could hold on any longer. One of Lucien’s brothers was on top of you, holding you against the ice.

He lifts your head up and slams it down into the ice hard. Stars are dancing around your eyes, as you struggle to keep the blade from going into your throat. Your hand was on the blade, blood dripping onto your neck. A whimper escaped your lips as he stared down at you with a malevolent smile.

“You make such pretty sounds, I wonder what else I could get out of you.” He whispered, his tongue licking up the side of your chin all the way to your pointed ear.

You tried to push the male of you but it was no use. He was far stronger than you, and right now you were too weak. You couldn’t access your power considering you were drained. There were plants all around you even in the Winter Court but that was the last thing on your mind. It also didn’t help that you had never learned to fight. Tamlin had thought it was best you learn how to be a housemaid, how to be a mother, how to take care of your future husband.

Whatever the case may be you learned everything except how to fight and how to use your powers in a situation like this, it was biting you in the ass. Where Tamlin could shape-shift, you could manipulate the plants around you. But your brother didn’t know that, you knew better than to tell him your secret. Just before he could do further damage to you another male flew into him knocking him to the ice.

You turned to your side, a wince leaving your lips as you watched that same male throw a punch into his face. He continued to do so, he hadn’t been able to stop until someone had pulled him off Lucien’s brother. He wasn’t dead, you knew that he was knocked out cold. Your breath was shallow, as the male turned towards you red siphons glistening in the darkness of the night. He was leaning over you, hazel eyes searching you.

He gently picked you up, resting your head to his chest while he cradled the rest of your body. You stared up at him, when he looked back down at you, it snapped. Just before you closed your eyes you felt the gold thread tied around your heart. The mating bond had snapped, you were tied to the male that had just saved you. Now that you were safe you could close your eyes and that’s exactly what you did.

☾

Rhysand stood next to his brother as Madja worked on you. Cassian had his arms crossed over his chest, he was leaning against the door. The male was trying his hardest not to hover over Madja while she worked on his mate. But it was excruciating not to be next to you to hold your hand while she healed you.

“Are you positive?” Rhysand asked again, finally looking over at his brother. Feyre was at the end of the hallway, with Azriel as well. Lucien was also there but Cassian didn’t care much for him, his brother was responsible for the injuries to his mate. He wanted to kill him so they were standing guard in front of Lucien.

“Yes. The Princess of the Spring Court is my mate. I know she felt it too.” Cassian explained again, saying the same thing he’d consistently said when they had arrived back home. Cassian paused, staring briefly at his brother. “Do you really think she has powers?”

“Feyre believed it, and I know what I saw when we were under the mountain. Tamlin didn’t see it but Amarantha did. She protected herself in a cocoon of vines. Whatever she can do, she’s more powerful than she believes herself to be.”

Cassian had heard mentions of the story about how you’d protected yourself to avoid the affliction of pain at the wrath of Amarantha. She loved your older brother, but she hated you. So she’d made your torture just as cruel and wicked as Feyre had gone through. She even locked you up with Feyre, keeping you distanced from the only family you’d ever known. Tamlin. Lucien.

Rhys had told Cass that he had done everything in his power to keep you safe. But when that happened, everything changed. He knew eventually you’d be in his court. Tamlin would destroy you, and it looks like he’d already done just that. Finally Rhys looked back at Cassian again.

“We need to keep her safe.”

“She’s my mate, I won’t let her go back to that bastard of a brother. She’s safe here.” Cassian stated calmly. He caught Rhys looking down the hall to Feyre who gave a nod.

“Then you both need to accept the bond officially, Tamlin will demand her back. And if it isn’t accepted we have no choice but to hand her back over.”

“I’ll discuss it with her when she’s awake. Until then I can’t do much.”

Rhys gave a nod of his head as Madja walked up to them. “She is healed, though she might be out for a few days. Everything was drained, powers included. She needs time to rest.” Madja explained.

“Thank you.” Cassian said, stepping past the healer and walking into the room. He grabbed a chair and set it next to your bed. Then he reached for your hand, holding it in his. Cassian would wait days for you to wake up, as long as you came back to him.

☾

You held onto that thread when you thought you might die. Slowly you blinked open your eyes, a groan escaped your lips. You looked around the room noticing that you weren’t in the Spring Court. Then the memories of what had happened came flashing back into your mind. Panic started to rush through your body, however a hand gave you a comforting squeeze. You turned your head to see the male that had saved you holding onto it.

Just like you remembered he had red siphons on his body. Seven of them to be exact. His black hair was shoulder length, some of it was tied back in a small bun. He looked sexy with his hair that way. A smirk covered his lips, he must have seen what you were thinking was plastered on your face. His golden-brown skin made him look just as handsome. You could see some tattoos peaking through his shirt.

It was a gray shirt and was fitted perfectly to his upper body. You wondered what everything looked like underneath his clothes. Your mind started to drift, thinking of what he’d feel like against you, naked. His pulling of the chair brought you out of your thoughts, you decided to pull yourself up slightly so you could lean against the headboard. You felt the golden string that connected you to him. It was such a pain to not be closer to him. You needed him closer.

“Can you hold me?” Your voice was soft as you asked the question. He stared at you, the confusion was there only for a moment before it switched to understanding. You watched as the male stood from the chair, removed his boats and climbed into your bed. He leaned you forward gently, sitting behind you.

When he settled down into the bed, he pulled you towards his chest. You had noticed that somewhere in between him joining you on the bed he'd taken off his shirt so you could feel his warmth. You rested your head back on his chest, and closed your eyes feeling the bond shine brightly at the touch.

“I’m Cassian.” He whispered in your ear after a few moments of silence.

“Y/N.” You paused, pulling his large hand into yours and entangling your fingers together. You didn’t understand how you’d gotten so lucky to be blessed with a mate provided by the Mother. “So you really are my mate?”

You questioned finally. Maybe this was all a dream, and you’d wake back up in the Spring Court. You didn’t want that though, you’d known you had finally gotten away from your brother's temper and you couldn’t go back to it. Things had gotten worse for you when you’d all returned from under the mountain.

“I am.” Cassian’s words were so comforting as he said them.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get a mate. I… Tam said I’d never experience this. That I’d be marrying off to someone who would never be my mate.” You felt your mate tighten his grip around your waist, his jealousy was evident but you didn’t mind it. Oddly enough it felt comforting, you’d been missing something like that for a long time.

Cassian clenched his jaw at the mere mention of what your brother had in store for you when the time was right. He nudged his nose into your hair. “I can assure you mate, that’ll never happen. I will not allow your brother to take you away from me.”

“But Tam, he’ll try to get me back. I am the princess of the Spring Court after all. He’ll try to call a meeting, to call for a battle against this court.” The worry was evident in your voice as you spoke the words that Rhys had mentioned a few days ago.

“If we accept the mating bond, your brother can not do anything about it. We can accept it then see a Priestess.”

You wanted to reject the idea of accepting the bond so quickly, but you knew that was a lie. Cassian was your mate, and you were his. This had to be done, and it had to happen now. A war loomed over your heads because of your brother. He’d chosen the wrong side and you wouldn’t stand by anymore. Not with what you could do.

“Let’s do it.” You spoke finally. “I need a day, and we need somewhere where it can be just the two of us. When we come back we’ll see a Priestess.”

“I have a place in mind for privacy.” Cassian said, a smirk on his lips. “I can give you a day as well. But after that you’re mine forever, princess.” You only gave a nod and closed your eyes leaning further into Cassian’s chest. It wasn’t until you were finally asleep, breathing evenly that Cassian called to Rhys in his mind.

“How is she?” It was the first question he had asked when the conversation started.

“She’s fine.” Cassian paused, he glanced down at his mate. “She wants to accept the bond.”

“Good. That’s excellent news brother. I think we could all use that right now.”

“We’re gonna head to the cabin for a few days, then we’ll see a Priestess when we come back.”

“Sounds like a plan. When you both come back we’ll discuss what to do in case Tamlin does try to do something. I want to help her learn her powers if she’ll let me.”

“I think she’d be more than willing to learn. I think it would be great to start training with her as well even if we don’t get far into it.”

“Good idea, brother. Both of you get some rest. I’ll let Feyre know she’s doing better.”

With those words Cassian felt his High Lord leave his mind. When Cassian looked back down at you he noticed that you were asleep. The fae lights in the room dimmed down allowing only the moonlight into the room. Cassian held onto you tightly as you slept on top of his form. This wasn’t the best of circumstances, how he found you. But he was so glad that he’d found you when you needed him most.

[starogeorgina]

𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞

Paring: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen reader , Aegon II Targaryen × Targaryen reader

Warnings: Swearing, smut

1.03

“If you come to Dragonstone with me, I promise I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

Your lower lip wobbles. You wanted to leave with him, but realistically, it wasn’t plausible. “And what happens once we arrive at Dragonstone? Your mother and Prince Daemon just accept me with open arms?”

Jacaerys looks down at his feet. He knew they wouldn’t trust you, nor would they likely wish for you to be in their home. “No, they wouldn’t at first,” he gulps down. “But we could make them see you played no part in the plan of usurping my mother's throne.”

“I didn’t even know my father had died until servants were sent to help me get dressed for Aegon’s coronation. How can I prove that?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Whatever road I take, I’ll end up in the same situation.” Feeling uncomfortable, you unconsciously pick at the skin surrounding your finger nail until it bleeds. “If I return home without Stark’s backing Aegon, I will need to face the wrath of being a failure and disappointment to my family. If I go with you to Dragonstone, and I bend my knee to Rhaenyra I’m leaving my sister and her children with the vipers.”

Suddenly your hands are pried apart. “Stop hurting yourself.”

The authority in Jacaerys tone takes you by surprise. Like most dragons, he had a fiery temper, but this was different. It was as if he was putting all his built-up rage aside to protect you. Meekly, you say, “habit.”

Jacaerys inspects your fingertips, frowning as he takes in the older cuts along with the newer ones. He turns your left hand over and runs his thumb over your palm. “I remember playing outside in the gardens when you fell and cut your hand. I’m surprised it didn’t scar.”

“I remember…” Despite your eyes becoming glossy, a chuckle escapes your lips. “My mother somehow blamed you for my falling, and you hid in your quarters for days.”

“I hid in my quarters because Ser Harwin saw me attempt to kiss your hand; I thought my mother and father would be mad when he told them.”

You smile; this was the first time you heard his version; all you remember clearly was your mother yelling in the privacy of her apartments that the ‘eldest bastard’ was to blame. “I’m guessing they weren’t?”

“Once I explained that I wanted to comfort you, she went to visit King Viserys and proposed our betrothal.” He lets go of your hands and moves his own up to gently cup your face.

“Things could have been so different if my grandsire hadn’t gotten into my mother's head. Do you think we would have been happy?”

“We still could be.”

You feel as if the air has been sucked from your lungs, making it hard to breathe. “Wh-what do you mean?” Jacaerys couldn’t possibly be implying what you thought he did. “What do you mean we still could be?”

“Marry me, here in Winterfell.”

“You have more courage than any knight I know for even suggesting such a thing.”

A smile curls on his lips. “It’s not a jest. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember; if you say no, I will respect that. But if you agree, for the rest of my life, I will spend every day loving you and keeping you safe. Nobody will ever be able to hurt you again.”

His eyes follow your movement as you bring his fingers to your mouth and plant a gentle kiss on them. “My sweet prince, we cannot. Aegon told me, If I betray him, then it’s your life he will take.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

—

Since Northern wedding vows were shared in front of a weirwood tree in the presence of the old god that they believed in, you wanted to be careful not to offend them with your Old Valyrian custom, so Jacaerys purposed you did the ceremony yourselves, outside, surrounded by nothing but the moonlight and your dragons flying above.

You cut each other's lips with a blade made of dragonglass. Jacaerys cuts his hand and rubs a mark on each of your foreheads to signify the continuation of your bloodline. You pledge to each other, “one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

“I’ve va moriot jorrāelatan ao.”

“My sweet Jacaerys, I feel the same way.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and saying everything you wish becomes difficult. Jace leans down, pressing his cold lips against your own. An electric spark you’ve never felt passes through you; it was strong enough to make the snow nipping at your skin momentarily disappear. You wanted this; you wanted him. Jacaerys finally being yours felt surreal—a dream you didn’t want to wake up from.

He pulls back slightly and mumbles against your lips, “We should go back inside. I don’t want my bride to catch a cold.”

—

Nervously, you walk towards the bed covered in layers of fur and find yourself almost digging at your nails again, but when you feel a gentle kiss pressed to the back of your neck, the tension you're holding eases slightly, but the butterflies in your stomach aren’t completely gone.

“We don’t need to do anything,” Jacaerys says quietly. “We are married now; there is no rush.”

You did want to be intimate with Jace, but now that you were standing here, you felt unworthy of him. Bruises from Aegon holding you tightly still lingers on your skin, and it made you feel disgusting.

“I do, but... I’m afraid of what comes next,” you admit. “The repercussion of—”

He cuts you off with a kiss and says, “Whatever happens next, I’ll protect you.”

For once you hold your tongue, not wanting to loudly question how impossible that would be, You sigh, “I wish I could turn all the thoughts in my brain off, even for a short time, so I could revel in my husband's warmth.”

“I could help with that.”

Curious, you lock eyes with him. “What do you mean?”

“I could make you feel good without having sex, but only if you wish it.”

Chewing on your bottom lip, you nod. You weren’t entirely sure what his plan was, but you trusted Jace enough to follow through with his words. Taking your hand, he guides you to lay back on the bed. He kisses down your neck. “Promise me, you’ll tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I promise.”

Jacaerys kisses down your clothed body until he reaches your thighs. He pushes your skirts up to your waist, then slowly pulls your small cloth down. You await the stinging stretch of Jace pushing his cock into you at any second, but instead you feel his hot breath on your core. “Wh—what are you doing?”

“I’m going to taste the sweetest thing the gods ever made.”

“Do you mean—oh fuck!”

Jace spreads your folds open with his fingers, then dips his tongue inside of you.

“Gods, that feels good!”

One of your trusted ladies in waiting once told you that a gold cloak had ‘eaten her cunny’ and shared how good it felt. Ever since you had been curious about the act, this was far better than anything you could have imagined. Jace hooks his arms around your thighs, holding you in place while turning his attention to your clit and flicking over it with his tongue.

Lewd moans fall from your mouth as the coil in your stomach snaps, and you reach the first climax a man has ever given you.

Jace wipes his glistening lips and chin with his sleeve before moving up the bed and laying beside you. He presses a soft kiss to your lips, then gently caresses the soft flesh of your thigh. “We don’t need to go any further.“

“I want you, Jace; I want this.”

Hearing those words fall from your lips, he quickly lowers his breeches until his hard cock springs free. Jace rolls over, lines himself up with you, and slowly begins to push inside you. His thrusts are gentle as his touch is soft, making you feel cared for, almost safe. Jace peppers your neck in kisses while bringing his thumb to your clit and starts to rub it, taking great pleasure in how tightly you squeeze him. “Gods,” he moans. “You’re so perfect, my love; I think you were made for me.”

Tears threaten to fall from your eyes, but you fight to hold them back, not wanting to ruin the moment. Jace notices and immediately stops his movements. “Am I hurting you? Do you want me to stop?”

“No, keep going, please, please!”

Slowly he starts to thrust into you again; he seems unsure until you wrap your legs around his waist, which encourages him to go faster again. It doesn’t take long for you to reach your peak for the second time, and Jacaerys isn’t far behind.

—

Your fingers glide over Jacaerys bare back as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck. The both of you were sticky with sweat, but you’d stopped caring hours ago.

While being so caught up in making love, Jacaerys hadn’t noticed the bruises on your body until he collapsed, panting and gasping beside you. If it wasn’t for exhaustion overtaking him, he would still be expressing his fury.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, his voice laced with sleep.

“How the sun is rising.”

Looking out the window, you can see the orange and pink hues of the sky, and the snowfall is becoming heavier. You take a deep breath, feeling the cool morning air fill your lungs.

Whatever happens next, you must remember that you’re the blood of the dragon, and you must be strong.

I’ve always loved you — I’ve va moriot jorrāelatan ao

[novaursa]

A Flame Torn (a year too late)

- Summary: Aegon tries to confess his love for you, but your father stands in his way.

- Paring: cousin!reader/Aegon (The Uncrowned) Targaryen

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: unworthy

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The castle grounds are quiet, the silence broken only by the distant calls of ravens and the occasional clang of armor as guards pass through the corridors. Aegon’s heart beats louder than the footsteps beneath him, each step heavier as he moves through the familiar halls. It has been a year since your confession, and in that time, the memory of your words has haunted him, lingering like a shadow he cannot shake. He can no longer ignore the weight of what he had left unsaid, and now, after months of torment, he seeks you out.

He reaches the chamber where he knows you often sit, your private sanctuary away from the court. His hand is poised to knock when a voice cuts through the silence like a blade.

"Aegon."

He freezes. The voice is unmistakable—deep, commanding, and filled with a quiet, dangerous power. Slowly, he turns to face your father.

Maegor Targaryen stands at the far end of the corridor, his figure cast in shadow. He steps forward, his dark eyes fixed on Aegon with an intensity that makes the younger man’s throat tighten. There is no mistaking the cold fury simmering just beneath Maegor’s expression, even though his face remains unreadable.

"What business do you have here?" Maegor’s voice is low, a rumble that makes the air feel heavier around them.

Aegon straightens, trying to summon the courage he knows he will need to face his uncle. "I came to see Y/N. I need to speak with her."

Maegor’s eyes narrow, and he takes another step forward, closing the distance between them. His presence is suffocating, the sheer power of him making Aegon feel like a boy again, despite the crown prince title he bears. "A year too late, don’t you think?" Maegor’s tone is mocking, edged with the barest hint of menace.

"I—" Aegon swallows, his mouth dry. "I need to speak with her about… what she said. I made a mistake. I need to make it right."

Maegor stops a few paces away from him, towering and imposing. His lips curl into a grim smile, though there is nothing warm in it. "You rejected my daughter’s love for you. She bared her heart, and you crushed it beneath the weight of your father's promises. And now, you come crawling back. Why?"

Aegon bristles, though he knows better than to let anger guide him here. "I didn't crawl. I came because I can't stop thinking about her. About what she said to me. She deserves—"

"What she deserves," Maegor interrupts, his voice a low growl, "is more than the scraps you offer. You are bound to Rhaena, or have you forgotten that as well?"

Aegon’s fists clench at his sides, but he forces himself to remain calm. "I have not forgotten. But I can’t ignore what I feel. I came to speak to her, not to you."

Maegor’s expression darkens, his eyes gleaming like a dragon about to strike. "You will speak to me because I stand between you and my daughter. If you think you can waltz in here after a year and undo what you’ve done, you are mistaken. She has moved on, Aegon. You are nothing but a memory to her now. A painful one."

Aegon flinches at the words, the weight of them sinking into his chest. The thought of you moving on without him, of your heart hardened by his rejection, feels like a wound that may never heal. "I need to hear that from her," he says, his voice quieter now. "Not from you."

Maegor steps forward until he is almost nose-to-nose with Aegon, the older man’s presence overwhelming. "She has endured enough," Maegor says, his voice a dangerous whisper. "I will not let you hurt her again."

Aegon meets his uncle’s gaze, his heart pounding in his chest. He knows this man, knows the stories of what Maegor is capable of, and yet he cannot back down. "I never meant to hurt her," Aegon says, his voice strained but resolute. "But I can't change what I feel either."

Maegor’s lips curl into a cold smile. "What you feel?" he mocks. "You think you understand what love is? Love is not a passing fancy, a fleeting desire. It is war, sacrifice, and pain. And you—" he steps even closer, his breath hot against Aegon’s face, "are too weak to grasp that."

Aegon feels the sting of Maegor’s words but stands his ground. "You’re wrong," he says, his voice firmer now. "I know what I feel. And I know what I’ve done."

Maegor tilts his head slightly, considering the young prince before him. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a sword.

Then, Maegor’s expression shifts, something darker and more dangerous gleaming in his eyes. "You think you can just come back into her life and make amends with a few words, don’t you?" he says, his voice deceptively calm. "But mark my words, boy. If you ever hurt her again, I will break you. Do you understand?"

Aegon swallows, feeling the weight of Maegor’s threat settle into his bones. He nods, though his heart is still pounding in his chest. "I understand."

"Good." Maegor steps back, though his gaze remains locked on Aegon. "Now leave. If Y/N wishes to speak with you, it will be on her terms. Not yours."

Aegon hesitates for a moment, then nods, understanding that this is not a battle he can win today. Without another word, he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing through the corridor, his mind swirling with regret and frustration.

Behind him, Maegor watches, his dark violet eyes narrowing as Aegon disappears from view. He can still see the lingering pain in your eyes, still hear the echo of your broken heart in the quiet moments when you think no one is watching. And though he has sworn to protect you, he knows that this is not the end.

Aegon may walk away now, but Maegor knows the boy will return. And when he does, Maegor will be waiting. Waiting for the moment when he can finally break the prince who dared to wound his daughter.

[ktsumu]

THE CUT THAT ALWAYS BLEEDS

pairing: childe / tartaglia x f!reader wc: 4.4k

choosing to love him is choosing endless bloodshed; all of it is yours.

(alternatively — the metamorphosis of a god through the eyes of his keeper.)

warnings: suggestive / mentions of sex, nudity, profanity, angst, mentions of murder / death, ambiguous ending i think, almost canon compliant

note: 4.4k words and i don't think even this has a plot. WHO CARES dedicated to @shoyostar bc i never stop talking and @crysugu :3 here he is!

Before he was ever Tartaglia, eleventh of the Harbingers, he was a timid child. 

He feared the simple things — speaking to neighbours, strangers, the mailman. He never went to the market alone, not without his parents, not without his older brother to hold his hand. Neighbourhood boys called him names and you called him sweeter things, bringing him in for hot chocolate because of his red eyes, holding his frozen hands in a lukewarm basin. 

Your town was on the coast but he rarely saw the water; he was afraid of drowning and even more afraid of sinking, even though you could see the ice was six inches thick through the sides of the fishing holes scattered everywhere. Not even the men would crack it, fathers that ate at the head of the table, yet he thought he’d be the one. Nor did he trust anyone to save him. 

Childe was Ajax before he was anything for anyone else, his name from myth. Eagle. He was born a  Greek tragedy; hero, for most. 

He was fourteen when he disappeared. Your mother said he’d come back home, kids get mad. Your father said a bear got to him, a weak thing like that — your whole neighbourhood looked for him after he vanished. 

He was gone three days in the woods but he told you he’d been gone for months. He was underground; you asked if it was Hell but he said it was much more. When he crawled back up to Morepesok, he was a different person.

He looked you in the eye and told you he was finally ready to fight.

+

You didn’t believe he was lost for three months until you watched him hold a sword.

By the barrels on the fishing dock, boys fought with wooden blades. Girls would watch and sit on box crates, swaddled up to their ears, cheering on whichever one they liked that week. They’d watch as they hit each other, splinters snagging on coats, knuckles gone white from the cold and how tight they held their handles. 

When Childe stepped up for the first time, they snickered at him. The boy who ran away from home, coming to join the sword fights. It was a joke and they laughed.

(You saw something in his eyes that day and it scared you. There is nothing more terrifying than a child with bloodlust.)

He beat the kid so badly that they put thirty stitches in his forehead, and you were left to do patchwork on the bomb.

Cutting coloured wires, you dabbed Childe’s red cheek with a warm cloth, wringing it out in the bowl of water that separates the two of you. He was calmer then, in front of you. Not that he wasn’t before; it was less of not being calm and more of craving victory, more of a test of his newfound gift.

“I told you to stop,” you mumbled, “hitting him, I mean.”

“I stop, he starts. I won.”

“What did you win? Where's your prize?”

Childe looked at you dumb, with his dumb childish eyes that no longer held hate. Maybe it was somewhere, hidden, beneath the water you drown in, but instead the surface held a glare of wonder. He was Ajax again, always hopeful.

He hissed when you dabbed his skin with something other than water, something that stung. “I—”

“No one wins in war, Ajax,” you scolded. “You’ll see someday.”

“I won’t be in a war.”

You scoffed, your hand gripping his jaw when he tried to run away. “We’ll see.”

+

You’re seventeen when he stumbles inside your house, the wooden door cracking against the wall as he slumps to the floor.

Your feet are cold when you step away from the wood stove in your living room, dropping to your knees, holding his face in your hands that are always so much warmer than his. They cradle his flushed cheeks, sweat beading on his forehead; he’s gripping at a pulse in his ribs.

“I’m fine,” he assures you, before you start to cry, “just tired. I’m just tired.”

He eases the door shut, his head tilting back against the wall. His hand rests on your knee, squeezing it like he’s grounding himself, counting on the fabric of your pants to do it for him. You touch the icy veins that run over his knuckles and he comes back to life.

“What happened to you?” you rush, your family asleep down the hallway. You turn the dial on the oil lamp beside you, watching the fire reflecting off of his dirty cheeks.

He laughs, pulling your wrist off when you smack your hand over his mouth with a lousy ‘alright, alright’ and a glance towards your parents’ bedroom. “Me?” he coughs out. 

“You should see the other two.”

(You don’t know what told you first, but you remember going cold.)

“What do you mean?” you whisper. You can’t stop whispering, you can’t stop shaking. “Ajax, what did you do?”

Childe’s smile tilts itself crooked. “I killed them,” he says. 

His voice is so quiet it cracks under the pressure to not be heard.

(He’s smiling, but he’s crying. It doesn’t look like he means to. He doesn’t know he is.)

You want to run. You notice the smear of blood on his jaw again—is that even his? His hand still clutches your knee but you only now notice the red his palm stains it with, the red on the side of his torso. You want to run.

(You should run.)

You don’t run. Because it’s Ajax, and he’s tired of running tonight. Why would you?

“It’s okay,” you say with a nod and a shiver, like shutters in a hurricane. You’re both crying, and he’s against your chest, and he’s still so fucking cold that it’s migrating to you. “Stand up. Ajax, stand up—”

“I can’t,” “You can, you need to get in the bath.”

“I’ll wake your—“

“If you were ever worried about that, you wouldn’t have come here, so Ajax would you please—“

He breathes out, muffling his groans as he staggers to his feet. You’re not of much help but at least your hands, your shaking hands, are telling him you’re there. And that’s enough. 

“I love it when you say that,” he grimaces, shuffling towards the hallway. “My name.”

+

Childe misses your eighteenth birthday by ten minutes.

You ate dinner with your family at your favourite pub, his siblings wrote you cards and pulled your ears, you tied your hair loose and flirted with the pretty guy who fed the boat lines. You don’t like him all that much, but he looks nothing like your neighbour and for you, that is a fine enough reason to talk. 

Stones hit your window at ten past midnight, and Childe stands in the snowy alley outside of your bedroom. He wields another pebble and tilts his head.

Your window’s too old for you to ignore me.

You pull on your coat and boots, scarf too because he talks too much, and head outside into the night, creeping out the back door. You cross your arms, walking over to where he stands just outside of the lamplight.

“Hiding?” you ask, stopping in front of him.

Childe laughs like nothing’s wrong, digging through his back pocket with his gloved hand, handing you a box. “Happy birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday."

“Belated.”

You glance between his rosy cheeks and the box before you take it, looking towards the end of the alley to avoid his stare. Because guys like Childe don’t look away — you know better than to look back.

“Thank you,” you murmur, tucking your hands back into the warmth of your pockets.

Childe nods; you don’t open gifts in front of him, you know better than to do that, too. He knows better than to think you would. 

You look at his hands, eyebrows furrowing. “Leather gloves?”

“So you noticed?”

“How? You couldn’t afford long johns last year.”

Childe grins. “I got a job.”

“At the tank house,” you say, crossing your arms. “Which, you had last year.”

The look in his eyes tells you he’s in deep — he doesn’t seem to care about it as much as you do. “I’m a Harbinger, now.”

“You—”

“I’m the youngest—” “You’re the dumbest,” you grit, sticking a finger in between his ribs. “You're eighteen — what kind of achievement is that?”

He takes a deep breath, his lungs pushing your finger back until it falls defeated. “I didn’t expect you to be happy, believe me.”

“Why,” you whisper, “would I ever be happy to watch you sell yourself to killers?”

“You know I’m no better,”

“Oh, Ajax, if you think that’s what I know then you’re more stupid than I thought.”

There’s no real reason to excuse the blood on his hands other than the fact that they’re so gentle when they hold yours.

There’s a voice down the alley and two drunk men in hats and coats wave your way. You grimace, but Childe waves back. 

“This is why you’re outside. You don’t want them to know where you live.”

“Or where you live.”

You grit your teeth. “Yes, because it’s great that your allies are a threat your family.”

“You’re not my family,” he says, “that’d make things weird.”

Your eyes well and you swallow, looking back at the men who stare at both of you. They murmur amongst themselves and you try to ignore them, but it’s hard when Childe won’t look away.

A breeze of snow from the rooftops drifts over you, and you look at him one more time. The last, you try to pledge to yourself. “Don’t leave with them.”

“It’s too late now and you know it.”

“How the fuck would I know it?”

“Don’t cry,” he tells you, much softer now that he knows you didn’t realize it yet, “I’ll come home, I’m not gone forever. If anything, I’ll come back richer. No one will sleep cold.”

“You’ll come back to spoil your family with blood money?”

“I’d spoil you, too,” he adds, “but I know better than to try that.”

There is a heavy silence between the two of you. It isn’t the weight of his gold or the weight of him not coming home; it is the weight of lead, of gunpowder. The weight of the bullets that his two new friends that wait in the street have loaded.

Childe takes your arms, tugging your hands from your pockets, frowning at your white fingertips and cracking knuckles. 

“Take these—”

“I don’t want your dirty paws,”

“Well, I don’t want your dry hands. And when I come home, I’ll need them.”

Childe drives the knife deeper, twists it through your chest, and slips off his gloves. He places them in your hands and just snickers when you pocket them. “No worries, I’ll just get a new pair.”

“Great.”

He nods, starting down the alley. He knows you well enough to understand that you don’t want to say goodbye, not when you know you’re saying goodbye to how things were before. Instead, he just calls over his shoulder.

“See you at Christmas?”

“Why even come back?”

“Right,” he chuckles. “I wanna see your gift next time, though.”

Then he leaves, and he doesn’t look at you again. You suppose he’s been trained to do that, but then again, you can’t remember a time where he has looked back at you, anyway. He’s never looked back at anyone before the end.

+

He comes home every Christmas, just like he promised. 

Each time he does, he drags you out to a cabin outside of town, one so hidden in the woods that you almost thought he built it, and he fucks you like he missed you before he was gone. Not enough to leave the Fatui, but enough to come home once in a while. And once in a while is all you're gonna get, so you don't let it go.

He comes home, tells his family all about his life as a businessman, a toy salesman you once heard, and then sneaks you out so you can love him as loud as you want. Then, you eat the fish you bring, he tells you how much he missed the sturgeon in Morepesok, and he's gone before the sun comes up. 

Childe lets you go with a tired breath, watching the fire beat against your glistening skin as you sit on the edge of the bed. The warmth of him courses through you like a river current and you fix your hair with weak hands, biting the tie that was around your wrist. “I feel your eyes, you’re not subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” he says simply. “You’re beautiful. More beautiful now.”

“You said that last year.”

“Next year, too.”

You roll your eyes, back straightening when he looms behind you, his naked body against yours. His hand sneaks around your waist and his lips press against your shoulder blade, kissing until he gets to the juncture of your neck and collarbone. 

“Ajax,”

“I know,” he says against your skin, “gotta eat.”

“You’d think they would feed you in the castle.”

“Hardly a castle, sweetheart."

“That belt says otherwise,” you mumble, standing, making him let go. You pick up your underwear from the floor, too hot to wear anything else. “It’s custom.”

He snorts, flopping back down on the bed. “Birthday gift.”

“From who?”

“Ooh, jealous?”

“Of someone who doesn’t know who you are? No.”

Childe hums a laugh, giving a look in agreement to the ceiling that you catch out of the corner of your eye. He rests a hand on his chest, watching you sweat in the heat of the fireplace, smiling at the life he has for the next four hours.

He clears his raspy throat. “You finally wore it. The gift.” He snickers, “I only waited two years.”

You look over your shoulder at him, pulling your cami over your head. “I wasn’t gonna let money rot.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“What?”

“The stone. Do you know what it is?”

You stare, face hot. You’re partially embarrassed to not know, never having left Snezhnaya and let alone your town, but you’re curious enough to shake your head. Childe smiles like he knows that you wish you knew enough to say yes.

(You hate that he’s travelled the world you used to tell him you dreamt about. The one you made him dream about, too.)

He scoots up to lean against the headboard, and you take the invitation to come back to the bed. You crawl onto the mattress again, sitting beside him as he moves the clasp of the necklace to the back of your neck, and the stone to the front.

“They call it Cor Lapis,” he says, “it’s in Liyue.”

“Oh.”

He lets go. “It’s not rare, but I like it.”

“You spend a lot of time in Liyue, it makes sense.”

“So you do read my letters,” he says with a grin, cocking his head and holding your hand. “What else do I say?”

“What about the necklace?”

“Huh?”

“If it’s not rare, why get a custom-made necklace?” you ask. “Expensive for such a simple stone.”

Childe’s eyes drop back down to the necklace, holding it out from your neck and in line with the light of the bedside table lamp. It glitters in his eyes and you’re sure it does in yours.

“Cor Lapis is dull,” he tells you. “It doesn’t actually glow until it’s cracked open.”

You look at the cut edges of the stone, framed in gold. It’s small, but it’s something that looks like Childe gave it to you. When your mother saw it, she said it was beautiful and asked when he was home last.

You focus on the fingers that hold it.

“I found it a lot like you,” he says, his voice lower, his eyes finally looking up to face you head-on. “Heart of gold.”

“I don’t need to be cracked open."

“You have been,” he corrects, “you are right now.”

He’s right. He’s so fucking right that it hurts your head to think about and hurts your chest to acknowledge. 

Childe’s hand runs up and under your shirt, showing your skin. “And you’re glowing.”

You sit in the silence inside your open ribs and give him a small smile, standing up to shake his hand off of you.

“I’ll let you tell me that next winter, too.”

+

Next Christmas, you stay in bed. Childe cradles your necklace again but doesn’t tell you about Liyue because you don’t ask, too proud to ask twice. 

Instead, you lay against his chest, littered with brand new scars you didn’t see last time. Some you watch, others you look away from because they run too deep for you to need to know how he got them. Year by year, you get more quiet.

Childe does, too. He hasn’t lost his boyish charm but it shares his body with something else now.

“Why don’t you come home before Christmas?” you ask. “Once, even. Teucer’s birthday?”

“It’s not that easy. If it was, I’d be there for every birthday. Yours, theirs.”

You purse your lips, rolling onto your back to stare aimlessly at the ceiling. “Right,” you whisper.

“Don’t do that,”

“Why do you say that like I’m fishing for empathy?” you ask casually, scoffing a laugh. “You used to have some, you know. Before you were a fucking hitman.”

“You have no problem fucking said hitman, so please, if you now raise any sudden changes of heart, I should probably know.” 

You look at him coldly and he shakes his head. “It’s not like I want to hurt you.”

His arm gets heavier around you, weighing you down against his side. You fight it off when you sit up, turning to look down at him. Déjà vu washes over you both.

“Do you honestly think that I’m talking about me?” you say through laughs. “I’ve gotten used to your wounds, Ajax, it’s not about me.”

“I—”

“How about your family?” you say. It shakes the cabin walls, even though you weren’t loud at all. “You have younger siblings who idolize you and older ones who know better than what you tell them. Do you think they’re dumb?”

He stares at you. You ask, “You remember them, don’t you?”

“I remember my siblings, yes, thank you for aski—”

“Did you know Teucer made a sword?”

Childe’s next sentence fades into a sigh, and his lips purse as he shakes his head.

You cross your arms. “It looks just like yours.”

“Brotherly love, toys are harmless.”

“Who do you think will stitch his eyebrow? Or sneak him into the bathroom after he comes down from his first kill—”

“I never asked you to be my keeper,” Childe says, the grip on your hand tighter than it was before.

“And look how it turned out, anyway.” 

Childe leans back against the bed frame and thin pillows he’s stacked up, looking anywhere but at you. 

He’s older now and hardened into someone you can’t recognize, but he resembles a lot of the boy he was born as. He still doesn’t look you in the eye when he apologizes, not when he means it.

“Do you want me to leave?”

You stand, finding your clothes on the floor. You’re too hot, so you put on your underwear and shirt and leave it at that. “I brought fish. Rest while you can.”

+

It’s July, and Childe comes back to Morepesok in the middle of a blizzard.

Glasses rattle in behind the bar and you dry the ones from the sink, since the hot water ran out an hour ago. The pub’s empty but your shift still stands, even though no one dares to go outside when the storms are this bad, and it’s only you and a few stragglers left to pray the windows don’t shatter when the breeze hits you from the coast.

Every time you catch yourself in the counter’s reflection, you see your necklace, and you wonder what the beaches in Liyue are like. You can’t swim here without freezing to death and you can’t dream in relentless snow, so you let yourself think of him sometimes.

(Warm, swimming in streams. You wonder if he ever got over his fear of drowning when he realized he wouldn’t sink.)

Air whistles through old panels and teases the fire that burns in the seating area, and there’s a quiet hum of voices that dim the crackle of the logs you throw in every half-hour. A glass slides off the counter and breaks in the wind.

You gasp and jump, stepping back, stepping forward when you hit something — someone. You turn around and Childe stares back, snow on his eyelashes and his hair damp from hail and the sweat beneath his hat.

“Why are you here?”

“Oh, you’re so welcoming. Need help?”

You scoff, kneeling with a brush and pan, guiding the glass back into a pile. You don’t answer his question. “They don’t really mean it when they say 'Christmas in July,' you know.”

“You were the one who told me to visit more, right?”

You nod, standing again, dumping the glass into a bin. “Outside the bar, staff only."

Childe slowly raises his hands in surrender, stepping quietly out from the back and rounding to face you again. He leans on the freezing counters, looking around the room. “You work here?”

“A normal person job, yes.”

“So boring.”

“Why’d you come back?” you ask, going back to washing glasses. “When do you leave?”

Please, stay. Just for once, stay.

“Tomorrow.”

“Do they ever let you off your leash for more than a day? Or do you just hate snowstorms that much now?”

“They have gotten worse since I’ve been gone,”

“Or you’ve just been gone long enough to forget where you come from,” you suggest, glancing up at him again. “The Fatui do still operate here, right?”

“Lower your voice, eh?”

“Sorry. Forgot.”

Childe purses his lips, looking around again. He lowers his head. “The cabin’s open.”

“There’s no way we can make it through the trees blind.”

“I can get us there.”

“Do you remember you got lost in those woods once?”

He grins when you look up. “Well, you know you don’t learn without getting lost. I know them now.”

You crack a tiny smile back, one that probably gives him way too much hope. He watches you put glasses away, he relaxes when he sees the necklace you still wear; even if you started wearing it two years late. 

You shake your head. “I’m not coming to the cabin.”

“Why’s that?”

“You should spend the day you have with your family.”

“You—”

“Don’t make things weird.”

The moment is bittersweet and Childe isn’t stupid enough to challenge it, so he just laughs. You try to but it comes out funny.

“So that’s it?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “It’s always been your decision, not mine.”

And nothing you have ever done has been anything I’ve wanted.

Childe nods, biting his cheek. He knows that people who live in the woods often die there, too. He never really made it out. “Show me out, then?”

You give in, walking him the short distance to the door. He rests with his hand on the knob, gently moving you away from the door so the breeze doesn’t freeze you in place. He tugs his hat on and notices the gloves he gave you years ago hang by your coat on the standing rack.

“When should I come back?”

He watches you breathe in, he watches you breathe out. “Come back when you’re coming home.”

Childe doesn’t try to reason or to ask what you mean, because he knows what you mean.

Don’t.

With a nod, he smiles. It shows with a weakness that no Harbinger should still have with them; you think this might be the death of it.

“I’ll see you around, then.” He opens the door.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Bye, Childe.”

The door shuts. You don’t hear the snow crunching beneath his feet until a few seconds later, and you keep your ear against the door until you don’t hear them anymore.

Before he was ever Tartaglia, Childe, eleventh of the Harbingers, his home was in the woods he got lost in. Not underground, but in a cabin, with strong windows and shutters the colour of your eyes.

+

It’s the second Christmas you haven’t seen Childe or the woods. You haven’t checked if he’s stayed there and the stories Teucer tells you are old, but there’s a chance he’s still burning a fire and laying in bed, glowing with heat.

Either Childe hasn’t come back, or he just hasn’t told you he has. Either way, you don't make an effort to know.

Somewhere in Liyue, there’s an ore mine with your name carved above the entrance. The men talk about you when they wheel out carts of jade and ore, wondering how you reached so far up to tell them you were there.

In Mondstadt, an outpost sings a folk tune about a girl who heals wounded soldiers.

In Inazuma, a village calls a seashell by your name. It started with the kids, who said a man from a different place told them all about it. An expert on it, they said. They haven’t called it anything else since.

In Sumeru, your laugh runs through the river.

In Natlan, a painting hangs in a bar of a woman dressed in fire, a ribbon on her wrist and her hair everywhere else. When asked, the artist says he was inspired by a man who spoke of a girl with a heart of gold. 

In Fontaine, they serve grilled sturgeon, only cooked by wooden stove.

Childe sits down in a town in Snezhnaya, far away from Morepesok, and he sits in front of five kids who look just like the ones back home. Freezing, and curious.

He lets them fawn over his attire, bug him for all he’s worth while they’re tucked inside of a barn to avoid the cold. He answers every question about his job selling toys with enthusiasm and without guilt, promising to someday come back with some for them. Then, they ask him to tell them a story — one they haven’t heard before.

Somewhere in Snezhnaya, far away from Morepesok, a tale is told about a girl who travelled the world.

[tasteofgrave]

a father as a god

ruth gilligan // the two faces of january (2014) // heather o’neill // chuck palahniuk // william bearhart

[adoriels-tears-if]

Adoriel's Tears Q&A (1th meeting)

The soft afternoon light spills into Elianna’s study, lending a calm warmth to the room that contrasts sharply with the tense atmosphere. Ashlyen sits by the window, gazing out as though trying to avoid the others. Tobias leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed tightly, his expression unreadable but far from welcoming. Elianna adjusts her seat, her hands fidgeting in her lap, and her eyes dart to Ashlyen before quickly looking away.

Cecily bursts in, parchment in hand and a determined smile lighting up her face. “Alright, everyone’s here! That’s great!” She stops near the table and sets her notes down with a flourish. “Today, I have the honor of asking all the questions our readers sent in. So, sit back, relax, and get ready for anything!”

Tobias snorts. “Ready for anything. Sure.”

Ashlyen glances at Cecily, one eyebrow raised. “Let’s hope these readers asked questions worth answering.”

“I’m sure Cecily will make it worth our while,” Elianna says, her voice soft but steady as she offers the young woman an encouraging smile.

Cecily beams at her. “Thanks, Elianna! I’ll do my best.” She straightens her parchment and clears her throat. “The first question is for Ashlyen.” Her eyes skim the page, and she hesitates. “Oh… it’s, um, a tough one.”

Ashlyen frowns and tilts his head. “Why? What does it say?”

Instead of answering, Cecily holds out the parchment. Ashlyen hesitates, then takes it from her hands. His expression darkens as he reads silently, though he quickly masks it. “How does it feel to know your child will grow up without their father? Do you think of them every day? Are you afraid they’ll grow up resenting your absence?” His voice remains steady, but there’s a strain in it that betrays his calm.

He places the parchment back on the table, folding his hands together. “It’s not an easy question to answer,” he says, after a moment of silence. “Every day, I think about them. Their face, their voice, their laugh—things I’ve missed and things I’ll never get to see, to remember. It’s not just a fleeting thought! It stays with me, no matter where I go!” His gaze shifts to the window, his jaw tightening. “I chose to leave because I knew it was the only way to protect them. I still believe that. But…” He exhales slowly eyes closed. “Yes. I’m afraid. I’m afraid that when they grow up, all they’ll see is the absence and none of the reasons behind it. If they resent me for it, I’ll bear that, as long as it means they’re safe.”

The room falls silent. Cecily fidgets with the corner of her parchment, unsure how to fill the heavy pause. Tobias pushes off the doorframe, his voice cutting through the quiet.

“Safe? That’s a convenient excuse.”

Ashlyen’s gaze snaps to him. “You think I wanted this?”

“Maybe not,” Tobias says, shrugging, “but it doesn’t change what it is.”

Elianna raises her hand, her tone sharp. “That’s enough. Both of you.” Her words slice through the tension like a blade. “This is an interview, not a battlefield.”

She looks at Cecily. “Next question, please.”

Cecily clears her throat and flips to the next page. “Right! Let’s keep things moving!”

She flips through her parchment and looks up, eyes sparkling with mischief. “All right, here's an interesting one,” she says, a teasing smile on her face. “So, who started calling MC 'Little Star' first?”

Elianna smiled softly, glancing at Ashlyen. “I think you did, didn't you?”

Ashlyen shifts in his seat, a slight blush rising to his cheeks. “Maybe,” he admits, avoiding the young woman's gaze.

Elianna leans forward slightly, her voice teasing but warm. “Oh, come on, you can say it. You gave them that nickname, didn't you? ”

Ashlyen exhales, his gaze drifting to the window as if searching for the right words. “It wasn't just a nickname,” he finally says, in a calmer voice, ”It was a way of honoring their Elven heritage. In our language, stars carry meaning: they guide us, give us hope, and remind us of where we come from. I wanted them to have a connection to that, even if they would never understand it... completely.”

Elianna's expression softens, and for a moment she looks at Ashlyen with infinite tenderness. “It's beautiful,” she says softly. “And it suits them perfectly.

Tobias rolls his eyes, clearly enjoying the moment. “Honestly, I’m more curious about whether MC will find out that Ash keeps forgetting everything about them,” he says with a sharp edge to his voice.

Elianna turns toward Tobias, then back to Ashlyen. “Do you think they’ll ever find out?” she asks.

Ashlyen swallows, his expression briefly showing signs of discomfort. “I hope they never find out,” he says, voice low. “The fact that I forget them every half hour... it’s not something I want them to ever know. It’s less a choice, and more a necessity, but... I’d rather they stay in the dark. It’s safer for them, for everyone.”

Elianna shares a long, silent look with Ashlyen, but doesn’t speak. Tobias shrugs and glances toward the door.

“It might be better this way. Anyway, MC stayed the night at Telio and Mickhail’s to avoid seeing you. It’s... less painful this way.”

The room goes quiet, the words hanging in the air. Ashlyen stares down at the table, avoiding the others’ gazes. “It was… necessary,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“I think we can move on to the next question,” grumbles Tobias.

Cecily glances at her list, her eyebrows shooting up as she reads the next question. “Ooh, this one’s about you, Uncle Tobias!” she says with a smirk. "How would you react if you found out Arthur had a crush on MC?"

Tobias blinks, before cracking into an awkward laugh. “Arthur? A crush? On MC?” He rubs the back of his neck, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I mean, it’s… surprising, but not the worst thing in the world, I guess. I mean ! He’s ten. A bit young for that, don’t you think?"

Elianna chuckles softly, leaning her chin on her hand. “Come on, Tobias. Kids his age have crushes all the time. You can’t deny it’s possible. Plus Mc is really easy to like."

Tobias shrugs. "Of course they are! I was so excited for Arthur to meet them! He’s been asking a lot of questions about MC ever since I mentioned them. If he does have a crush, it just means he sees how great they are too.” His tone softens slightly, the affection for both Arthur and MC clear.

Cecily beams. “Aw, that’s sweet! But what if Arthur didn’t like MC? Maybe because… of...you know.”

Tobias’s expression hardens slightly, though not out of anger. “Arthur’s not like that,” he says firmly. “He’s a good kid, and I trust him. If something like that came up, I’d talk to him. Make him understand how wrong it is to judge someone by the blood running through their veins. But honestly…” He pauses, his voice softening again. “I can’t see him disliking MC. He’s been curious about them ever since I told him about Northview. I think he’s more excited to spend time with them than anything else.”

Ashlyen, who had been quietly observing, tilts his head. “Interesting. You’re remarkably sure of this boy’s character. A bold thing, considering his age, that you pointed out earlier.”

Tobias gives him a sharp look but doesn’t rise to the bait. “Arthur’s got a good heart. I wouldn’t have brought him to Northview otherwise.”

Elianna smiles gently, her gaze flickering between Tobias and Ashlyen. “It’s good that Arthur has you looking out for him. And that MC has someone like you too.”

Tobias grumbles something under his breath, though the warmth in his expression lingers as he shifts his focus back to Cecily. “Next question?”

Cecily lets out a chuckle. She adjusts her seat, her quill lightly tapping the parchment as she pushes a lock of hair back behind her ear. “Okay, this one's a bit of a time-dive. The reader wants to know: How long was Ash in the picture with ‘preggo’ Elianna? Did he watch the birth of his child? If not, did he want to? And lastly, what were Elianna’s cravings, and how did everyone handle her mood swings?”

Tobias snorts at the word “preggo,” earning a quick glare from Cecily.

Ashlyen sits up straighter, his expression unreadable. “I wasn’t there,” he says curtly.

Elianna hesitates, her hands tightening around the fabric of her red dress. “Ash… wasn’t part of my pregnancy,” she says, her voice measured. “He couldn’t be. Not with...the risks.”

Ashlyen’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “It wasn’t a choice I made lightly. But staying would have put you—and them—in danger. You know that."

Elianna looks at him, pain and sorrow in her face, then nods. “I do. And I don’t blame you for it. But…” Her voice softens. “It was hard.”

Cecily nods and gives her a supportive smile before turning to Ashlyen. “Did you want to be there for the birth?”

“Of course I did!” Ashlyen says, his voice low but firm. “Every day I wasn’t there, I wanted to be. It's a feeling that persists to this day. . And when I heard it was difficult…” His voice trails off, and he looks down, visibly struggling with the memory.

Tobias clears his throat. "It was difficult," he says bluntly. "Cecily and I handled it." He adds, smug. "She’s the one who brought MC into the world, not without a lot of effort. And Elia..." He stops, glancing at her with raw softness. "You were stronger than anyone had a right to be."

Elianna smiles faintly "Thanks, Toby."

Cecily jumps in, eager to lighten the mood. “Well, as for cravings, Elianna had a thing for sweet things. Honeyed bread, candied nuts, even raw sugar sometimes. We had to ration it so she wouldn’t run us out of supplies!”

Elianna laughs softly, some of the tension easing from her frame. “I blame the baby. They had quite the sweet tooth even then. Elianna chuckles softly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Oh, Tobias once came back with an entire jar of honey because I couldn’t stop talking about it.”

Tobias groans, shaking his head. “You mean the three jars. And you finished them in a week!”

Cecily laughs. “And what about the mood swings? How did everyone deal with those?”

Tobias raises an eyebrow. “Carefully.”

Elianna narrows her eyes at both of them. “I wasn’t that bad!”

"You were!"

“Elianna was an angel 90% of the time. But that other 10%? You did not want to be the one to give her bad news.”

Elianna raises an eyebrow at him. “You survived, didn’t you?”

“Barely,” Tobias teases, and the room erupts in soft laughter.

Cecily claps her hands. “Alright, that was a great answer from everyone! Next question!” She leans forward, clearly intrigued by the next question. “Alright, Tobias, this one’s for you. Have you ever indulged in the fantasy of MC being your pupil? Of them being a Tear, and the both of you traveling the world together—even if that could never happen?”

Tobias tilts his head back against the doorframe, letting out a low chuckle. “Fantasy, huh? That’s putting it lightly.”

Cecily’s pen pauses. “So… you have?”

He shrugs, crossing his arms. “Of course I have. It’s hard not to, sometimes. MC has… potential. A spark, They have something! And I’ve wondered what it would’ve been like to guide that spark, to show them the world beyond Northview.” His voice softens slightly. “To see them grow, to face challenges together as a team.”

Elianna shifts in her seat, her expression unreadable. “You’ve never mentioned this before.”

Tobias glances at her, a faint sad smirk tugging at his lips. “Because it’s just that—a fantasy. I know their path isn’t mine to guide. They have their own journey to follow, and I’d never try to take that away from them.”

Ashlyen, who has been quietly listening, finally speaks. “You wouldn’t want to be their teacher. Not really.”

Tobias raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

Ashlyen meets his gaze evenly. “Because deep down, you know they already look up to you—not as a teacher, but as family, as...as a father. And that’s a far greater bond.” he swallows.

For a moment, Tobias doesn’t reply, his usual sharp demeanor toward Ashlyen softening.

“Maybe you’re right,” he admits quietly.

The exchange makes Elianna's head drop. Cecily hastens to seize her hand as she sees the young woman's eyes begin to glisten.

“Let's move on to the next question,” says Ashlyen, clearing his throat.

Cecily glances at the next question and hesitates, her gaze flickering toward Ashlyen. “This one’s… sensitive. But I think it’s worth asking.” She takes a steadying breath. “Ashlyen, out of all the biggest milestones that come with raising a child, which do you wish you had been there for the most?”

Ashlyen’s usual stoicism falters, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze drifts to the floor, his voice quieter than usual. “All of them. Every single one.”

Elianna’s expression softens, and she looks away, her hands clasping tightly in her lap.

Ashlyen continues, his tone heavy. “If I had to choose…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Their first steps, definitely. Seeing them walk for the first time—watching them move forward, maybe run even just a little, and knowing it’s the beginning of so much more. I’ve imagined it a thousand times, but it’s never the same as being there.”

Tobias, leaning against the doorframe, shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t interrupt.

Cecily’s pen stills for a moment as she studies Ashlyen. “Do you think you’ll ever get to be there for other milestones?”

Ashlyen meets her gaze, his eyes shadowed but resolute. “I hope so. More than anything. But hope doesn’t change the past.”

Elianna finally speaks, her voice soft. “It doesn’t. But it can shape the future, Ash.”

The elf glances at her, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them.

Cecily clears her throat, sensing the tension. “Well… thank you for answering so honestly.” She offers him a small, encouraging smile. “I think the readers will appreciate that.”

Ashlyen nods slightly, retreating into silence once more.

Cecily watches the silence settle over the room like a thick fog. Ashlyen's gaze is fixed on the table, his hand resting on the edge, tense and motionless. Even Tobias, who is usually eager to have the last word, remains silent, leaning back against the doorframe, looking somber.

Elianna studies Ashlyen intently, her features softening as she perceives the slight tremor in his hand. She sighs, a mixture of sadness and determination crossing her face.

“I think we all need a moment,” she says softly, breaking the silence.

Tobias raises an eyebrow but doesn't argue. He exhales sharply, mumbles something under his breath, and shifts position. Elianna rises slowly, her chair gently scraping the floor. Cecily's pen pauses mid-word as she watches the young woman circle the table.

Ashlyen doesn't look up, his shoulders rigid, his head down. Elianna stops beside him, close enough for her scent to reach him.

“Ash,” she whispers, in a tender yet firm voice.

He looks up, hesitant to meet her gaze. The reserved expression he wears so well fades and, for a moment, Cecily thinks he looks completely lost. It's a difficult vision, one that presses on her heart.

Elianna kneels beside him and grabs his hand from the table. She interlaces her fingers in his, the contact both grounding and comforting. “I know how much this weighs on you,” she says, her thumb grazing his knuckles in a soothing rhythm.

His jaw tightens, but his fingers wrap around hers instinctively. “It's not enough,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I should have been there, for you, for them.”

Elianna leans closer to him, her other hand rising to touch his cheek. He flinches slightly at first, but she holds on, her palm warm against his skin. His breath catches and he closes his eyes and leans deeper against her. “I wanted to be there,” he admits, his words heavy with unspoken pain.

“I know,” she replies, her voice poised but charged with emotion. “And so will they, one day. They'll understand, Ash. Because I'll make sure they know the truth - that their father loved them enough to protect them, even from afar.”

Ashlyen's hand tightens around his, his head dipping forward until their foreheads almost touch. “Elianna,” he breathes, his name a mixture of reverence and regret.

“You always did what you thought was best,” she continued, her fingers threading through his dark hair. “And I don't blame you for that. I've never blamed you. Not then, not now. We agreed.”

Ashlyen's shoulders shake slightly, and for the first time, Cecily sees tears shining in his eyes. The elf who had always seemed untouchable, inflexible, seems fragile and human in Elianna's hands.

Near the door, Tobias shifts uncomfortably, the tenderness of the moment seeming too intimate for him to witness. “If we take a break, I'll come out,” he murmurs, rising quickly to his feet.

Elianna glances at him but says nothing, her attention returning to Ashlyen.

Cecily clears her throat gently and offers a small smile. “I'll give you some privacy. Let me know when you're ready to continue.” She gathers her notes and follows Tobias, leaving the room to the two of them.

As the door closes, Elianna runs her thumb over Ashlyen's cheek, catching a tear. “You don't have to be strong all the time,” she murmurs. “Especially not when you're with me.”

Ashlyen lets out a shaky breath, his hand holding her like a lifeline. “I'm sorry,” he murmurs.

“For what?” she asks softly.

“For everything,” he replies.

Elianna leans forward and places a tender kiss on his lips. “I'm not Ash. Just let me be there for you."

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ I can make it right. ❞

Ω!reader x α!jeong-hyun | omegaverse AU, fluff, NSFW | sub. bttm. reader (AFAB) | reader has had top surgery and bottom growth | NOT PROOFREAD | wc: 4.8K

warnings: graphic description of violence, power imbalance, yandere tendencies, mentions of drugs, stalking, mentions of torture, panic attacks, vomitting, omegaverse element (heat/rut),

masterlist: how you met (mob yanderes) : pt. 1 (K.JH): pt. 2 (K.JH)

authors note: i'm sorry but this is going to be a three parter because my writers block has been so bad,,,,but i swear,,,i swear i'm trying to get my groove back

*songs on repeat: Dollhouse by The Weeknd ft. Lily Rose Depp, Arsonist by Halsey, Music To Watch Boys To X I Wanna Be Yours mash-up

* YN is described as wearing more fem. clothing as he performs.

Ha-Joon's home is covered with knick-knacks. You honestly hadn't expected it from him. The alpha had never spoken about his interests in cute figurines or mini-items. His guest bedroom, your bedroom, had a few opened and empty boxes of these big-headed figurines in one corner. He apologised for it but you waved it off.

He was already doing you a big favour by letting you crash at his place. The paranoia and sleep deprivation were not a good combination for your mental health or physical health. The thought of using Jeong-Hyun's gift made bile rise to your throat. Action movies never bothered you, nor did horror movies, but there was something visceral about gorey thriller movies.

Yes, you know it's fake. But seeing the guts spill out, bones jutting out from under thin skin, teeth flying out — 

You sighed, pressing your palms to your face as you let the cold water spray down at you. Your father had once brought home a bag of fresh fish, going on about his friend who'd gone on a fishing trip, and little you had watched as he prepared it for your mother to cook.

Those glassy eyes staring up at nothing with that gaping mouth. He'd removed his scales first, telling you not to stand so close because they'd be flying around. Once done, he brought the kitchen knife to its belly.

It gave in to the dullness but quickly lost the fight. He angled the sharp edge, holding the fish down with his other hand, and sliced it down. The smell hits you first, and then the viscera of its guts spills out.

You didn't cry. Or scream. It'd been a fish. You'd eaten it more times than you could count — but to cut another person?

To bring the blade to their skin, push and push until their flesh gives in to your blade. Then angle it to slice it open.

Would there be a smell?

Your mind morphed the image of a man with glassy eyes and a gaping mouth, scales dusted across the high points of his face and the back of his hands. Him staring at you with that accusatory gaze, the smell of seawater and decay flooding your senses.

You gagged, clumsily turning the handle to the shower then stumbled to the toilet. You wretch, your mouth already filling with saliva as you feel the warmth of dinner climb its way up and out where it came from. The shower felt useless now; you felt unclean again.

Ha-Joon's feet stop by the door, his shadow shifting as he stands there contemplatively.

"Hey, you okay?" you press your forehead to your arm, coughing and spitting. "I'm fine, Hyung..."

Both of you wince at the gravelly tone your voice takes.

The deep red flowers in your temporary bedroom give you a pause. Still damp from the too-long shower, you wipe at the back of your neck and shoulders as you approach it. It looked so out of place on top of the empty boxes of figures, its box much more refined in its designs. The lack of plastic and colourful designs certainly helped — the matte finish as well.

Pretty like u - K. JH

This wasn't the right move. Accepting his gifts, sitting on his lap, sharing that tender moment in front of the crowd; what were you thinking?

Jeong-Hyun was kind because he needed to put a front. His kindness wasn't swoon-worthy, it was supposed to set off alarms in your head not make your omega sigh and coo. You were smarter than this. Those TV series about a naive omega in a dead-end job being 'saved' by some big bad but secretly soft alpha — that would not be your life.

Those shady figures follow you everywhere, making you lose sleep. Even if it wasn't Jeong-Hyun, perhaps it was because of him. Your bold move to flirt with him the first night you met had caused Ha-Joon to scold you and get your attention from your shady boss. You shouldn't let the feeling of your intimate under-the-skirt moment overshadow your rationale. 

A drop of water trails down your thighs, your skin prickling at the very feeling. You can still feel him. Those haunting eyes and that soft expression. Seeing your naked body in the changing room mirror backstage, the only piece of ‘clothing’ being Jeong-Hyun’s knife and halter gift. He had been so gentle and firm as he adjusted it around your thighs, fixing the tightness and smoothing his rough hands over your skin. 

You were losing it. As you locked the door of your bedroom, pulled the towel away from your waist and settled on the bed you tell yourself that this wasn’t because of Jeong-Hyun. Not his mismatched eyes or his gentlemanly hovering hands. You pull the blanket over yourself, fluttering your eyes closed as your fingers trail down to your cunt. The scent of those damn flowers makes you bite down on your lip, just as your fingers stroke over your cock. 

It’s just been a stressful couple of days, okay? 

You needed to get the edge off. This wasn’t anything serious. You pondered briefly about the schedule of your heat, but the tremors of pleasure that run through you quickly distracted you from it. Widening your legs, you slide your touch further downwards and sigh at the amount of wetness that greets you. The sound of the blankets and bedsheets rubbing against your skin pricks a sense of fear in you. Ha-Joon would catch on if you were too loud. You try to keep still, pressing into yourself and gasping softly. Rough hands spread themselves on your legs, blunt nails dragging themselves up to your slicked thighs. That heady scent of bergamot causes your cock to twitch and fill. 

 Those hands knead at your flesh, a hot breath brushing over your spread cunt as your fingers curled to tease that spot inside of you that makes you want to buck your hips. He’d hold you down, let you try and buck but keep your hips just right there. So he could watch. He seemed like the type too. Didn’t he? The type to just watch. Entranced by the lewdness of ones body.

Or would he focus on your face? A man like him, he’d probably seen so much. A weeping boypussy probably didn’t do much to him. But the point of imagination was dreaming of the impossible. Your brain conjures his face, the delicateness of his good-eye and the healed scars; an alpha baring their teeth is usually a threat. But Jeong-Hyun’s didn’t incite fear. He’s gentle with his mouth, pressing kisses to your hips and stomach, silently encouraging you to keep going. That sliver of teeth, that wet tongue. There was a hunger within him, one that you could sense even from the brief moments of contact. 

That heaviness in his honey-coloured eyes. That sweet venom, that gentle hold. Your back arches off the bed, a metallic tang erupting in your mouth. 

Panting, you pull your hand away and stare blearily at the evidence of your fantasy and shame. You grimace and lift yourself to lean on the headboard, eyes widening at the slick that’s gathered. Another shower would just make Ha-Joon suspicious. You groan, scolding yourself for this. 

No, it’s fine. This was just a stress reliever. Yeah, this was nothing more than that. 

Tomorrow, you’ll forget everything about this. You’d have to. Because Jeong-Hyun would only and could only be a fantasy. Performing for mobsters was just to pay off your debts. That’s all. You just needed to survive. Just a bit more.

You wipe your hands with a tissue, trying to make it less shameful before you come out of the room to wash it properly.

“I need to get laid,” you muttered to yourself.

Unfortunately for you, with your already tight budget, going out on ‘dates’ wasn’t exactly something you could squeeze into your schedule. Buying drinks costs money and the only bar you had a staff discount at only served to gangsters. As you walked back from your part-time job, you wondered if you could afford to get a cheap dildo at least. You pulled out your phone to check on your calendar, squinting tiredly at the screen. 

Your heat was getting close but you shouldn’t be this horny just yet.

Was the feeling of being touched by Jeong-Hyun really that erotic to your body? Was the stress affecting you this much?

Internally answering those questions made your cheeks burn. Great. So on top of having a scarred gangster’s affections, possibly having stalkers, and loan sharks to worry about, your body decides that it’s unbearably in need of more ‘stress relief’.

If you were in heat, a few pills could put off the effects. But just being horny was an unstoppable force. 

Your thoughts are cut short as you register the open door of Ha-Joon’s apartment. You could hear someone shuffling inside and tighten your grip on the spare keys he’d given to you. You reach for your phone, ready to dial for help when the door widens further and Ha-Joon stands there in distress.

“You!” the lanky alpha hisses out. He grabs at the front of your shirt and pulls you in, his teeth snapping together as he cusses you out.

“Hyung! What are you doing!?” you grab at his wrists, trying to get him to loosen his grip. Your boss at the cafe was going to kill you if you stretched out your uniform. 

“Someone was in my house!”

You grit your teeth as he tugs you again. Nearly losing your footing you stumbled along to his frantic strength.

“Why are you mad at me!? Calm down, would you? Your neighbours are watching!” 

Ha-Joon glances over his shoulder and just as you said, his neighbours were peeking out from their doorways. It wasn’t a pretty sight. An alpha shaking around an omega, yelling accusatory statements. He’d always been scolded for not being the most social person. His mother advised him to make an effort to get to know his neighbours to build a good impression so they’d at least keep an eye out on your home during long trips. Or in his case, when it was unceremoniously ransacked while he worked a gig. 

His neighbours had wondered if you were his boyfriend. With a spare key in hand as you come back to his home, sometimes even coming back with Ha-Joon in his car. 

Was this a lovers quarrel? 

Ha-Joon lets go of your collar, snapping his grip around your wrist to instead pull you inside his home. The door slam made the poor elderly lady next door jump. With the entertainment gone, they slinked back inside their homes and kept their ears open.

Ha-Joon’s knick-knacks were all over the place. His furniture and things are strewn across the floors like some modern art exhibition. Ha-Joon gestured to it. The display would have been comical in another setting but his expression was far too grim.

“They know where I live now, thanks to you!”

“Wait, what?” you stare at him incredulously. “How is this my fault?”

“You just had to go and accept Kim Jeong-Hyun’s gifts, right? I knew I should have just left it alone, no good deed goes unpunished.”

“You think I wanted this to happen?” you step over a few things, reaching for the guest bedroom and hoping that they didn’t find anything valuable. “No, but you asked for it!”

You shoot him a glare from over your shoulder, pushing the door open and freezing at the mess. Your clothes were dumped into the open. The duffel bag you had brought your things in was tossed onto the ruined bed. The flowers lay limply on the floor, their petals scattered around. The empty figurine boxes were dented now, thrown around carelessly and stepped on as well. 

“Shit,” you rush to check under the bed. You frantically reach for the box, pulling it out and onto your lap. Empty. No knife or garter. They’d taken it. Whoever they were, they had broken into Ha-Joon’s home and flipped everything over to steal away your gift. It was undoubtedly expensive but it wasn’t the only valuable in this home. You’re stuck between feeling relief that none of Ha-Joon’s things were taken and fear knowing that those shady figures were targeting you. Not because they were Jeong-Hyun’s men. But because they’d seen his interest in you. 

“You need to get out of my house,” Ha-Joon’s voice is ragged. He brushes his fingers through his hair whilst he paces around. “They know where I live now. They hacked my keypad and trashed my house.”

“Hyung,” you turn to face him. Now more than ever, you needed a friend by your side. He couldn’t - he wouldn’t just toss you out, would he? 

His expression tells all you need to know. You swallow your pride and your arguments. Even if you yelled that you’d helped him with paying the bills, cooked meals for him, and cleaned up after yourself as a good housemate should, Ha-Joon had every right to feel threatened. Someone, multiple someones it looked like, had broken into his home. His haven. All because he decided to be nice to you.

“Could you - could you at least give me a few days to find a new place to stay?” you pleaded. 

“No, no. You need to get out of here tonight. I warned you before, didn’t I? I told you not to mess with the gangsters.” Ha-Joon backs away from you, his mouth set into a tight frown.

“I told you!”

Jeong-Hyun knows that most people would consider this stalking. Which was wrong in the eyes of the law and morals of most people. But what other choice did he have? You weren’t safe. 

He’d been busy. Business was booming and when it did, snakes always tried their best to get a cut of it. Snakes, rats, pests, vermin. His sister’s empire was ruthless and blood-covered, but others didn’t see her as a threat. They thought she was a mewling little bitch. Covered in blood and afterbirth. They laughed and laughed, thinking they were so smart every time they attempted to get rid of her. 

Jeong-Hyun enjoyed watching them beg for her mercy. They always looked at him first though, pleading for him as if he had any power. Seo-Yun had apologized for inadvertently pulling him away from your side for those long days, knowing how he got when he found something he wanted to sink his teeth into. 

He wished he’d had the foresight to keep his eyes on you. Jeong-Hyun should’ve known how these pests would cling to anything they saw as a weakness. An omega catching his attention and receiving his gifts? 

He might as well have decorated you in Christmas lights and thrown you in a dark cave. 

You don’t notice him here, watching you. Too engrossed in looking through your phone. People were eyeing the baggage you had. Nothing overzealous, but with the anxious way you were bouncing your leg and the frazzled state of your uniform it didn’t take a genius to assume you’d been kicked out. Lee Ha-Joon, the bassist. He had lent you his guest room because of these stalkers. 

Now, he had kicked you out with nothing but a backpack and a duffel bag full of your things. If he were a crueler man Jeong-Hyun would’ve beaten him black and blue. But Ha-Joon had given him an advantage. You had nowhere to go to, he knows what it's like to be pushed into a corner. To feel like the whole world was against you and pushing you to the brink. 

You needed to endure it just a bit more. As you entered the bus, he did as well. You were both heading the same way after all. With nowhere else to go, he knew you’d just shelter in your little changing room at work. Seo-Yun had given him work as well. Look at how serendipitous your lives already were. Jeong-Hyun will apologize for leaving you to fend for yourself against these stalkers, then he’ll bring you somewhere you could just be. 

From over your shoulder, he watches you desperately look for micro-apartments. The kind with the shower and toilet right next to your creaky bed and windows so small its only purpose was to keep the condensation from the showers from moulding up your home. You’re so frazzled you don’t even sense his eyes on you. He’s sat like he would at your club.

Legs shamelessly spread as he took the entire seat for himself. His arms shoved into the pockets of his jacket. When people whispered, he’d tilt his head their way and they’d freeze. Even with the mask on his face, the sight of his milky eye and furrowed brows caused them to turn away. 

Just a bit more, he wants to tell you. Just a bit more of this and soon you’ll be free of these concerns. 

You mulled over your words in your head. Trying hard to figure out a way to ask for an advance on your payment from your boss. He’d never been abusive, a little rough with his words or actions but he had never given any indication that he could hurt you. Which, according to Ha-Joon, he definitely could. He was just like his clientele after all. You place your bags on the vanity and sigh, bracing your hands on the table as you replay the speech you’d been practising in your head. 

This was going to set you back in repaying those loan sharks. You’d have to survive off crappy convenience store foods and with how far the club was from your daytime job, that meant you’d have to take the bus way more often. But that’s just how it goes for people like you, right? 

Someone with more power than you always screws you over with no consequences. 

You shake your head, inhaling deeply as you cover your eyes with your hands. There was no point in complaining or begrudging your fate. You can find catharsis later. You can’t afford to waste time to do it. Now, you needed to get your shit back in order. 

You’d beg on your knees if you have to. You cussed the thieves out for taking the one thing that could help you in this moment. That knife probably cost more than most people’s rent. You make your way to your boss’s office, keeping your head down to avoid the gazes of his ‘bodyguards’. The lack of goons causes you to pause. 

His hallway was empty. Nothing but you and the wooden stools by his door where his men usually sat, resembling stone statues of an emperor’s palace though severely lacking in the grace aspect. There was a thudding noise that suddenly echoed behind the door. It was followed by a large crash and a yell and without thinking, you rushed forward to knock urgently on the door.

“Boss! Are you okay?”

Jeong-Hyun’s head twitched to the sound of your voice. His grip was unwavering as he continued to hold your boss down by his throat on his glass table. The door was locked but he watched the handle jerk up and down, putting more weight onto his arm when he felt the feeble kicks of the man beneath him. Oh Beomseok — shady man overall. He runs multiple clubs, some more legal than others. Secretly hosting gambling dens within them, among other things that would put him in jail for far longer than he’d ever wish for. 

Because of his clubs, he maintains a somewhat neutral relationship with the actual gangsters in their world. Something he often brags about. Beomseok would tout his connections with this mobster or that one. Convincing himself more than others of his importance. Seo-Yun knew he’d be an annoyance. Not much of a thorn in her side or a rock in her shoes; more like an annoying fat fly buzzing around her leftovers. 

However, he did surprise her by suddenly gaining an interest in finding their weaknesses. Asking around for names from people of their past, particularly their blood family. Then, when that couldn’t produce the answers he wished for he turned his eyes to you. Jeong-Hyun had sent you a gift, something he’d never done before. Surely, you were the missing piece. It was a tale as old as time, wasn’t it? A bit predictable. To use a love interest to their advantage. A scummy tactic villains like him often resort to. But why fix what isn’t broken?

Jeong-Hyun was here, in his office. Arguably, the glaring issue would be the fact that Jeong-Hyun had Beomseok’s throat in his hands but with you knocking on his door, concerned about your boss’ wellbeing, it gave him an upper hand. 

He fumbled for his back, grasping onto the hilt of that blade and slashing it in the air. Jeong-Hyun grunted, backing away as he clutched at his chest. Blood immediately spilt from the torn flesh, the clean-cut stinging from the cold air. The alpha snarled, the sound broken and gravelly, and assessed Beomseok. The knife he held made Jeong-Hyun snap his teeth together, furious that something he had chosen just for you was now in the hands of someone so unworthy as Beomseok. He cursed him out with his eyes and it made Beomseok laugh as he pointed the blade at the tall alpha.

“You ugly bastard! You think I’m that easy to kill, huh!?” he swung the knife around and Jeong-Hyun took a few steps back. His blood seeping into the crevices of his gloves as he tried to apply some pressure. “You and your sister think you can just show up out of nowhere and screw everyone over without us fighting back? You crazy assholes!”

Jeong-Hyun wasn’t sure if Beomseok was aware he couldn’t exactly reply. Or maybe he was using it to his advantage to yell his head off about how crazy they were for thinking they could talk to him without any honorifics or respect. His arm kept slashing the air wildly, feet tumbling over the other. 

He glanced at the door, seeing your shadow apprehensively shifting the more Beomseok screams. You were a little too curious for your own good, but Jeong-Hyun interpreted it as fearlessness. That was a good trait, the movies he’d watched always praised it. A fearless mate in his line of work would be great. 

“We built this empire from the ground up! You newcomers think you can just kill us, huh!?” 

Think was an odd word to use. They’ve done a pretty good job at killing their competition so far. Now, if only Beokseom would shut the hell up and quit moving around like those inflatable waving dolls in front of car dealerships —

Jeong-Hyun rushed forward, dove under his reach and landed a punch to his diaphragm. Spit flew out from Beokseom’s mouth, his body flying backwards and crashing into his glass desk. The edge of it meets the soft spot of his temple, making him crumple to the ground. Jeong-Hyun grunted as he gave a rough huff, nostrils flaring. He reared his foot back, contemplating where he should leave his mark on Beokseom. 

He could break his legs or his ribs. Perhaps he could slam his shoulder to bits. Seo-Yun did say he could be as creative as he wanted to be. Jeong-Hyun rolled his shoulders and hissed, reaching backwards and frowning as he felt the hilt of the blade sticking out. 

Bitch, he spat out internally. It wasn’t deep enough to cause concern but he’d rather not have a knife in his back. Pain rippled through him with every movement of his right arm and Jeong-Hyun let out a low rumble from the back of his throat.

He glanced at the blood pooling around Beokseom’s head and raised his legs. 

There was a pounding in the door. Frantic yells of ‘boss!’ and ‘hold on!’ echoing faintly in the background. Jeong-Hyun could care less about that. He was more focused on crushing this stupid fuck’s head. Zeroing in on the activity with a determined viciousness. There’d be some resistance at first but your skull wasn’t indestructible. 

The first crunch was always invigorating. He smiled wide and continued to stomp his feet. When the bone gave in to the force, the sounds turned squishier. There wasn’t a crunching noise, it oddly enough sounded like slapping a heavy wet blanket onto the floor over and over again. The brain wasn’t as jelly-like as you’d expect. It was solid and firm, turning it into mush made Jeong-Hyun’s thighs burn. 

The door slammed open, crashing against the wall, and those burly bodyguards rushed in. You watched anxiously from the end of the hallway. It was far too early for the club to start such a ruckus, the nightlife was barely beginning and someone had pissed off your boss and got into a fight with him. Those were your theories. You may perform for these men for their entertainment but you weren’t in the same world as them.

You naively thought somehow you could dip your toes in this business and not be dragged in. That’s not how this works. 

A man rushes past you, barely turning the corner before he upchucks his stomach. You flinch, nose curling at the sight of such a scary man having a stark white face heaving out his lunch. A few more men gag, looking away from the office and you lift your head.

Kim Jeong-Hyun stood over your boss, his chest heaving as he lifted his foot. Sinews of flesh and brain matter stuck to the ridges of his boot, the viscous blood making him straighten up his spine to avoid slipping. Mr Lee doesn’t look like Mr Lee anymore. There was the unmistakable head of gelled-back hair flimsily stuck to the front of his opaque table, sliding down like a slug. One of his brown eyes had popped out of its socket, though remained tethered to his skull — oh fuck, his skull.

You couldn’t pull your eyes away from him. It felt impossible, as if you were under a spell to imprint this sight to the back of your eyelids. Mr Lee didn’t look human anymore. The face that gruffly greeted you every night before you went on stage was now a mess of flesh and gore.

Jeong-Hyun sees you. Of course, he does. You’re the only thing that has colour in this world. He tilts his head, brows pinching as he takes a step forward. Your face was sickly white. You didn’t look sick on the bus, had you overexerted yourself? No. He would’ve noticed it. Jeong-Hyun moves forward, everything else fading into washes of grey. The pain in his shoulder and across his chest feels minuscule. You looked terrified. 

“You monster!” a fist connects to his jaw. Jeong-Hyun sees stars in his vision, splotches of black and white making his head spin. He finds balance and grabs at the threshold of the door, his scarred face twisting into a snarl as he throws himself forward. 

He fought like a beast. His good eye constantly shifted as he took on the barrage of fists. Even when faced with bigger opponents, Jeong-Hyun didn’t falter once. You weren’t sure when he got stabbed in his back but at one point, another alpha tried to dive it in deeper and Jeong-Hyun reached back to hold the blade. If he was in pain, he gave no indication. 

Instead, he elbowed the man in the face and ripped the blade out with a rough yell. It spun over his knuckles, righting into a proper grip and you see the memory of that gutted fish again. Wide-eyed and mouth gaped open — the smell reminds you of rust and strangely enough honey. An underlying sweetness revealing itself once guts spill out onto the floor and muscles get torn. 

You walk backwards, yelling at yourself to run but you just can’t take your eyes away from it. From him. That animal with his wild eyes and bared teeth.

Hellhound. That’s what your boss had said. He was a hellhound. A vicious, merciless, hound that spilled blood all over the floor making it shine like polished vinyl. His yells and growls barely sounded human — was he smiling or was that just his scar? 

More henchmen rush past you but you swear you see the wisps of their life already floating away from their bodies. There was no way they could do anything to Jeong-Hyun. He was still standing despite the five men who had tried to kill him, even with his bleeding shoulder. You meet his gaze and for a moment the world around you slows down. 

He smiles at you. His eyes are kind despite the splatters of blood across his face and the split open lip. Jeong-Hyun looked so human in that second. It frightened you. 

How could a man go from beast to man that easily? 

What sort of magic did he have to confuse you so much?  

You don’t know. You don’t want to know. So you turn away and run. From the gruesome sight of bodies littering the floor but most importantly from Jeong-Hyun.

[limpfisted]

Something I think taken for granted for "good and heroic" characters like wyll is

How hard it is to be a hero in settings like this in gen. especially a solo hero.

And then u look at will especially at 17, especially after just losing half of your vision, and now being obligated to hunt devils for mizora, and not being able to tell people who you are or why you have magical powers

Wylls life has been extremely difficult.

Hes not "some rich boy." In fact, he tells you himself, he never really was. His father became grand Duke when he was 17. His father was a Duke before that, but his father was born to a poor blacksmith father and he was the youngest of six, so he worked his way up the ranks. Even as son of a Duke and grandduke---ulder was champion of the poorer "mythical middle class" lower city. All nobles and patriars are from the upper city. There's no way wyll wasn't looked down on by the upper city and then held to a certain untouchable standard as the flaming fist brat by the lower city/outer city people

And yet even at being some "rich boy" he excelled thru hard work and dedication, making things into a competition if nothing else, in which despite his Father's unsurpance to power, he still had PROOF he was the most charming, after all, he held the record for most sarabandes danced in a single evening, much to the exhaustion to the good lords and ladies of the courts.

But even so, with this "cushy life" (where he would get into trouble, mind you! Where his father would encourage him to get into fights, who would train him with a rapier, where he would drink in taverns in the lower city at 14 despite being "a noble rich boy" and hand deliver letters from his father to sharess's caress before he ever knew what went on with the pretty men and handsome ladies behind closed doors.)

Have you ever been camping, like experienced the holy shit, Outside of it all? I dont even like leaving the house without my phone. Wyll, 17, traveled all over the sword coast, with one eye, who knows how many supplies.

While wyll laughs off the trauma of it, losing an eye is a real ass disability that affects your motor skills. It can be difficult to do things like cut food at first, and it can take like 6 months WITH THERAPY for everything to feel "normal" again. Now imagine fending off goblins, and minotaurs, with no therapy, no physical therapy, no doctor. Having to navigate the cold of winter, cursed lands, mountains, all by yourself.

Having to learn to use you sword again, this time without your father. Remembering him every time you pick it up. Remembering the way he looked at you every time you face down a "devil." Spitting the words he would later say to you at them. They stink of avernus, they have brought ruin

Wyll dedicated his life to laboring for the people of the Sword Coast. It's not easy. He makes it look fun, because he's so proud of himself and happy to be helping people

But its actually hard and lonely. And it doesn't come easy, even to Wyll, I think. He had to train himself, it probably took him a long time to figure out what he was doing

I dont think wyll is really as inexperienced and naive as people think. Hes been to avernus, he's fought dragons and minotaurs. He's seen terrible things, he's STOPPED terrible things, and he's going to continue doing so, and choosing to do so, with the full knowledge of what that decision means, and the hard work and sacrifice it requires.

he's fully aware of who he is and what he's capable of, and he's extremely brave and strong and competent

Its good to be good for the sake of being good! And wyll does believe in fairy tales. But his dedication to the blade doesn't come because he's misinformed. Is he as experienced and powerful as he thinks he is? No, he's 24 LOL. But he's still done a lot! Has YOUR muse hunted devils thru avernus? Has ur muse even BEEN to avernus?

Wyll ravengard genuinely is improvising half the time---but more important than simply "being" good and wanting to do good----Wyll has the experience, practice and competence in serving a community to actually BETTER and protect communities.

In fandom spaces we often talk about how certain characters are "just so good" but we like. We forget about the effort it takes to actually commit to acts of doing good, the practice and perservance it takes to competently serve the community.

You can give the people the shirt off ur back but u run out of shirts eventually. Wyll has made himself an important resource on the Sword Coast for its safety. And I think we take that for granted bc its a genre staple, but like. He worked really hard. He dedicated himself to this.

He sold his soul, and he kept living and doing good anyway

[takemetomyfragiledreams]

This is a wip about banshee!Tim gradually adopting all the bats and keeping them alive. It has the possibility to be an eventual Robin pile but I haven't fully decided on where it'll go. The original intention was to eventually have it be damitim but honestly it could go jaytim, dicktim or just robin pile. If you have a preference I'm all ears.

Talia becomes aware of her father’s shadow at the age of five. A boy with skin so white she half expects him to be translucent and eyes so frigid they put the winter sky to shame. He lingers in shadows and darkened corners, ever silent and ever watching. Her father never mentions him, not even when he perches on the arm of his throne or steals bits of meat from his plate. She half thinks she’s crazy for the first thirteen years of her life but doesn’t once dare to ask. Secrets get you killed in this world and this is one she’s not willing to die for.

He never speaks to her. Never seems to speak to anyone. He’d be an afterthought if his presence wasn’t so alien. 

At the age of thirteen, the night before her first solo mission, she wakes to find him sitting on the edge of her bed. No scream comes; she’s learned the only one she can depend on is herself. 

He touches a finger to his lips and she remains silent as the guards outside walk past. When the lights from under the door fade, he speaks for the first time. 

“Tomorrow, you’re going to die.” 

Talia’s hand curls around the blade beneath her pillow. “Is this a threat?” 

“A fact.” His face is cold, emotionless. It’s like looking into the depths of a still pool; all she sees is herself staring back. “You will die many times in this world and you will pay dearly for your return.” 

“The pit,” she understands. 

“If you’re smart, you’ll start saving what pieces of yourself you have left. You’ll need them one day.” He stands. Instead of opening the door, she watches as he finds tiny handholds in the stone of her wall and begins to climb to the ceiling. There’s a small hole six meters up, where the smoke of her fires can escape. It’s barely big enough for his head.  

“Who are you?” She calls as loud as she dares. 

“When the time comes, I will scream for you. Follow the sound back.” 

He vanishes out the hole like smoke, body contorted into impossible shapes. Talia lays down and stares up at that dark maw of space until her eyes blur and droop. 

Three days later she can’t stop the sword from cutting through her chest. She slices through her enemy but it’s too late. Her knees fall out from under her as her mouth opens in a silent cry. 

Across the room, she sees a boy’s eyes turn from icy blue to black as his mouth contorts into the shape of a horrific scream; the sound rings in her ears long after it’s over. 

It’s the last thing she hears as she dies and the first she hears as she comes gasping from the Pit, naked and shaking as her heart restarts in her chest. 

He stands in the shadows when her father holds a hand out. Always watching. Waiting.

This repeats twenty times in the span of a hundred years. Twenty times in which she dies to a scream and returns to one. And then it stops. 

He’s sitting in front of a machine, eyes big as he presses his palms to the glass. She feels something sick in her stomach but cannot place just what it means. Motherly instinct? The desire to whisk her growing child out of sight and away from this creature no one ever seems to talk about. 

“His name,” he says, “what will you call him?” 

The last thing she wants to do is tell him. Still, she cannot stop herself. 

“His name is Damian.” 

“Damian,” he sighs, croons, growls. “Damian Wayne-al Ghul.”

She never told him who the father was. 

The day Damian is born is the day she loses him, if she ever had him in the first place. It’s in the way he looks past her to stare into the shadows; the way his nose scrunches and his lips curl in delight; the way he waves his grasping hands and the way she cannot stop him from leaving her arms. 

“Tim,” he babbles up at the monster that has dogged her life and death. She didn't even know he had a name to give.

Damian giggles and pats at a pale cheek with his own colored fingers. “Tim!” 

Tim smiles a ghastly, jagged sort of smile down at him. It’s like watching someone learn how to feel for the first time; unnatural, yet impossible to look away from. There’s color in his face for the first time, a light in his eyes like the first thaw of spring. 

“Damian,” he says like it’s something reverent, something holy. It’s the level of devotion a prince deserves but she cannot find it in herself to be pleased. 

It’s then that she acknowledges the bitter truth: Tim scares her in a world where she is not meant to be afraid of anything. He’s the only being she fears save perhaps her father and he’s looking at her son like he hung the stars.

What bitter irony. 

For the first time, she comes to him. He’s standing just outside Damian’s room, looking in like there’s nothing he wants more and less than to go inside. 

“Normally you’re inseparable. What is it?”

He’s silent for so long that she half convinces herself he’s an illusion. 

“I’m leaving.” 

Talia blinks. He’s never left once; not that she’s aware of. “Leaving?”

“If I stay, he won’t turn into the boy he needs to be to survive what’s coming.” Tim turns almost human eyes on her. He looks drawn and tired. “I won’t be able to let you hurt him.” 

“I would not—"

“You would. You know nothing else.” 

They stand together, staring at the closed door in mutual contemplation. Finally, Tim sighs. 

“You’ll do your best to kill the good in him, but remember death is never permanent. Not for an al Ghul. Do more than that and I’ll come for you. I don’t care what destiny says.” 

Talia’s hands itch for her knives, but she does not reach. She knows better. “When will you return?” 

“When I’m needed.” He turns to meet her eyes, small but oh so fierce. “Teach him well, Talia. Show him what he needs to know to survive.” 

He’s gone before she can respond. They both know she will do nothing less. 

(Still, he scares her; Talia al Ghul is not meant to be afraid of anything.)