#but also. being able to form his clouds into wings

[angelicrile]

cloudwings/loud hawks i’m your biggest (and probably only) fan

[targaryenimagines]

Shattered Wings

Dark!Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 21,652

Summary: You had known, from the moment you stepped foot onto Westeros, that this cursed land would take from you more than you were willing to give; rip you apart, only to put you back together slightly off so you were never truly whole again. You just never expected, never even believed, that it’d be your darling son, your precious Prūmia, your Viserion, that would have to pay the price; and that it would be all due to the actions of your Khaleesi.

Warning(s): G!P Daenerys, angst with a happy ending, angry/grieving sex (trying to numb the pain), dark thoughts, grief, self-worth issues, and slight self-harm (R digs her nails into her arms). Reader is not in a good place. (This is just very angsty.)

Notes: Still not over how the sweetest baby Viserion got treated by D&D (nor how we barely got any scenes of Daenerys dealing with said event — both in Season 7 and in Season 8 when she found out he was enslaved by the Night King; even a scene with her and his shattered body would have been something). Hopefully, in this story, I can do their bond justice (along with the reader's bond with him, of course). Forewarning as well that the Reader puts Dany through the wringer; anger and grief can change someone in ways that you’d never imagine… Is it wholly fair to Dany? Absolutely not. Just wanted to let you all know that beforehand as it’s not pretty for a bit… Also is this the source of Daenerys not being able to sleep without the Reader next to her? Yes… Yes, it is.

Series Masterlist

The salty breeze of Dragonstone carries with it the scent of the sea, mingling with the distant cry of seabirds that circle the rocky cliffs, brushing across your cheeks in a phantom caress; its presence cool, but not cold, against your skin — a gentle reminder that summer was still hanging on even though its grip was beginning to weaken.

You had known it’d be a beautiful day from the moment you had awakened. A feeling that had only grown as the sun began to rise high into the sky and the world seemed to come alive underneath the splendor of its golden presence.

Even now, the sky was a deep blue, unmarred despite the growing bank of clouds on the horizon — holding an ominous presence as if the storm they promised would happen in only a matter of time, but, for the moment, they were fine with holding back, waiting until it was the perfect time to roll in. You had always known the weather within Westeros wouldn’t be like Essos. With the shimmering rays of gold and the endless crystalline expanse of the sky, but you hadn’t expected it to be quite so fickle.

Or perhaps, you muse, this rocky isle, not unlike the ones who had claimed it, had a temperament that was ever changing. Always one step away from a roaring storm or a clear sky.

Despite the overarching beauty of the day, and the initial lightness it brought to your chest, you couldn’t help the heaviness that was beginning to weigh you down as it continued to progress. Something that you could normally attribute to the simple knowledge of the shifting weather, but the tension coiling within you didn’t feel like the apprehension one would face in concern of a coming storm.

Its source, in fact, wasn’t one you could truly place — only heightening the tension further.

You’re currently seated on the edge of a cliff, a familiar perch where you often found peace, the waters of the bay below sparkling under the sun, a stark contrast to the gathering gloom ahead; one that soothes your wayward thoughts for the moment. Drogon soars above, his massive form casting a shadow that briefly blots out the light as he passes above you, continuing to dip and dive; his playful movements a reminder that despite his appearance, he was still young. His roars of joy, carrying easily upon the ocean wind, echoes across the bay, the familiar sound pulling your lips into a smile.

Rhaegal lay beside you, his large head near your lap, bronze eyes half-lidded in contentment. His breaths slow and rhythmic, the warmth of his body radiating through the cold stone beneath you, as your fingers absentmindedly trace the ridged scales of his brow; an action that causes Rhaegal to hum softly in response, a deeply resonate sound.

While Viserion, your golden boy, is curled up on the opposite side; large body coiled around you. An aureate gaze closed, but far from asleep — his breathing too measured, too conscious of your every move — and his attentiveness, even as he basked underneath the sun, soothed you. Leaning against his side, being lulled by the rise and fall of his chest against your back, you go back to watching Drogon dance upon the wind. Every now and then, you notice, out of your periphery, that Viserion’s tail flicked lazily, a sign of his growing restlessness; an emotion that was stemming from your own — even as you try to distract yourself with the world around you to halt it — due to the bond that you share. While you’re bonded to all of your sons, and love them as any mother would her children, the connection you have with Viserion goes a bit deeper; there’s an intrinsic understanding, one that goes beyond mere words. He knows that you’re troubled, even if he doesn’t know the cause, his continued presence is meant to soothe, to shield you from whatever is brewing within your heart, and you couldn’t be more grateful for him. For the love that he has for you.

The wind picks up slightly — a howl beginning to intertwine within it — bringing with it a chill that has nothing to do with the weather. Your eyes, as if pulled by some greater power, shift back to the horizon; to the dark clouds that continue to gather, seemingly growing thicker and thicker with each passing moment. It’s a sight that causes your previous sense of foreboding to make an instant reappearance, curling tightly within your stomach, and, in response, you press back into Viserion; seeking the warmth and reassurance only he could provide. The unease doesn’t subside, not in a manner you wish it would, as it decides to gnaw at the back of your mind instead; reminiscent of a splinter you couldn’t remove. An unsettling entity but one that you’d be able to handle given enough time and care; that’s what you hope, at least.

Looking down at the beach below, where a mixture of Dothraki and Unsullied work hauling Dragonglass and other needed supplies, the smallest of frowns furrow your brow. From this vantage point, and due to the simple fact that few were idiotic, and even fewer brave, enough to approach slumbering dragons — especially dragons that had one of their mothers nearby — left the area upon the cliff free of anyone else, you’re able to see how the few Northerners that had made the journey to Dragonstone were treating them; bodies tense, eyes narrowed in barely concealed agitation, whispered conversations taking place the moment they’re left to congregate amongst themselves, hands constantly reaching towards their hips for swords that aren’t present. It’s a sight that leaves a sour taste in your mouth and a protective outrage roaring within your chest.

The Dothraki and Unsullied did not ask for this war; did not ask to be treated with such obvious disdain from the people that supposedly needed their help. They had agreed to come to Westeros, to fight underneath the banner of House Targaryen, of Daenerys Stormborn, to reclaim the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister, but their loyalty, their faith, in their Khaleesi led them to where they are now. If the North is in such dire need of help why are they biting at the hand that’s offering it to them? 

Your brow furrows into an even more pronounced frown, but, before you’re able to delve even deeper into the thoughts that would, no doubt, dampen your already darkening mood, the sound of raised voices coming from behind you causes your attention to snap back to the world at large. Twisting, and leaning slightly to peer around Viserion’s head, you see Daenerys storming across the rolling grass with Tyrion following behind; even from a distance you can tell it’s a heated discussion. Tyrion is speaking once more, words likely chosen carefully, but whatever it is he’s saying it isn’t easing her agitation. You’re not able to see your dragon’s face, but you’re able to surmise what must be etched across it from memory, and Tyrion’s own expression, alone — eyes narrowed in determination, nostrils slightly flared, some amount of frustration evident, focused solely on her Hand.

As if she’s trying to bend him to her will through sheer force alone.

Not being able to hear their words doesn’t inhibit you from understanding what they’re discussing, your heart turning heavy at the realization. The plan to capture a White Walker had been a thorn in your side since it had been constructed — believing heavily that it was a gamble that relied on too many unknowns. That night, in your shared chambers, you had argued, even falling to the point of pleading, for Daenerys to take King’s Landing first; to solidify her claim and then use the might of the Seven Kingdoms to march North, but your words had fallen on deaf ears. Jon Snow, with his depictions of the Night King and the Army of the Dead, had shifted her focus entirely, convincing her that the real war lay beyond the Wall; not in the South.

At what cost? You remember asking her, in the quiet that had followed your discussion, after all the plans had been laid out. What would happen if our children got hurt? Or worse, killed? For a plan that rests on the hope that they might bring back a creature of myth?

Daenerys had tried to reassure you, warm hands cupping your face, lips gentle against your own before peppering lingering touches across your forehead, but the fear, like the multiple kisses that had been laid upon your skin, had lingered; a cold knot in your gut that refused to loosen.

Now, watching her argue with Tyrion, you can’t help but feel the fear twist into something sharper; something that bordered on anger. How could she risk so much for so little? How could she gamble the lives of your children — as you had heard the varying conversations about potential rescue missions — who had been with you both since the beginning, who had saved you more times than you could count, with such a plan?

Letting your eyes slip shut, trying to center yourself once more, you press a kiss to Viserion’s snout, a gentle rumble sounding softly in response. The clouds continue to gather, something you’re certain of despite your current blindness to them, but you force yourself to focus on the warmth of your sons; the steady breaths of Rhaegal and the comforting presence of Viserion.

Footsteps growing closer cause you to innately turn towards the sound — already knowing, by the lack of reaction from your sons, who it would be — and watch as Daenerys heads towards you; Tyrion still behind her with concern written across his face while Daenerys’ own was unreadable. Her approach causes the knot within your chest to loosen somewhat, as her presence has always wielded a calming influence unto you, but the tension within your shoulders grows just a bit more. You know that the coming conversation will not be an easy one, but it’s one that neither you, nor Daenerys, could avoid any longer.

She halts a few paces away, gaze softening when it lands on you. “There you are,” she greets, a note of warmth suffused within her tone; something that eases the tightness in your chest momentarily. It’s a fleeting entity, quickly remembering the subject matter behind the impending conversation, and taking notice of the determination within her violet depths. A sight that you’re all too familiar with, the burning resolve that has taken her through countless trials, the appearance of it being one that typically soothed you, but, with everything happening, it only deepens your concern.

“You’ve been arguing with Tyrion again,” you comment, trying to maintain a level of calmness that the roiling storm of emotions beneath the surface wished to disrupt.

The observation causes a soft sigh to fall from Daenerys’ lips, a delicate hand quickly rising to brush silver-gold strands behind her ear, while she moves to sit beside you; pausing only briefly for her gaze to linger on the forms of your shared children, before gentle violet finally settles back to you. “Tyrion thinks I’m being reckless,” she admits, the faintest creasing of her brow giving away the frustration she feels. “He just doesn’t understand the urgency of the situation.”

“Do you, Daenerys?” You rebuke, unable to keep the edge from your tone. “Do you understand what you’re asking them to do? What you’re risking?”

A spark of defiance roars into life within her gaze. “I’m not asking them to do anything I wouldn’t do myself.”

“That’s not the point.” Taking a breath through your nose, trying to maintain a level head, you continue. “The point is that this plan, this rescue mission you and your council have concocted, is too dangerous. What if something goes wrong? What if one of our children gets hurt? Or worse?”

They’re questions you’ve asked before — countless times since hearing about the possibility of your Khaleesi heading North — and you’re certain they’ll be met by the same response.

Daenerys looks away, jaw clenched. “I can’t let them die.”

“You don’t even know if this will work,” you argue. “We didn’t know enough about the White Walkers, about their strengths or weaknesses, and those men left with that knowledge, understanding what they were getting into, because apparently one of those creatures may convince Cersei Lannister to help us.” Irritation lances through your heart. “Now, after all of that, you wish to head North, with our sons, to potentially rescue men that understood they may not come back once going beyond the Wall.”

“I have to try,” she replies firmly, eyes blazing within renewed determination. “If we do nothing, we’ll end up risking everything. The North, the South, everything we have ever fought for would be for nothing. If there’s even a chance that Cersei might listen, and that Jon Snow is still alive, and, with him, our only ties to the North, then I have to take it.”

You shake your head. “At what cost?” The old question, once again, falls from your lips, imploring Daenerys to actually hear it. “What will you do if they truly are gone? If, by doing this, our children are hurt?”

For a moment, the briefest crack appears in dragon-scaled armor, Daenerys hesitating, expression faltering as her vulnerability makes an appearance, but, before you can blink, it quickly buried beneath a resolved demeanor; one that has defined her since you’ve known her. “Every day I make choices that could mean the difference between life and death for thousands. I carry the weight of every decision, every sacrifice, but I cannot, will not, be paralyzed by fear,” she intones, even as her voice cracks ever-so-slightly, betraying the sense of fear she’s trying so hard to conceal. “I’ll do what I must. Like I have always done.”

Your heart clenches at the words; the anger you had been trying so hard to suppress flaring into something more intense, but, only by a small margin, you’re able to stay calm. “I’m not asking you to be paralyzed by fear, Dany. I’m asking you to consider what you’re risking. I’m asking you to think about what you’ll lose if this goes wrong,” you reiterate, reaching out for her, knowing how much physical touch means to her. “We can find another way. A way that doesn’t risk more lives.”

Daenerys only looks down at the proffered appendage for a moment before taking it in hers. “That’s something I never stop doing, ñuha perzys. I have considered every option, and I wish it were that simple,” she murmurs sorrowfully. “But the time for simple solutions is over. This is the only way.”

You pull your hand back, the warmth of her touch only deepening the growing ache in your chest, tension coiling in your shoulders. “And if it fails? If they’re already dead? What will you do then? If our children die in the pursuit of this mission? Will it be worth it? Will you be able to live with yourself?”

“I have to believe it will work. I have to believe that this is the way to save them. To save us all.”

Lips thinning into a line, her response pressing down onto you like a physical burden, you can’t help the strained quality within your voice. “I can’t do this.” The wind ghosts across your face, offering its own form of support for you to continue. “I can’t watch you risk everything, risk our sons, for something so uncertain.”

“I don’t want to lose them either. Of course, I’d never wish to lose our children.” Her voice cracks slightly at the thought of it. “But, I can’t stand by and do nothing, I can’t let those men die without trying to stop it.”

A long silence settles between you then, only the distant roar of the ocean against the surf, along with the occasional huff from either Rhaegal or Viserion, intercepting it, the tension palpable, its presence a heavy weight that neither of you can shake.

Finally, after another beat of silence, you let out a shaky breath, hands digging into the exposed skin of your forearm slightly, as you gather the strength needed to say what’s on your mind. “If you do this,” you begin, the words sour on your tongue, stomach twisting. “Promise me that you’ll come back. Promise me that you’ll bring them back.”

Daenerys looks at you then, the emotion within her eyes telling you she understood who you were referring to. That you weren’t asking for a promise to bring the men back — your words weren’t a plea for the plan to work; they were a mothers desperate attempt to ensure the safety of her children — and your Khaleesi doesn’t hesitate. “I promise,” she affirms. Even still, a weight has settled within you that wouldn’t become easier to lift until she returned back from the desperate attempt to right a wrong that wasn’t her fault. There wasn’t more to truly say after that, no argument that you could come up with that’d make her change her mind, so you settle, once more, into the silence that descends.

The storm on the horizon draws ever closer, dark clouds beginning to loom over the bay, while the wind picks up speed; whipping through your hair and clothes as if trying to pull you away. You’re aware of what she’s about to do, even if she hasn’t outright said she’d be departing now, and it absolutely terrifies you.

Daenerys stands, gaze lingering on you for a moment longer, before it shifts to the dragons. Knowing what is to occur, even if that doesn’t make it any easier to digest, you follow her lead, rising to your feet and move over to Viserion. Your precious boy lifts his head in response, bright eyes locking with yours, not unlike his other mother had done a moment prior, and you feel a pang of sadness deep within your chest. You reach out, hand resting against his cheek, the warmth of his pebbled scales seeping into your chilled skin. 

“Be safe, Prūmia,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek; Viserion nuzzling against you in response, a low rumble vibrating through his body. The sound being one of comfort, of reassurance, but it does little to ease the fear beginning to gnaw at your heart.

You move over to Rhaegal next, placing a gentle kiss to his nose. The soft huff, a warm gust of air that seems to sink deep into your soul, brings a small smile to life; despite the tears that were welling within your eyes. “Don’t do anything rash, Bāne.”

Finally, you approach Drogon, who had landed nearby, watching you with his crimson gaze. Once you’re near, he lowers his massive head, allowing for you to scratch the underside of his chin, a spot that has been his weakness since he was a hatchling, and you respond with a light chuckle of your own when he admits a huff of amusement — the closest thing, you’ve found, to laughter that a dragon can emit — the corners of his mouth seemingly lifting into a smile of his own. “Protect her, Mīsio.”

It’s a rare moment — even with your warring emotions — of levity in a time that feels anything but light.

Daenerys, simply watching as you say your farewells, meets your gaze steadily once you finally turn back to her, greeting you with a soft expression; the love she feels for you evident within pools of violet, but, underneath it all, hidden away in a place only you could find, there was sadness, genuine regret that she was parting with you mixing within it. It’s only when she steps closer, wrapping her arms around you in a much needed embrace, that the tension, you hadn’t even realized had been there, slackens. Her hold on you was tight, as if she was trying to anchor herself to you one last time before the storm took her away. Daenerys had always likened you to home; the one safe harbor she felt she had within this world. Where she could lay down her titles, her shield, and her worries, to truly be herself once more — simply Dany.

“I love you,” she whispers into your ear, voice trembling. “More than anything. Please know that.”

You press your cheek against hers, inhaling the familiar scent of the love of your life; a gentle fragrance of something sweet mixed with lavender, underscored by smoke and dragon fire. The duality of Daenerys Targaryen showcasing itself even within something so mundane. “I love you too,” you reply. “Always.”

Not wishing to let go, you cling to each other a moment longer, the world fading, as it always does, as you focus on the warmth of her body, the steady beat of her heart, but, all too soon, she pulls back, violet eyes glistening with unshed tears as she reluctantly steps away. Only to return, seemingly unable to stay away, to place a gentle kiss upon your lips, her words ghosting across them. "I will be back soon,” she vows. “You'll be cuddled up with our children and me before you know it."

With one final embrace, and another brief kiss, Daenerys approaches Drogon, who had been waiting patiently, and climbs onto his back, the great dragon unfurling his wings with a powerful gust of wind; Rhaegal and Viserion following suit, their massive wings beating in unison as they rise into the sky.

You watch them, heart aching as they disappear into the horizon, get swallowed by the gathering storm, the weight in your chest nearly unbearable; a mixture of fear, sorrow, and an overwhelming sense of loss that you couldn’t comprehend. The smart thing to do would be to head inside, to find shelter from the oncoming storm, but you can’t bring yourself to move. Instead, you stand on the cliff's edge, the wind whipping through your hair, as you look in the direction of where the woman you love and your children vanished into the darkening sky.

A tear slips unbidden down your cheek and you don’t bother to wipe it away. The void within your chest, that had been created by the unceasing weight pressing upon it, threatened to consume you once you realized just how along you truly are now. Your children, alongside the love of your life, were heading into the unknown, and all you could do was stand, waiting within Dragonstone, and hope that they would return.

But, deep down, the sense of unease, the tension that had been coiling tighter and tighter, that continued to gnaw at you, was now settled like a stone in your gut; an unshakeable feeling that something terrible was about to happen settling over you.

For now, until your family returned to you, persevering was the only option — even if it meant burying the dark emotions welling up — and hope that Daenerys would keep her promise, that she would bring them back to you. That she would come back to you.

And, as the first rumble of thunder echoed over the bay, you closed your eyes, silently praying for the strength to face whatever was to come.

When the storm had rolled in, many within Dragonstone believed it would abate quickly, but it had only seemed to worsen as time wore on — as hours turned to days and those days turned to weeks — and, within that period there hadn’t been any news from the North.

It’s late. The kind of late that bleeds into the early hours of the morning, when even the wind is quiet, too tried to howl against the ancient castle; despite the storm still being an ever-present entity. Typically, it’s considered to be a tranquil hour to be awake, despite the earliness of it, and that the sky was still dark, but the silence of it was suffocating — pressing down on you with a weight that makes it hard to breathe. You had become too accustomed to silence, to the sound of your heartbeat and thoughts uninterrupted by anything else, and you absolutely detest it. When Dragonstone awakens — when servants, guards, and dignitaries alike travel through its halls — do you feel more at ease, because, at least when you hear them, you know you’re not truly alone.

The chambers you share with Daenerys, so shockingly cold without the presence of your dragon, to warm it, were dark, save for the faint embers that still valiantly clung to life within the hearth, and the stone walls seemed to close in around you. Ever since Daenerys had left this room had felt like a prison; each hour within it that passed stretching into eternity as you waited for word — any word — of Daenerys and your children. You had barely been able to sleep, being unable to banish the terrible images that haunted your dreams when you tried. Your dreams become consumed by what-if scenarios, each one darker than the last. You see them, your children, in your mind’s eye, falling from the sky, their magnificent wings torn and battered, fire extinguished as they plummet to the unforgiving earth below. You see Daenerys, silver-gold hair matted red with blood, the bright fierceness of her eyes dulled by the hand of death. No matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you prayed to the Gods to grant you mercy, even if it was only for a short while, those images wouldn’t stray far from your mind; they were relentless, merciless, in their endeavor to tear you apart from the inside out.

Still, even when you were awake, you found no solace, not a sense of peace. The idea of your family, all that you truly had within this world, flying into that forsaken land, facing dangers beyond comprehension, you couldn’t properly stomach it; couldn’t discern the varying emotions that had constantly been battling within you. Anger and fear had been your constant companion — Tyrion, Grey Worm, and Missandei tried to help but there wasn’t much they could do; not when you shut yourself off from the world — and, within that time you’ve spent with them, you understand that the majority of it, while directed towards the events as a whole, centered around Daenerys and her unwillingness to bend. Her fervent need to prove herself, to be the hero.

You know that Daenerys, for all of her pride in being a Targaryen, was weighed down by the actions of her father and brother, know that she desperately didn’t wish to become something that many had already foretold her being, that she was so afraid of becoming Queen of the Ashes. It’s something you detest — the fear that had been instilled into your ferocious dragon; clipping her wings the moment she had stepped ashore Dragonstone— and something you’ve been trying to dispel; never truly understanding why Daenerys would wish to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms if the common folk detested her so based simply off the actions of her forefathers.

Understanding all of that, knowing the insecurities that plagued her, you could see why Daenerys had made the decisions that she has, but you couldn’t understand why she was willing to risk the people that had already proved their loyalty, their unwavering devotion, to serve people that’d sooner call her the Mad Queen, the next coming of Maegor, then see her for what she truly was, to see beyond the fact that she shared blood with Aerys Targaryen.

Even still, knowing this, no matter how much it may squeeze your heart, you couldn’t help the growing chasm of anger that has settled within your gut at her actions. Wishing that, for once, she’d just let sleeping dragons lie, but, on the other hand, if she did, she wouldn’t be the woman you had fallen in love with, which is why a gnawing sense of fear had decided to accompany the anger in a sickening duo.

Daenerys had promised she would come back, that they would all return, but promises are fragile things, easily shattered by the brutality of war, by the merciless cold of the North, and the seemingly unending nightmare of the Night King’s army. Even still, her promise, her commitment to you, was the only thing you could truly still hold onto without falling apart, because, despite everything, you had faith in your Khaleesi, believing in her gave you the hope to believe that everything would turn out okay in the end.

Now, even in the dead of night, when the world is still, and the air is thick with the scent of salt and sea, as you lie awake staring at the ceiling, you hold onto that hope, to the one source of light that would guide you from the darkness. You’re not sure how long you lie there, caught between sleep and waking, your one shred of hope battling against the dark twisted dreams that wish to prey upon you, when you hear a disturbance: the creaking of the door, a faint rustling of fabric, as someone enters the room. And, without having to even look at, you know it is, you would always know. You could feel her presence like a healing salve to your soul, the warmth that radiates from her, the smell of smoke and ash with something sweeter, something distinctly Daenerys, that fills the air — replacing the scent of the sea.

You turn to look at her slowly, heart pounding, a strange mixture of relief and dread coursing through your veins. She’s back. She kept her promise. But, as you make out her form, standing there in the dim light, you know something is wrong.

Daenerys — the unstoppable force that brought many to heel, your dragon that burned with the fires of Old Valyria through her veins, who loves you with an ardency that rivaled the sun itself — looked broken.

There’s no other word for it: shoulders slumped, usually bright eyes dull and haunted, face drawn and pale. She looks like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders — more so than usual — and, for a moment, you can’t breathe.

She doesn’t say anything as she walks towards you, her movements slow, each step measured in a way you’ve never seen before, as if each one took an enormous amount of effort. The bed dips slightly as she sits on the edge of it, and you can see the way her hands were trembling, imperceptible if you had been anyone else, when she reached out for you. “I’m back,” she whispers, her voice so soft that it’s almost lost in the quiet of the room, but there’s something in her tone that makes your blood run cold.

You sit up, eyes searching hers for answers, for some kind of reassurance, but all you see is pain.

“Where are they?” The question slips out before you can stop it, fear clogging your throat making it even harder to breathe. “Where are the boys?”

Daenerys flinches at the words, at such a seemingly innocuous question, that you know within an instant. You know before she even says anything — understanding intrinsically where the aching hollowness had appeared from; a gaping void where your golden boy had once been — in response, but you can’t accept it. You won’t.

Violet eyes fill with tears, and she looks down at her hands, the one that had been abandoned by your own twisting in the fabric of the bedspread, as the other rests uselessly in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Your heart stops, the world stops, everything just stops as her apology hits you with the force of an arrow; the meaning behind it crippling in its intensity. The room, that had become your prison since she left, seems to close in on you: the walls pressing in, the air growing thin. You can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but stare at her, waiting for her to take it back, to tell you it’s not true.

She doesn’t.

Daenerys just sits there, tears valiantly remaining in place, whole body trembling as if she’s going to shatter into a million pieces.

You shake your head. “No,” you whisper, refusing to believe that it could be true; willing it to not be true. “No, no, no, no…” The words spill out in a desperate wave, pleading as if you can somehow make reality change by denying it.

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys repeats, voice thick with held back tears, and she reaches out for you once more, but you jerk away; the movement is violent, instinctive.

“Don’t touch me!” You snap, sharp and harsh, tone filled with a venom you hadn’t known you were capable of. The grief, the anger, the pain, all crashing down on you at once; a tidal wave that threatens to drown you. “Say it. I want you to say the words”

Daenerys flinches at your ire, just barely, but enough for you to notice; to feel the faint sting of seeing her so shaken. Her lips part, as though she’s about to speak, but the words catch in her throat, and she finally looks away, unable to meet your gaze.

“Say it,” you repeat. A part of you needed to hear her say the words, because, you know, a small part of you would cling onto the shred of hope that it wasn’t true, that Daenerys must be mistaken, if she didn’t. “Say it, Daenerys!”

She still doesn’t turn to look at you, but her shoulders slump even more. “He’s gone. Viserion is gone.”

Why does expecting a blow not make it hurt any less? Why does knowing the pain is coming fail to lessen its sting? Your mind cries out as your heart begins to break. Is it because the expectation of the hit, of knowing what’s coming, evolves into its own kind of torture? Amplifying the pain as it echoes through your mind long before the blow ever truly lands.

You’re the one that flinches this time, the words piercing through you as easily as Valyrian Steel would flesh, and can’t keep the pained noise lodged within your throat trapped any longer; a noise that instantly has Daenerys reaching out for you, trying to comfort you as she has always done. Only this time you couldn’t stand to be near her, didn’t think you’d be able to handle her touch, not when your entire world had been thrown on its axis. Jerking away from her touch, as if it burned, you scramble off the bed, needing to put distance between you, needing a moment to breathe.

Daenerys stands in response, movements slow, hesitant, as if she was afraid that one wrong move will shatter whatever fragile thread that’s holding you together. She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t move closer even though you can tell she’s fighting her natural urge to do so, allowing you a moment, giving you an opportunity to sort through your thoughts. It’s something she had done since your friendship began — back when she hadn’t been the Khaleesi, hadn’t been what she is now, when she was a lost girl with a vindictive brother — when things got overly heated, overly emotional, and it never failed.

Until now.

Until you realized that the thoughts spiraling through your mind weren’t your own — not truly — as they were all poisoned by the darkness of your grief, of your anger, of your pain and bitterness. The longer you were left to listen to them now gave you more and more time to get lost under the sea of anguish that’s refusing to let you come back to the surface.

“How?” You don’t know why you’re asking, it’s not something you truly wish to know, but you just wanted the thoughts to stop, to let you breathe without reminding you that Viserion would never do so again. “How did it happen?”

Daenerys hesitates. “The Night King.” That you had surmised as there would be nothing in this world that would have saved Jon Snow if he had been the one to physically kill your son; him being a short-sighted imbecile notwithstanding. “H-He had a sp-spear—”

You don’t let her finish, you can’t let her finish, not when the imagery of those simple words alone was enough; the haunting dreams coming to fruition. The bubbling anger, that you had been trying to stave off since she had arrived, finally erupting. “I told you not to go!” You shake your head, turning away from her with your hands clenched. “I told you that this would happen!”

When Daenerys doesn’t respond, you turn back to look at her, seeing the tears that were now steadily making trails across fair skin, clearly having lost the battle that she had fought earlier by not letting too many tears escape. It’s a sight that should soften your heart — the woman you love more than anything in this world in clear anguish — and make you want to comfort her, because, it’s obvious, she’s lost too, but all it does is fuel the fire of your anger; something that causes another piece of yourself to wither away.

“How could you do this?” You demand, wanting to know, aching to know: your Dany wouldn’t have done this, your Dany would have tried everything before risking the lives of your sons for a fool's errand. “How could you risk them like that? How could you risk him?”

“I had to,” Daenerys replies. “I had to save them.”

Despite yourself you take a small step closer. “At what cost?” A wave of emotions rushes through you, burning your throat with grief. “At what cost, Daenerys? You’ve lost him! We’ve lost him!”

“I know,” she cries out, anguish palpable. “I know and I’m sorry, but I had to do it. I had to try.”

“But you didn’t have to risk him!” You scream, the dam within you finally bursting as tears stream down your face, your grief and anger consuming you whole. “You didn’t have to risk Viserion! He’s dead, Daenerys! He’s dead because of you!”

The words are out before you can stop them, before you can think about the impact they’ll have, and you watch as Daenerys recoils as though struck, eyes wide with hurt and shock. For a moment, the anger drains from you, replaced by a sickening sense of guilt, but it is too late to take it back; the damage has been dealt.

Daenerys takes a step back, the first time she had put distance between you instead of trying to close it, arms dropping back to her sides, an expression of heartbreak, with the barest hints of disbelief, directed at you. “Do you truly believe that this is what I wanted? That I wanted this?” She questions, voice quivering. “You think I wanted to lose him.”

‘No.’ You want to will the word through your lips, to make any sort of noise that’d indicate that you didn’t believe that — not truly — but, even if you had said it, you’re not certain if she would have heard.

“I did what I had to do,” she continues. “I did what I thought was right. We lost Viserion because of it, which will be something that I’ll live with for the rest of my life, but I had to make that choice. I had to do what I thought was best for all of us. For you, for them, for the world.”

“For the world?” You repeat, not even trying to dampen the bitter sarcasm laced within the words. “What about our world, Daenerys? What about our family?”

Her gaze softens, even though the tears remain ever present, and she takes a tentative step forward, reaching out for you again; bridging the gap that she has made earlier. “We’re still a family,” she insists, unwavering. “We still have Drogon and Rhaegal. We still have each other.”

You shake your head. “It’s not the same,” you whisper. The truth in those four words sends another lance of pain straight through your heart. “It will never be the same.”

“Please,” Daenerys begs, realizing that she was losing you, setting in; a desperate panic begins to take form across her beautiful face. “Please don’t push me away.”

How can you not? When her mere presence is a living reflection of the conflict warring inside of you; part of you, buried deep, wanting to reach out, to be held, while the other part wanted to make her hurt like she has hurt you, to get some form of justice for Viserion. So, you do, you push her away with a force that has her stumbling back, tears blurring your vision as you turn and flee from the room.

Your feet carry you down the cold, winding corridors of Dragonstone; shadows looming around you like specters. You don’t have a destination in mind, just the overwhelming need to get away, to be alone with your grief.

It isn’t until you reach a familiar door that you realize where you’ve been heading all along — a room deep within the heart of Dragonstone; where the remnants of the egg shells, the very shells from which your sons had hatched, are kept in separate, ornate cases. The sight of them is enough to send you fully over the edge, your knees buckling as you collapse onto the stone floor, sobs wracking your body as the full weight of your loss crashes down upon you.

Viserion.

Your sweet, gentle Viserion. You’ll never feel his warm breath against your skin again, never hear his soft purrs as he nuzzled into you, seeking comfort and affection. The bond you had shared, that indescribable connection, is gone, severed by the cruel hand of fate, by the cold touch of the Night King.

You reach out, fingers trembling, and brush against the case that holds the remnants of Viserion’s egg; the smooth, hardened shell that once contained the precious life that was now lost to you forever. The tears flow freely down your cheeks, dampening the stone beneath you, as you weep for your son, for the life that was so violently taken, for the gentle flame that had been put out too soon.

Tugging the box closer, your breath catches at the familiar sight of the cracked shell that Viserion had emerged from so long ago.

The shell was pale, a shimmering blend of cream and gold, almost ethereal in its beauty. It sits nestled in the box, as if cradled by the very Gods themselves, the cracks across its surface, that once promised the appearance of new life, are now jagged reminders of all you’ve lost. You reach out once more, fingers trembling even more as they brush against the surface, the coolness of the shell seeping into your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

As you carefully lift the shell, memories flood your mind, each one yet another blow to your already broken heart. You remember the day Viserion had hatched, the first time you had seen him when Daenerys had emerged from the pyre, a miracle of life amidst the barrenness of the Red Waste. He had been so small, his scales soft and glistening, his eyes wide with wonder as he observed the world from near Daenerys’ feet, until his aureate gaze locked onto you. It was in that moment, you knew he was yours, your Prūmia, your beloved son.

You had watched him grow, from a curious hatchling to a majestic dragon, his pale scales shimmering like molten gold beneath the sunlight. He had always been the gentlest of the three, his temper calm, his touch tender. Where Dragon was fierce, and Rhaegal wild, Viserion was your peace, your warmth on the coldest nights, the soft presence that guided you when all seemed lost.

The shell feels heavier now — as if the weight of your grief had embedded itself into it — making it impossible to hold. A sob escapes your lips, raw and broken, the sound filling the room, echoing off the stone walls until it is all you can hear.

You close your eyes, cradling the shell to your chest, the way you once cradled Viserion when he was small enough to fit in your arms. Your mind is a storm, torn between the memories of his soft purrs, the way he could never get enough gentle scratches underneath his chin, and the knowledge that his lifeless body was now lost within the frozen landscape beyond the Wall.

“Prūmia,” you murmur. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

The words feel hollow, wholly inadequate in the face of the overwhelming loss that has consumed you. They’re empty, meaningless, a feeble attempt to make sense of the senseless, to find solace in a world ripped apart. You press your forehead against the shell as if, by some miracle, you could draw him to you; as if your love could bridge the gap between life and death and bring him back.

But there is no answer, no soft purr, no warmth to chase away the cold that has settled into your bones. There is only the silence, the crushing weight of the reality that he’s gone, and you are alone within the room that used to represent life and love, but now could only ever be likened to one thing in your eyes.

A tomb.

In the darkness of your grief, you can almost convince yourself that you feel his presence, the ghost of his touch against your skin, the whisper of his breath as he used to curl around you in sleep, but when you open your eyes, there is nothing, only the shell in your hands, a reminder of what once was, and what will never be again.

Viserion was gone and, with him, a part of you died too.

The world is a blur of icy winds and burning cold, a barren wasteland where the air itself is laden with dread; a storm rages, tearing through the desolate landscape, howling its fury as it sweeps across ice and snow. Your heart pounds in your chest, a drumbeat of fear and despair, as you search the endless white horizon for a glimpse of gold — his gold.

“Prūmia.” It’s a whisper on your lips, the name that had never been uttered without fondness was now intertwined with a darkness you couldn’t escape from; it’s a plea, a prayer, but the storm swallows your voice leaving you with nothing except the howling wind and biting cold.

Viserion was out there, somewhere within this forsaken land, a simple fact that you knew as surely as your heart felt the panic clawing at your insides. He’s out there, battling the storm, the ice, the cold — battling death itself.

And you are helpless to reach him.

You run, as you always do, feet pounding against the ice — slipping, sliding — as you race against the storm. Maybe this time will be different? Maybe you’ll be faster? Maybe you’ll be better? Each step feels like a lifetime, each heartbeat a desperate cry for time, for fate, for anything to have mercy on you. Your hands reach out, fingers trembling, aching to touch him, to feel his warmth once more; as if the very act would make him appear, would bring him back.

The world shifts around you, the ice cracks, and you’re falling — falling into the abyss of nothingness, into the frozen depths where hope dies.

You see him then, above you, flying through the storm, searching for you too. His wings beat with desperate strength, pale scales shimmering through the haze of snow and darkness. For a moment, just a fleeting blip of time, you feel relief washing over you like a balm. He’s there. He’s alive. He’ll catch you. He’ll—

Everything around you shifts once more, ripping you away from your one semblance of peace, tilting everything into chaos. Your body slams into solid ground once more, but you barely notice it, not being able to tear your eyes from the sky above you.

Darkness swarms around him, creeping up his massive form like tendrils of death, and you can only watch in horror, suspended in time while everything beyond seems to move too quickly, as the night closes in on him. His roar shatters the air, a sound of agony, of finality; you scream his name, the sound tearing from your throat like a roar of your own.

Viserion’s aureate gaze finally finds yours and, for a split second, everything stops — the storm, the wind, the world itself. In that moment, you see the fire within him, the life, the soul that is yours as much as it is his. You reach out with all that you are: your heart, your soul, your everything, trying to keep him with you.

But ice, as you have found, is relentless; it strikes with lethal precision, piercing through the fire, freezing it from the inside out. Viserion’s roar turns into a strangled cry, his wings faltering, body writhing in the throes of death. The golden light in his eyes dims, flickers, and then — like a candle snuffed out by the cold — it vanishes.

You scream, heart shattering into a million pieces, as he falls from the sky; his massive form crashing into the icy ground with a sound that rips the world apart.

Running to him isn't even an action you registered doing, it was just innate within, instinctual to the most basic degree. You had always come running when any of your children had gotten hurt — tending to their aches and pains, the majority of which being healed by a simple kiss to the affected area — but, as you fall to your knees beside him, you know that this won’t be something you can fix with love, with tender affection.

Your hands reach out to his lifeless body — being unable to not at least try; even though you’re aware it would never work — and shudder at the coldness you find. The ice spreads, creeping over his golden scales, turning them to blue, to white, to nothing. You try to fight it, try to warm him with your touch, try to bring him back from the depths of the chill coursing over him.

But there was no bringing him back from where he’s already been lost.

His golden eyes are closed, his chest still, his fire extinguished, and you are left with nothing but the cold, the darkness, and the empty, hollow ache that gnaws within you.

Another scream rips through the air, but this one is a completely different entity. It’s not a scream of fear, or of pain; it’s one of rage, of a fury so deep you felt like you’d never find the bottom of it, of a mother’s desperate anguish at the loss of her child.  It echoes through the void, reverberating through the emptiness, through the nothingness, tearing at the fabric of the world itself.

The world doesn’t care. It keeps spinning, keeps turning, oblivious to your loss, your grief, your pain.

And, in that moment, as the ice claims Viserion’s body completely, as the cold creeps into your bones, you know one thing with absolute certainty.

This is all your fault.

You failed him.

You were supposed to protect him, to keep him safe, to be the mother he deserved, but you didn’t.

You let him go. You let him fly into the storm, into the darkness, into death.

Now he’s gone.

The darkness closes in around you, the storm howling its triumph, and you are left with nothing except for the icy void that has taken Viserion from you — that now represents your life without him.

You fall into it, letting it claim you, letting it consume you, because without him, there is nothing left.

Awakening with a start, heart pounding, breath coming in ragged gasps as the remnants of the nightmare cling to you, a suffocating shroud of grief and despair, is something you’ve become all too familiar with. The room around you is dark, cold, unfamiliar — the walls pressing in around you like the ice that claimed Viserion.

With your body still trembling, you sit up, skin damp with sweat, and you try to shake off the nightmare even though you know it’s no use. The images are burned into your mind, seared into your soul: Viserion’s lifeless eyes, his body turning to ice, his fire snuffed out by the cold — they haunt you, refusing to let go.

You bring your hands up to your face, trying to steady your breathing, trying to calm the storm raging within you, but the void is still there at the end of it all; still gnawing hungrily at every scrap of weakness it can find, leaving behind a hollow ache that nothing could fill. The cold still lingers over you — icy tendrils creeping over your skin, freezing you from the inside out — and you rub your arms to chase it away but, like with all of your actions, it does nothing. Yet another cruel reminder of what you’ve lost.

Prūmia.

The name is a whisper within your heart, a desperate plea to the Gods to bring him back, to undone what has been done, but you know it’s futile. The Gods are cruel, indifferent to your pain, to the loss that still doesn’t feel real.

Viserion is gone and nothing can bring him back.

Not being able to handle being in bed any longer, you swing your legs over the side of it, bare feet hitting the cold stone floor, sending a jolt down your spine. The room still hasn’t become familiar to you, even after the two days you had been using it, a level of coldness remaining that you couldn’t shake, a stark contrast to the warmth and comfort of the chambers you shared with Daenerys, but you couldn’t stay there. Not after—

You can’t even think about it. The pain is too much, the grief too raw, a wound that refuses to heal.

Rising from the bed, not even surprised anymore by the trembling of your legs — your body weak from the weight of what your grief has done — you make your way over to the small window that overlooks the sea. Moonlight reflects off the waves, casting an eerie glow over the water, but you don’t see it, not truly, not as you once would; all you see are the barest hints of darkness, like a veil of sorrow draped over the night. The water, once a canvas for the moon’s gentle touch, now seems a restless sea of shadows, each ripple a whisper of your pain. Argent light, fractured and cold, dances on the waves like the fleeting echoes of a forgotten lullaby. While the serenity of the night has become a vast, indifferent expanse, a mirror reflecting the hollow cavern of your grief, where each shimmering wave is a silent testament to the void left by Viserion’s absence.

The sharp pain of your nails digging into your forearm is a welcome distraction, one that helps pull you from the void, even if it was only for a minute, and you drag them down, leaving red welts in their wake. It’s a fleeting sense of pain, but it’s barely a whisper compared to everything else.

Your thoughts spiral, a whirlwind of guilt, of anger, of pain. You should have done more. You should have protected him. You should have been the mother he deserved.

You failed him just as you have failed yourself.

Tears come then, hot and bitter, sliding down your cheeks in silent streams. You don’t bother to wipe them away; they are just another small comfort that you’ve been able to find for yourself, a release, a way for you to let some of the pain escape.

It’s not enough, it’ll never be enough, but it was something.

Cold stone greets your back when you can’t find the strength to stand straight anymore, your body beginning to shake with the force of your silent sobs, as another wave of grief washes over you, drowning you in its icy depths. There’s no solace, no comfort, no reprieve, at least not you’ve been able to find; only the void, the darkness, and the unbearable weight that seems to only get heavier as time went on.

You can’t fight it, you’re not sure if you even want to, not when it’s all you have left of him: this grief, this sorrow, this endlessly aching pain.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, leaning against the wall with the last vestiges of your strength, body still trembling. Time had lost its meaning long ago — hours blending into one endless stretch of darkness and despair — but the tears eventually came to a gradual halt, leaving you drained. The void is still there, feasting away, but it has dulled somewhat; leaving behind a numbness that is almost worse than the agony.

While the agony hurt, fierce and relentless, it was a constant, burning reminder of what you had lost; it was sharp, immediate, and painfully real, a torrent of raw emotion that you could still grasp and confront. Now, the pain has given way to a familiar numbness that seeps into every corner of your being, a heavy, suffocating silence that drowns out even the sharpest cries of grief. This numbness was insidious — it doesn't allow you to feel the sting of loss, but instead wraps you in a cold, unfeeling shroud. Stripping you of the ability to mourn, to scream, to find any kind of release; an absence of feeling that gnaws at you, leaving you stranded in a void where even the pain is too distant to touch. It’s a feeling that makes every moment feel like a slow drift through an endless abyss where nothing can penetrate or soothe the emptiness, leaving you with an overwhelming sense of being lost and alone.

Pushing away from the wall, as if trying to distance yourself from the feelings, or lack thereof, plaguing you, you make your way back to bed on unsteady legs. The sheets are cold, unwelcoming, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Crawling beneath them, curling into a ball, your body innately searching for the warmth that could only ever be provided by one person, you will sleep to take you. It’s a pitiful attempt, you’re aware of this, but you can’t bring yourself to stop trying — not if it meant that you might finally be fast enough.

You turn on your side, conceding to the lost battle to find sleep for the time being, and stare at the wall, watching the shadows dance across the stone. You know you should go to her, to Daenerys, but you can’t. Not with everything that’s happened, not with the anger still rising to the surface every time your mind drifted to her.

So, you stay here, in this cold prison you had created for yourself, because it’s easier that way. Blaming Daenerys was easy, being angry at her was simple, but it wasn’t the only reason you had locked yourself away; it wasn't the only reason why you’re haunted by the ghost of your precious boy.

You should have stopped her. You should have convinced her to stay at Dragonstone. You should have kept firm, not bending to her will, or, at the very least, convincing her that all three of your sons needn’t have gone.

You should have done something.

Instead you had done nothing and Viserion was dead because of it.

It’s a truth that you can’t bear to face during the light of day — not when it was so much easier to blame her, when you can get lost in the angry spite that erupts within you.

Staying in this room, locking yourself away — letting them consume you — is the only thing that feels right. It’s the only thing that feels like it would ever be enough to atone for what you’ve lost.

For what you’ve done.

Days pass in a blur, each one blending into the next, indistinguishable from the last, causing you to lose track of time, lose track of everything that isn’t beyond the four walls you’ve trapped yourself within. The world outside your small chamber might as well not exist — there’s nothing there for you, nothing that can pull you from the depths of your despair.

You eat little, sleep even less, and spend most of your time staring out the small window; watching the waves crash against the rocks below, their ceaseless rhythm a dull backdrop to the storm raging inside of you. You don’t leave the room, don’t venture out into the halls of Dragonstone, don’t seek out anyone — especially not her.

She’s worried about you. Even after the fight, even after your continued silence, you can still feel her presence outside your door, hear the soft footsteps as she lingers just beyond the threshold, hesitating uncertainty. Characteristics that were so unlike her it nearly made you weep for an entirely different reason. You know she wants to come in, to comfort and hold you, but you can’t bear it. Can’t stomach the thought of being near her, of feeling the icy numbness transform into raging anger, as you try to come to terms with the part she played in Viserion’s death.

It was her need to save everyone that caused this, your mind hisses. If she had just heeded your words, if she had just listened to you for once, this wouldn’t have happened.

The spiteful anger, the ferocity that scorched through your veins, even if it has been held back by chains, as you don’t wish to unleash something you don’t know if you’ll be able to control, isn’t one you’ll ever get used to, but it’s one that offers you some form of solace from the numbness and unending cycle of grief and pain. Pacing your room in controlled anger, fists clenched at your sides, was much more bearable than sobbing in a ball underneath the covers of the bed.

But you hadn’t pressed her on it either. You didn’t let her know what you were feeling. If you had shown her what you were feeling, if you had shared that with her, maybe she would have listened. The other part of your mind whispers, the part that had been progressively getting beaten back to the recesses of it as the anger began to take over. Neither of you knew this would happen. How could you? Go to her. Be with her. Grieve with her.

You don’t. You push the pleading words away, ignoring the ache of your heart, as you push the rest of the world away with them; letting the silence wrap around you like a shroud.

Not that it gives you any reprieve. The silence was also your enemy — as it’s in the quiet moments, when the world is still, that the memories come; unbidden, unwelcome, dragging you back into a nightmare.

You see his eyes — golden, warm, full of life — turning cold, lifeless, as the ice claims him. You hear his roar — strong, fierce, filled with fire — turn into a strangled cry of pain as death takes him. You feel his warmth, his presence, his soul — so intricately intertwined with your own — fade into nothingness.

Digging your nails into your arms, into your legs, anywhere you can reach, as you tried to feel anything besides the gaping hole inside you, but the pain is fleeting — it’s not enough to keep the darkness at bay for long; not when the pain is done by your own hands and not its own.

The room felt smaller tonight; the walls closer, the air more frigid, the festering emotions welling with you more pressing. From the small window — your only connection to the outside world — you can see that the moon has begun its ascent, casting pale silver light onto the world below. An almost eerie silence descending upon the small chambers you have made into your sanctuary, despite the crashing of waves on the rocks below, the faint whistling of the wind, you’ve grown used to the silence, to the empty numbness that it typically brought, but something feels different.

It’s not until a bolt of anger shoots through you, sudden and sharp, like the crack of a whip against your skin, that you understand that the most fiery of the emotions that had been growing within you — the one you had tried to control more than the others, even if it was always present — had been silently working its way through the tight bonds you had held it in; choosing this moment, this silent night, to finally break free; one that promised only more destruction.

You try to calm yourself, to take a deep breath and wrangle the anger back into its cage, back where it belongs, but it only flares hotter in response, stronger in its defiance to not be leashed any longer. Like a wildfire catching the wind. Clenching your fists, nails biting into your palms, hoping that the pain would distract you enough to allow your anger to be reined back in, but not even the subtle sting could ground you.

The fire within you has been smoldering for too long and now that it’s finally had a chance to ignite you couldn’t stop it.

Why did she go beyond the Wall? Why did she risk him, risk everything? The questions that have plagued you for days spin around in your mind with no relief, no answers. You know the reasoning that Daenerys had given you, but it never felt good enough — never the exact words that you needed to hear on why she had risked it all on something that would obviously end in some manner of death.

You’ve isolated yourself, hoping the distance would dull the sharp edge of your grief, of your bitterness, and fierceness of your anger, that staying away from Daenerys so she wouldn’t ignite the anger that’s been lit all by itself.

Pacing the room, each step heavy with the weight of your emotions, hoping that the repetitive movement that you’ve grown used to would soothe you in some way, but the restless motion seems to agitate you further. The chamber feels too small, too cold, too far removed from the life you once had. From her.

Because, no matter how angry you are with her, no matter how much a part of you hated her for the part she played in Viserion’s death, you still needed her like the air you breathed.

It’s a realization that strikes through you like lightning, a sudden, almost violent, force that ignites every nerve, feeling it burn through your chest, a molten heat that rises to your throat. Now unleashed fully, it overwhelms the grief, filling the hollow space inside you with something sharp, something dangerous.

Your hands tremble, breath quickening, as the anger flows through, unbound from its chains, feeling the heat radiating throughout your body, and, before you know it, you’re moving — feet carrying you swiftly toward the door. 

You don’t think as the anger propels you down the dimly lit corridors of Dragonstone, each step harder than the last, until you reach the chambers you once shared with Daenerys. The place that had been yours together, now nothing more than a reminder of what you’ve lost.

Without pause, knowing if you faltered you’d self-destruct in a different way, you push open the door to the chambers, the heavy wood creaking under your forceful shove. The room inside is dim, lit only by the flickering flames of the hearth. She’s there, seated by the fire, her silver-gold hair catching the light as she stares into the flames, lost in thought.

For a moment, she doesn’t notice you, and you stand there, seething, your heart pounding with the force of your anger and pain, and, for a brief moment you believe that just looking at her would be enough to soothe the flames within you, but the moment she looked up, her violet eyes meeting yours, something snapped inside of you.

You don’t give her time to speak, to offer apologies or explanations; even as she stands up to greet you properly. You don’t want to hear them. You can’t bear to.

In an instant, you close the distance between you, your body colliding with hers in a forceful, desperate motion. She gasps, her breath catching as you press her against the wall, your hands finding purchase on her waist, fingers digging in harder than you mean to. You’re trembling, the anger boiling just beneath the surface, and all you can think is that you want to forget. You need to forget, even if it’s just for a moment.

Need to forget the warmth of Viserion’s gaze, the sound of his loving croon as he nuzzled you, the way his scales sparkled so ethereally underneath the sun… The way you had felt the bond snap within your heart — leaving you adrift, untethered from what you had always believed would be there.

Daenerys looks at you, her expression startled, her lips parted as if to speak once more, but you don’t let her, can’t let her; silencing whatever words she might have uttered with the heat of your body pressed against hers, your heart pounding violently in your chest.

Her hands come to rest on your shoulders, hesitant, unsure, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. The rage, the grief, it’s all too much, and you need something, anything, to drown it out. You don’t care that it’s rough, that it’s unrelenting — knowing that Daenerys would be able to push you off if she didn’t wish for your attention; that, even in your darkness, you’d stop the moment Daenerys wished for you to do so — you just need to feel something other than the crushing, unbearable void that grown larger as the days went by.

You lean in, your forehead pressing against hers, nose gently grazing her own, breaths coming in ragged bursts. She can feel the tremors in your body, the raw emotion barely contained, and her hands, though gentle, feel like fire on your skin, fueling the storm inside you.

“Please,” Daenerys murmurs, voice trembling with the weight of her own pain. “Talk to me. Let me help.”

You can’t — talking won’t help.

Words won’t bring him back, and, as of right now, the only thing that feels real is the heat between you, the desperate need to lose yourself in something other than the pain. Your fingers tighten on her waist, your breath harsh against her neck as you wait for her to take charge; to be your Khaleesi.

She doesn’t disappoint.

Without warning, she crashes her lips against yours; an action that causes your heart to flutter in your chest — not out of love, but out of the need to forget, to make the pain go away, and finally receiving that release. It’s a desperate kiss, full of anger and need, your hands rising to fist in her hair as you pull her closer, demanding more.

Needing more.

Daenerys gasps into the kiss, her hands gripping your shoulders, body pliant, yet unyielding, against yours — a duality that only she could possess. She doesn’t push you away, doesn’t fight you, simply letting you take what you need, her lips moving against yours in a way that only feeds the fire burning inside you; tongue grazing against your own as she sought to taste you after so long apart. Her own desperation became apparent.

Even as your bodies pressed together, as you lose yourself in the heat of the moment, of the warmth seeping into your skin from every inch of you she caresses, the pain still lingers, just beneath the surface. The anger, the grief, was still there, simmering, waiting to pull you back under, and you refuse to let that happen.

Your fingers, that were still woven through the silky strands of her hair, tug her head back, forcing Daenerys lips away from you own; a snarl of displeasure rumbling from your dragon’s throat at the added distance, but the look in your gaze must have halted her from reclaiming your lips in a feverish embrace. “Claim me.”

Make me forget…

The force in which Daenerys collides with you again, fingers digging more incessantly into your waist, causes you to stumble back, only her arms keeping you steady against her solid form, as she descends upon you with a fervor that nearly takes your breath away. Her lips traveling down the length of your neck, tongue and teeth clashing in a heated battle to ensure you wouldn’t forget her presence, even after she had pulled away, down towards your breasts.

Daenerys kissed as much skin as your dress would allow, small noises of displeasure rumbling from the back of her throat when the fabric of it impeded her progress on tasting you further, the frustration mounting in a manner that Daenerys was typically able to temper, but it had been too long since she held you in her arms, since she had you squirming beneath her as waves of ecstasy cause you to clench around her length.

It’s an image that causes a hint of darkness — lust mixed with her natural possessiveness — to flicker through her violet gaze, giving you all the warning you needed, when, with a soft grunt, Daenerys simply gripped the thin material of your bodice and ripped it apart; exposing your heaving chest for her hungry eyes.

“That’s better,” Daenerys purred, mostly to herself, as she lowered her head to take a nipple into her mouth; biting the hardened tip before she soothed it with the warmth of her tongue. Your dragon, ever the thoughtful lover, giving your neglected breast much needed attention with her hand; slender fingers rolling a hardened peak in the exact way that caused your back to arch, a moan catching in the back of your throat. The halted noise causes Daenerys to bite down on the underside of your breast — teeth sinking into the tender flesh, ensuring you’d have her mark for days. “None of that, ñuha perzys, I want to hear you sing, I want to hear all of your pretty noises.”

The sound that’s released from you when Daenerys finally pushes you down onto the large bed, her undershirt hanging open, revealing full breasts that caught the eye, but didn’t hold your attention like the growing hardness within her breeches, is practically wanton in nature — a noise that belonged in a pleasure house that the ancient stronghold of the Targaryen legacy.

With your dragon hovering above you — lithe arms bracketing your head — the darkness recedes, the flaming entity that is your anger transforming into burning lust. Your hand trails down her chest, briefly tweaking a hardened nippled before continuing, descending until you got to the laces of her breeches, making quick work at unfastening them in order for you to slip your hand inside.

Hardened warmth greets your palm as you grip Daenerys’ throbbing member — an action that causes her to hiss sharply through her teeth, hips flexing as she tries to hold off from intuitively thrusting forward — ensuring you had her by the base of it.

“You would do anything to bury yourself in me, wouldn’t you?” Even if your core clenched at the thought of being stretched by Daenerys’ thickness, you wanted her to work for it. This night was about your pleasure, about lust and desire being stronger than anger and grief. “To have me mewling beneath you as fill me again and again.” Each word is coupled by a stroke of your hand, feeling the way Daenerys began to tremble under your touch, clearly fighting herself to hold back, to let you run the show for the moment; a response that is rewarded by a quick swipe of your thumb over the tip, smearing the precum down the rest of her shaft to give you an easier time. “Answer me, Daenerys, or I’ll stop and you’ll have to deal with this on your own.”

The spark of fire that ignites within the violet depths sends a powerful jolt to the apex of your thighs, more wetness appearing because of it, as you know you’ll be paying for this in the best possible way later, but Daenerys, not wanting to even take the chance of you leaving, finally relents. “What will you have me do, vāedar hontes?”

Instead of answering her vocally, your hand unlatches from her cock, giving you a clear view of the wetness clinging to your fingers as you bring them to your mouth sucking off Daenerys’ essence; loving the salty, yet slightly sweet, flavor. It’s a sight that causes Daenerys’ eyes to darken further, but you don’t give her time to say anything, your fingers popping out from your mouth as you shift to grip the back of her neck, pushing her downward to where you needed her most.

“Put that talented mouth to use, Khaleesi.”

Daenerys bites your hip bone in retaliation, the sharp sting being soothed with her tongue after a beat, as her mouth trails lower; veering away from your aching center to lavish attention to the trembling thighs. Peppering kisses on the heated flesh, leaving more marks that’d remind you she had been there, as she cleaned the wetness from them, humming lowly at the taste.

A wet kiss pressing against sensitive skin, right next to where you need her the most, a shiver wracks your body, goosebumps rising all over. Gentle puffs of air greets your overheated flesh as Daenerys peers up at you between your legs, ensuring that you’re watching her as she takes her first lick through your slit; from top to bottom and back again.

Daenerys’ hands, sturdy with slight callouses from gripping onto Drogon, glide over your thighs to keep you held open for her; in the next moment it seems as if her entire mouth covers your center, tongue lashing across the little bundle of nerves that makes your entire body quake, before barely dipping into your entrance. You knew that Daenerys probably wished to tease you, to prolong your pleasure as she typically does, but it had been too long since she last had you — since she had felt you cum in her mouth, since she had been buried inside of you, since she had felt you falling apart in her arms — and, selfishly for once, she refuses to wait, her aching length getting little relief from the thick blanket beneath her.

Moans escape your lips brokenly when Daenerys begins to scoop her tongue inside of you, rolling your hips to meet the thrusts of Daenerys’ talented tongue, the sound of Daenerys’ clear enjoyment at the act — soft hums, the clear sight of her swallowing your juices, and a hooded expression on her beautiful face — only adds to the intensity of the entire act, heat pooling with more fervor as two fingers begin to stimulate your clit.

Needing Daenerys closer, you thread your fingers through silky locks, tugging her further into you as you continuously roll your hips. “Fuck,” you cry out, a sharp keen ripping itself from your throat. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

A familiar pressure was building in your core — the trembling of your thighs keying Daenerys into what was about to occur, her efforts doubling as she latches onto the small bundle and sucks.

Overwhelming pleasure courses through you, mouth falling open in a silent scream, as your climax finally crashes through, tilting the world on its axis as you buck into Daenerys’ mouth. The earlier intensity from her tongue turning gentler as she helps you down from you high, softly cleaning you up, groaning headily at your taste, before she pulls away completely; resting her cheek on your thigh as she looks up at you.

She looked completely debauched — slick shining wetly on her face, hair in complete disarray from your hands, face slightly red from her efforts — but she didn’t seem to care in the slightest; not as crawls up you body, taking a nipple briefly into her mouth, sucking harshly, before she settles firmly on top of you.

“I believe it’s my turn now,” she husks, barely giving you a moment to react before she’s fully sheathed within you — your wet heat stretching to accommodate her thickness — a moan leaving you just as a soft groan escapes Daenerys. “Perfect.”

Daenerys, knowing you didn’t want soft or gentle tonight, not with the way you had come to her, sets a brutal pace from the beginning; where it was almost imperceptible to notice when her cock wasn’t within you, thrusting so hard she hit the sweet spot within you over and over again. Your back was officially off the bed as you cling tightly to Daenerys’ back, nails sinking into fair skin, as you had torn her undershirt off ages ago, as broken moans keep falling from your lips, barely able to take a proper breath as your dragon refuses to falter.

The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoed through the room, intercepted by a mixture of low grunts and high-pitched moans, as the air thickened around you; mingling both of your scents into a heady concoction that caused you to instinctively tighten around Daenerys’ rigid length. An action that causes Daenerys to press her face against your neck with a low groan, teeth digging into your shoulder, as if she was keeping you in place, as she continued to rut against you; your walls continuously milking her, trying to keep her inside for as long as you could, before she plunged back in, and the process continued.

Needing to do something your mouth, as you could feel the urge to talk, as you typically did when your Khaleesi was lost in her passion like this, but knowing that you weren’t here for that — you didn’t come here for normal, you came here for Daenerys to fuck you until you forgot everything — so you force Daenerys away from your shoulder and claim her lips in a sloppy kiss; tongues battling as teeth clash. It was raw, dirty, and completely what you needed as mewls continued to escape, Daenerys unrelenting as your pleasure grew higher and higher — until the familiar peak was in sight.

Daenerys grips the rumpled blanket next to your head as her pace begins to speed up, feeling the way your walls were beginning to flutter, more wetness coating her cock, as a familiar heat begins to build within her own body, but she wouldn’t release until you did. “Come for me, ñuha perzys,” Daenerys whispers hotly against your ear, biting at the lobe as she jerks harshly against the sensitive spot within you. “Let me feel you tighten around me.”

It was as if your body has been waiting for Daenerys’ permission, waiting to feel your dragon’s warm breath against your skin as she whispered sinful words to you, as a cry rips itself from deep within your chest as your body spasms, walls tightening to such a degree that Daenerys couldn’t even thrust anymore — not unless she wished to potentially hurt you — but her own orgasm soon follows, lithe form hunching over you as strong jets paint your insides white with her seed, hips slightly jogging in order to get it as deep as she possibly could. The feeling — of her warmth steadily filling you — only prolonged your own release, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your vision went completely white. Leaving you floating in a void between pleasure and the real world.

When you come back to, chest heaving in exertion, skin gleaming with sweat, you notice that Daenerys had shifted positions; having leant back so you were now straddling her lap, her slowly softening cock still within you, as Daenerys soothingly ran her hands up and down your spine. An action she always did in order to help you settle back into your body, a lovingly gentle action that causes a chaotic array of emotions to run through you, as Daenerys hums an older Valyrian hymn against your ear.

But it was too soft, too much, as the familiar dark emotions that had been lurking beneath the lust and flames of desire, began to make a reappearance. So, you scratch down Daenerys’ back, causing her humming to stutter to a halt, and begin to roll your hips, feeling the way her length began to immediately harden within you, claiming her lips with your own — tongue immediately requesting access so you could get lost in the taste, in the feeling, of her.

You needed to forget and, as Daenerys began to respond with her own thrusts into your core, you knew that this was the only way you’d be able to do so.

A cocoon of darkness, is what you become aware of first, finally pulling yourself from the light slumber that your earlier passion had sent you into, embers from the dying hearth sending small slivers of orange to dance across the stone walls; while the air is thick with the lingering heat of your bodies, sheets still tangled around your legs, dampened by sweat. Lying next to Daenerys, chest heaving, skin still humming from the intensity of what had just occurred, you take note of the aftermath your coupling had wrought across the bed; rumpled linen, pillows cast to the stone floor, sheets strewn in a manner that only came from the most intense of passion. It’s a chaos that aptly matches the turmoil in your heart.

Daenerys shifts beside you, breath slowing, skin warm against where she presses against your own, the steady rise and fall of her chest, her very presence, so familiar to you; yet she had never felt farther away.

Once this would have been enough.

Once the quiet moments after lovemaking would have brought peace; a refuge from the outside world that no one but the two of you could ever enter. 

Now, with everything that has happened, the peace is unattainable, shattered by the memories that haunt you.

The anger that had driven you to her, the overwhelming grief that had spiraled into fury, has been temporarily sated. It’s something you can still feel — a dark cloud on the edge of your consciousness that has decided, for the moment, to remain elusive until it decides to rain hell upon your world once more — however you’re semi-secure in the knowledge that it had been soothed for now. You have tried everything to escape it — drown it in drink, bury it under layers of numbness, letting it loose to the winds in an agonized cry — but nothing has worked.

Not until now.

Not until this moment — a moment enshrouded with the raw, physical connection alongside the woman you love with your entire being.

The woman you blame for your pain.

It leaves you feeling sick with the knowledge that everything you had tried to grasp, to gain control over, had already been out of reach, lulling you into a false sense of security, allowing you to take without thought; the guilt of using Daenerys to temper the roaring typhoon of emotions within your body is yet another emotion you don’t wish to deal with. That you don’t know how to deal with.

Closing your eyes, willing the tears that sting the corner of them to stay at bay, wishing, with every fiber of your being, that you didn’t feel this way. You didn’t want to be angry with her. You didn’t want to blame her. You didn’t want to have all of these dark emotions swirling within you. The way you felt for Daenerys had never been eclipsed by any other emotion except love — by the Gods how you love her — but that very love is now tainted with the bitterness of loss, of a stinging sense of betrayal, and the fiery anger you can’t seem to shake. It festers inside you, feasting on all of the soft parts leaving nothing except a hard exterior behind, turning every moment of closeness into a reminder of what you’ve lost.

You turn your head to look at her, heart aching at the sight; silver-gold hair spills across her pillow in a wild halo, lips swollen from your kisses, violet eyes half-lidded in the aftermath of your intimacy. She looks peaceful, ethereally beautiful, and for a moment, as you observe the love of your life, you almost forget: the pain, the anguish, the grief, the anger. For just a moment you allow yourself to believe that things were as they used to be; before the Wall, before Viserion, before everything changed.

Daenerys moves once more, her hand now resting on your chest, and you feel the warmth of her touch seeping into your skin. It’s comforting — in a supremely twisted way given the raging emotions within you and the state your relationship is currently in — to feel her there, to know that she’s real, that she’s here with you. Your eyes slip shut once more, letting the sensation wash over you, part of you hoping this contact will help soothe the burgeoning anger, trying to hold onto this fleeting moment of peace.

“I missed spending moments like this with you,” she whispers, her voice soft, barely more than a breath. “When it’s just us and the rest of the world fades away; nothing else matters in the end.”

The words are innocent, a simple reflection on the time you’ve spent together, on the love that has bound you together, but they’re an unintentional dagger to the heart. How can she speak of moments like this like nothing has changed? How can she talk about the world not mattering when your own has been torn apart? When Viserion is gone and the emptiness he’s left behind is all you can feel?

A surge of anger, that you’ve been desperately trying to suppress, rushes to the surface, sharp and searing. The brief moment of peace you had found within her arms shatters — leaving you raw and exposed. You can’t do this. Can’t pretend that everything is alright; that her touch is enough to keep the darkness at bay. Feeling all the negative emotions at once — the loss, the bitterness, the helplessness — drives you out of the bed, tearing yourself from the loose embrace.

Daenerys sits up, alarm flashing in her eyes as she watches you scramble to your feet; movements frantic, desperation tinged within each motion, as you rush to try and escape. “What’s wrong?” She asks, concern so apparent within her tone, but you didn’t think you could respond to her if you wanted to; not having the wherewithal to explain the storm that rages inside you.

You need to get away, to put distance between yourself and the source of your pain, but before you can reach the door, Daenerys is standing before you, blocking the way. Sometimes you forgot how quick she could be if she had good enough reason to be; having already pulled on the tunic she had previously discarded.

“Don’t run from this,” Daenerys pleads, taking a hesitant step closer. “Don’t run from me.”

It’s an understandable request given the situation, and the years you have spent together, but it’s not one you can acquiesce to. You can’t face her right now; not with everything that’s boiling up within you. “I can’t do this,” you manage to choke out, hands shaking due to the force of your broiling emotions. “I can’t pretend that everything is alright.”

Her expression crumples at your words, but she doesn’t back down. Instead, Daenerys reaches for you, her fingers brushing your arm, trying to ground you, to keep you from slipping away. “We’ll get through this,” she insists, voice a mixture of desperation and determination. “Whatever we have to face, we will do it together. Just like we always have.”

The heartfelt plea is one that’d normally soften your countenance, opening your heart back up to the warmth of her love, but you don’t think you could bear it now. Not as your thoughts twist and turn the light your shared love has brought to you into unending darkness; reminding you that she was the one that brought Viserion beyond the Wall, the one that left you behind, the one who’s actions have caused a death that could have been avoided.

“The fire that burns within a Targaryen is a double-edged sword,” you muse, a sardonic twist to your lips, as the realization suddenly settles within you; something you had been too blind, too besotted with love, to notice until now. “It can forge a kingdom from the ashes or it can reduce a kingdom to cinders. Those who follow them must always be prepared to walk through the flames and emerge either as conquerors or as nothing more than ash.”

Your words hang heavily in the air — striking Daenerys with a lethal precision, making her flinch as if you’ve physically struck her — but you can’t stop the torrent of emotions that have been unleashed.

“It’s a neat adage, don’t you think? Something I read long ago, in Meereen perhaps, but I have never given it much thought since. Never let it settle long enough to become tangible within my mind,” you continue, the bitterness welling within you impossible to mask. “You’re the Mother of Dragons, Dany! The Unburnt! You’ve always walked  through flames and those who follow you — those who love you — have no choice but to do the same, but not everyone emerges unscathed. Not everyone survives.”

Realization dawns within her violet gaze, Daenerys finally understanding where your words were heading. “Don’t,” she murmurs, voice breaking as she reaches for you once more, but you step back, shaking your head; even if your heart tugs at the sight of her despair.

“Viserion didn’t survive,” you press on, the statement a dagger to your own heart as much as hers. “You took him beyond the Wall and now he’s dead.”

Violet eyes shimmer with unshed emotion — her desperation causing her to try and bridge the distance between you both once more, but you hold up a hand, keeping her at arm's length. “I never wanted this,” she breathes. “I never wanted to lose him. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did,” you snap. “You did, Daenerys, and now I have to live with the consequences.”

She shakes her head, tears falling freely, but her eyes never waver from yours. “Please,” she begs, raw with emotion — completely open at this moment, allowing you to see every single portion of her pain. “Please don’t leave me. We can’t let this tear us apart; not when we’ve already lost so much. I-I can’t lose you too.”

Her words, the sincere emotion behind them, cut deep, cause you to hesitate; the love you feel for her, that you will always feel, warring with the overwhelming grief that has consumed you, but the pain is too great, the loss too unbearable, and you know staying here will only add salt to an already stinging wound.

“I need time.” It seems like a reasonable request. You know, deep within yourself, beyond the anger and pain, that you need Daenerys, but, at the current moment, you can’t be in her presence and heal to the level you need to. However, you allow her next attempt to touch you, knowing that she needs physical contact, not having the heart to deny her again, and soon her hand makes contact with your arm, gripping in a firm, yet still gentle, manner. “I need to think. I need—” You breathe harshly through your nose. “I need space.”

The grip on your arm tightens slightly, her eyes searching yours, looking for something — for anything — that might give her hope. Something that you can’t give her right now. Not when everything was still so fresh. Not when you didn’t even know if the person you used to be — the woman that Daenerys had fallen in love with — was still underneath all of the darkness.

“I’m sorry,” you say, meaning the words despite everything else. “I can’t stay.”

It’s in that very moment that you see her heart break — the realization that you’re truly leaving, finally registering — and it tears at something inside of you, but you push that feeling deep down. Right now, all you can think about, all you can handle doing, is getting away; finding some peace, some clarity.

“Please,” Daenerys whimpers, a sound you never expected to hear her make, let alone be the reason behind it. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.”

That, more than anything, causes your breath to catch in your throat, a new kind of pain searing through your chest. You hated this — the parts of you not held down by the darkness were screaming at you to stop this, to hold your Khaleesi and never let go — but there’s nothing else you could do. Not in the state you were in because, if you stayed, if you bent, then you’d keep bending until you were broken completely.

You try to ignore the growing sense of distress emanating from your dragon, moving ever closer to the door of the room, subtly switching to the position she had once held, you shared within Dragonstone — a room you knew you wouldn’t enter for a long while after this — to ensure a quick escape.

Daenerys steps forward. “Ñuha perzys.” Hands outstretched to take your own once more — panic-stricken desperation etched across her face, while violet pools shimmer with more tears — but you twist away from her. Knowing, deep within yourself, that if you let her touch you, if you let her in now, you’d crumble, and that’s not something you’ll allow yourself to do. Not now. Not with this. Not when your son was dead and you’re still breathing, and you still needed to come to terms with that. “Please.”

But, even now, even with all the pain, the grief, the anger, swirling within your body, the familiar urge to look at your Khaleesi, to find solace within her gaze, within her presence, trickles through you like a mountain stream; eroding the miasma of emotions for just enough time that you felt compelled to listen. Maybe because you knew it could be the last time you do so?

The sight that greets you is one that’ll haunt your dreams — just like the emptiness within your heart will forever carry Viserion’s loss — and you wish, for just a moment, that the love you shared with Daenerys wasn’t so strong, so overwhelmingly life-changing, so you could look at her, look at the woman that took away your son, your Prūmia, and feel absolutely nothing at the sight of her devastation, of her anguish.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You think, watching as Daenerys tries to center herself, hands curling around the ends of the loose tunic she had thrown on in her haste to catch you. She has always made you feel too much. Awakening things within you that you never believed possible. You just never imagined that she’d be the cause of this much darkness when she’s always been your light.

“I never thought this would happen. Never even believed it to be a possibility.” A bitter smile curls your lips, tears finally slipping down your cheeks, matching the ones falling across Daenerys’. “It’s my own fault, of course. For not foreseeing this to some degree. I was foolish enough to fall in love with a dragon never expecting to be burnt. Now I’m left behind with the scars of what once was and the ashes of what could have been.”

You don’t give her time to respond — knowing that nothing will change the outcome of this, because no matter what she said, no matter what reasons she gave you, or how much she pleaded, how much she begged, Viserion would still be gone when her words turned into mere echoes within Dragonstone — fleeing from the room that had once been your sanctuary in times that have always been rife with uncertainty.

Ignoring the wail of your name as the doors slam shut with a finality that’d echo within your memories for far longer than you think you can bear.

It’s the second time you have done that, you realize. The second time you had left her behind.

It hadn’t gotten any easier nor do you think it ever would, and you hated yourself just a bit more for falling back into her arms, for seeking her out, and causing more pain because of it. There was more than enough of that already.

Viserion was gone, your son was dead, but there was some form of peace in that, in knowing that he was laid to rest. Even if his memory would still haunt you until the day you drew your last breath. While Daenerys was a living ghost, a tangible phantom, who’d bring her own whirlwind of grief and agony.

You don’t know which is worse; living with the memory of your dead son or with the living ghost of the love of your life that caused his death — both haunting you, one in every shattered dream and the other in every hollow embrace.

Daenerys may still be alive, but you’ve lost her just the same, and you don’t know if you’ll ever find her again.

The days following your disagreement with Daenerys passed in unending monotony, self-inflicted numbness casting the world into varying shades of gray.

But could you truly trivialize the harsh words you had hurled at Daenerys as a mere disagreement? It’s something that you have wondered every time your mind inevitably went back to that moment — observing how everything came into fruition; how a brief moment of peace had been torn apart due to the unending despair that has plagued your every waking moment since you heard the news — wherein your normally loving words had twisted into something that seemed like it was coming from someone else.

They were a poison, seeping into the fragile bond you both had fought so hard to build, had spent years strengthening into an enduring relationship built upon a foundation of love and trust stronger than even Valyrian Steel. The memory of her eyes, usually burning with resolve, haunted you — clouded with hurt and grief, not just for Viserion, for the bond that had severed the moment he fell from the sky, but the knowledge that she had possibly lost you too. You had seen the pain you caused etched on her face, and that image refused to leave your mind.

Even thinking of it now, the despair so clearly burning within her normally vibrant violet gaze, causes you to flinch at the reminder that you had been the one to cause such a state; something that you had always vowed to never do. You had seen the way Daenerys clung to people that had earned her loyalty, earned her love, her devotion. She had already lost so much: her parents, her siblings, her husband and unborn son, warriors that had sworn to fight under her banner, and numerous others that promised to be there for her but had proved to be nothing but snakes in the end; just waiting for a time to strike while reaping the benefits of being in the presence of the last dragon.

You had loved Viserion as fiercely as any mother loves her child and his death had shattered you in ways you hadn’t known were possible. The bond you shared with him had been unlike anything else in this world — an extension of your soul, a piece of your very being. Now, with him gone, it felt as if that part of you had been violently torn away, leaving behind a bleeding, festering wound that no amount of time could ever hope to heal; a wound that had birthed the vicious words that you had hurled at Daenerys — they were daggers, sharp and unforgiving — with the sole purpose of hurting her in the way that she had hurt you.

Spite and cruelty had never been part of your repertoire — kindness and compassion had always been at the very crux of your being — but it has suddenly become the only thing you could stand to grasp. As if, in the absence of love, bitterness was the only armor strong enough to protect the shattered remnants of your heart. The warmth that once defined you has been buried beneath layers of resentment, each act of malice a desperate attempt to shield yourself from further pain, even as it pulls you further away from the person you once were; from the woman that you have loved since she had awakened the feeling within you.

Grief is a poignant beast, you’ve come to realize, dragging its heavy claws across the heart, carving deeper and deeper burrows that widen into an endless chasm; devouring the light, leaving behind a void so vast that no bridge of time or love can seem to span it. A chasm that yawns wider with each passing day, echoing with the sounds of what once was, relentless and unyielding in its pursuit of every lingering joy. Until all that remains is the hollow ache of absence and the weight of memories too heavy to bear.

Dragonstone had become almost unbearable to traverse during the day: filled with Dothraki and Unsullied, with advisors and allies, with friends, all knowing what had occurred between you and Daenerys. Their gazes ranging from pity to curiosity to a protective rage — an emotion that gave you an inkling about how Daenerys has been faring in the days since your disagreement — and you couldn’t stand to be analyzed in such a way, couldn’t stand to be the source of courtly intrigue, nor could you stand the constant need for people to try and help; even if it’s from the best possible place. 

You found that the nights didn’t bring you much solace either. In the stillness, the weight of your grief pressed down even harder, a suffocating blanket of despair that wrapped around you, refusing to let go. The walls of Dragonstone, cold and unyielding, seemed to close in, amplifying the emptiness inside you. Sleep eluded you, and when it did come, it still brought the nightmares that have consumed you since you heard the news — visions of Viserion taunting you; his comforting roar turning into a screech of agony, golden eyes that blazed like the sun being extinguished, his fire, his warmth, disappearing forever. Each time, you woke with a start, the sound of his loving croons resounding in your ear, following each beat of your shattered heart.

So, not knowing what else to do, not being able to withstand the prison you had constructed any longer, you sought refuge on the rugged cliffs of Dragonstone; away from the bustling interior of the castle, but not too far to make you feel completely disconnected from the world around you. It’s a haven you find yourself standing upon now, the cold wind whipping around you as you stare out at the churning sea below.

Here, amidst the raw beauty of the cliffs, you let your thoughts wander; the vast expanse of the ocean stretching before you gives the perfect view to let go, to let your eyes watch the soothing way in which the waves continue to move, a stark contrast to the confined spaces of Dragonstone. It feels like a place where you can breathe, if only slightly, away from the prying eyes and well-meaning, but intrusive, concerns of the court.

Your thoughts shift, as they often do, to Daenerys wondering what she could be doing in the wake of everything that has happened. Your mind’s eye brings a vivid picture of her in the chambers that you had stormed out of days prior, a place that you used to find solace, now filled with a heavy silence. How does she cope with Viserion’s death? With the burden of your anger still lingering in the air? Does she, too, seek refuge in the quiet spaces of Dragonstone? Or is she out there, being the indomitable conqueror that’d make her ancestors proud, dealing with the fallout of her decisions; attempting to carry on despite the wounds that she now bears?

The thought of her enduring similar pain tugs at something within you. Despite the anger and pain that still chokes you every time you take a breath, despite the grief that’s still burrowed deep within your heart, a part of you — the part that is still trying to hold all your shattered pieces together; the part that remembers the kindness and love that had encompassed who you are — understands that she is as broken by the loss as you are. It’s a realization, one that had taken days to finally come to terms with, that makes your own pain more poignant; knowing that the woman you’re at odds with is also mourning. Possibly even feeling abandoned and misunderstood — yet another promise that you had broken in the dark abyss of your grief.

You think about the last words you had exchanged, the vitriol behind them on your side and the pleading desperation on her own, and it stings to remember how your pain had twisted your words into something that only deepened the ever growing rift between you both.

If only you’d been able to see through your anger, you think, jaw clenched in an effort to stop the scream that wished to tear itself from your throat; announcing to the world the depths of the opposing emotions within you. If you had then you might have been able to approach her with the understanding that, despite everything that has transpired, she was grieving just as profoundly.

Standing on the cliff, cool air washing over you, the sound of waves crashing against jagged rock resounding within your ear, you try to clear the fog of anger and regret that has hung over you. Reconciliation had always been something you knew would be inevitable — despite the pain, the anger, and overwhelming sorrow — understanding that a life without Daenerys wasn’t a life worth living. You also know that, if you truly wish to reconcile with your soulmate, you need to move beyond the blame and confront your own feelings. Reconciliation wasn’t about who was right or wrong, but about finding common ground in your shared loss.

But how could you?

How could you bridge the gap when your emotions were so tangled? When the anger and grief that you directed at her felt justified in your own suffering but wrong when you considered her side? The hurt had been real, but it wasn’t all that defined her actions; she had lost Viserion too, and her heart was likely just as broken as yours, though perhaps in different ways.

The waves continue their relentless assault on the rocks below, and you find a kind of solace in their persistence; they remind you that even in the midst of turmoil, there is a rhythm to life that continues, a reminder that healing is a process that takes time and effort. It may not be possible to find perfect words or to erase the pain that has accumulated, nor do you think that pain will ever truly go away, not when its origin is the way it is, but you have to try.

Determined, you turn away from the edge and make your way back to the castle. Perhaps the path to healing is not in grand gestures or perfect apologies, but in the simple act of showing up, of being willing to face the difficult truths and seek understanding.

To honor the love that, despite everything, still exists between you.

You brace yourself for the confrontation that looms ahead; the entire thing feeling inevitable. The days of avoidance, of festering wounds and unspoken grief, have stretched on for far too long. Hearing Daenerys out, allowing her the chance to air out her pain, the anger and sorrow that has been gnawing at her heart since Viserion’s death was the least you could do after everything you’ve already done. Even if all the things you hurled towards Daenerys, at the time, felt justified, you know that they’re anything but; now they’re simply an added weight that you must now shed if you are to continue forward.

If you are to heal.

But healing doesn’t come easy and it certainly won’t come without more pain. You’re aware of this, knowing that when you face Daenerys it will not be simple apologies and easy forgiveness; she will be rightfully angry and hurt. You had abandoned her in the aftermath of Viserion’s death, retreating into your own grief, leaving her to carry the burden alone; with the added weight that she might not have only lost her son but you as well. Daenerys was strong, the strongest person you’ve ever met, but you know her, know that beneath her strength lies a heart that feels too deeply, a soul that has been wounded again and again. Your actions had only wounded her further, something you had promised yourself you’d never do so long ago, with your absence, with your vitriolic words and then your silence, and, potentially above all, your inability to stand beside her when she needed you most. 

With each step back towards the castle, the enormity of what you’ve done presses down upon you — it’s not only about Viserion, not anymore, it’s about the distance you’ve allowed to grow between you and Daenerys; the love that’s been overshadowed by loss and anger.

Blaming her had been easier — allowing him to go North, not protecting him as fiercely as you would have — but you now know it had all been a smokescreen for your own feelings of failing as Viserion’s mother; for not being there to save him like he had always saved you.

And now you’ve been absent in saving the only other person who matters most to you — Daenerys.

The ancient castle looms ahead, its dark silhouette stark against the fading light of day, the closer you get causes your chest to tighten. You don’t know how to fix this, don’t know how to find the words that will make her understand how much you regret what’s happened, how much you hate the distance that you’ve created, but you have to try. You don’t know what you’d be if you didn’t.

Viserion may have been your heart — your Prūmia — but Daenerys was your soul.

Moving through the corridors of Dragonstone, each step louder in the silence of your surroundings, as the air around seemed colder in comparison to the warmth of the sun; the fire that had once warmed the halls seems dim now, almost as if it was reflecting that coldness that had descended between you and Daenerys. Not knowing where exactly your dragon was, but allowing your instincts to guide you, you find yourself heading towards the chambers that Daenerys often retreats to when she needs solace.

When you reach the doors to the chambers you had once shared, the flickering torch light casts your shadow on the stone walls; a subtle reminder of the darkness you’ve both been carrying.

It’s a long time before she responds — leaving you to linger in the silence you’d rather forget — but then the door finally opens, Daenerys standing before you, a vision of fragile strength: silver-gold hair falling in loose waves around her face, undone from the typical Dothraki braids, a pallid hue to her skin that brings out the darkened circles beneath her brilliant violet gaze.

A gaze that was harder than you could ever remember, but all that you could imagine yourself deserving after everything that’s happened. Sharper, as if the amethyst hue had been honed by the same grief and guilt that had cut into you, the room behind her, lit by only the hearth, causes a glow to wrap around her — ethereal as your dragon has always been.

“Why are you here?” It’s a pointed question, one that lingers due to the coldness within her tone; protective walls firmly in place. “Is there something you need?”

You open your mouth to speak, the words die as soon as they’re born on your tongue, her questions hanging in the air between you, but the answer you wished to give seemed so much more complicated than you could ever put into words.

Why are you here? To apologize? To seek forgiveness? To mend what’s been broken? Perhaps you wished to do all of it, but none of it feels like enough. 

“I came to—” You search for the right word, but you can only manage a feeble one, voice quieter than you intended. “—talk.”

Daenerys narrows her eyes slightly, the hurt and anger she’s been carrying apparent, but she steps aside; allowing you to enter, but the distance between yourself and your dragon felt more than physical. It feels as though the Narrow Sea stretches before you — filled with all the things left unsaid, all of the pain neither of you had fully acknowledged, simply letting it drown in the murky waters — but if the Dothraki could find the courage to cross it then so would you if it meant your Khaleesi would be waiting for you on the other side.

Taking in the room, a familiar sight but somehow different all the same — just like everything between you and Daenerys; similar but different, right but wrong, close but distant — as the fire crackles in the hearth, doing little to warm the coldness that had settled within the chambers. You watch as Daenerys moves to stand beside the hearth, refusing to sit, seemingly believing this wouldn’t be a conversation long enough wherein she’d have to get comfortable, her posture defensive; her violet eyes filled with a wariness that should never be within her gaze.

“You said you wished to talk,” she says, voice quiet but steady. “So talk.”

You swallow hard, the words still struggling to come out: Where do you even begin? How do you properly explain the storm of emotions that had made their home within your body since you had been told the news of Viserion’s death.

“I’m sorry,” you finally reply, the simplest of all words, but heavy with the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid for too long. “I’m sorry I left you to deal with everything alone. I’m sorry that I had let my anger control me that night. I’m sorry for blaming you when—” You falter for a moment, remembering the way you had sharply blamed Daenerys, putting the horrific accusation into words, even though you had never said it since. “—when it wasn’t your fault.”

Daenerys’ expression slightly softened, her head tilting as her eyes searched yours as she decided whether or not to believe you.

“Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?” It’s a bitter question, one borne from your constant rejection of her love, and it’s something you deserve to shoulder. “You left me. Twice. You blamed me. You abandoned me when I needed you most. And now, after all this time, you show up and say you’re sorry?”

Her words sting like a blade to the heart — making you realize exactly what your own, much harsher, words had done to her; as Daenerys wasn’t aiming to hurt you, not truly, but when you had been lost in your grief, in the darkness it brought, you had been doing so. “I know,” you concede, not even trying to defend your actions. All you wished to do was explain and see where it led you and Daenerys from here. “I hurt you, I made things worse, and I don’t have an excuse except to simply say that I was lost. When Viserion died it felt like a part of me died with him. I didn’t know how to handle it.” You look away from your Khaleesi then, shame lying heavily upon your shoulders. “I didn’t know how to stay.”

Violet eyes blaze into life from her anger — the flicker of emotion she’s been holding back finally breaking through — as she tenses. “And you think I didn’t feel the same? He was my son too, I loved him just as much, maybe in a different way but no less profound, but I didn’t get to fall apart, did I? I didn’t get to disappear. I had to keep fighting, keep leading, keep moving forward, and where were you?” Her voice cracks with emotion and, for a brief moment, the anger in her gaze is replaced by something far more vulnerable; pain, raw and unfiltered. “Where were you?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice breaking under the weight of the truth. You hadn’t known where you were. Not truly. Your body may have been in Dragonstone physically, but you hadn’t truly been here for such a long time. “I don’t know why I couldn’t stay, I should have, but I was so angry.” Fists clenching at your sides, you shake your head, as if to clear the fog from your mind. “Angry at the world, at everything that had happened, and I took it out on you because you were the only person I could blame when I didn’t wish to face the truth. It was easier to blame you than facing the fact that I couldn’t protect him. That I wasn’t there for him in the way that he deserved.”

The silence that follows your admission feels like a chasm, similar to one the darkness had created within you, vast and unbridgeable, as you watch the way Daenerys tenses even further, lips thinning, as she struggles to hold back her emotions further.

“I needed you,” she whispers, finally breaking the silence. “And you weren’t there.”

Those words, devastating in their simplicity, shatter something inside you, causing you to take a step toward your dragon, but she doesn’t move. Daenerys’ arms remain crossed, her posture still defensive, but the violet pools you adore were shimmering with unused tears. And it breaks you even more to see her like this — your strong, unconquerable dragon — like this.

To know that you had been the one to cause it.

There’s nothing you could truly say to make up for what you’ve done — what you’ve put her, and yourself, through — but you’d never stop trying. “I know,” you say, regret filling you. “I failed you, Daenerys. I let my own pain blind me to yours, I let the grief and bitterness consume me, and I left you to bear the weight of it all alone.” Your lips thin into a line, nails slightly digging into your palms. “And I hate myself for that. I hate that I wasn’t strong enough for you, for us, like you have always been towards me.”

The tears that had been gathering in her gaze finally spill over, cascading down her cheeks like falling stars, glimmering underneath the light, and she turns away from you; as if she was trying to hide the vulnerability in her expression, her hands gripping the back of the chair that was situated before the hearth, knuckles white from the effort.

“I didn’t want to be alone.” Daenerys’ typically strong voice trembles under the weight of her emotions, her confession hanging in the air; as if on a delicate thread made entirely of fear and vulnerability. The room seems to shrink around her, the silence amplifying the rawness of her words. Her fierce exterior, always so carefully maintained, now cracks, revealing the depths of her isolation. “I didn’t want to carry the pain alone, but I didn’t have a choice when you left me.”

You take another tentative step toward her, heart aching at the sight of her crumbling before you; the woman you have seen standing tall before armies, who had survived betrayal, loss and death, in a manner you couldn’t truly comprehend, now stood before you broken because of your absence, by the weight of the grief you shared.

“I didn’t know how to be there,” you admit. “I didn’t know how to stay when hurt so much, when I could barely contain the anger within me, but I know now that leaving you was the worst thing I could have done.”

Daenerys turns to face you once more, and this time you don’t find any anger within her violet gaze — only pain that mirrors your own. “Why now?” The fragility of the question showcasing how afraid Daenerys was of your answer. “Why come back now?”

The words that flow from your lips leave as easily as a dragon flies through the air — an innate response that you didn’t need to ponder, to question, or feel as if it wasn’t enough. “Because I can’t do this without you. It took me a lot longer than I’d ever like to admit, to realize that I was using my isolation as a shield and you as the martyr I needed to disappear.” You shake your head, agitated at what you’ve done even if you know that it might have been for the best at first, but you shouldn’t have continued to stay away, continuing to let the darkness fester within you. “As much as I tried to shut out the pain, trying to convince myself that it’s easier to stay away, because then I’d be away from the woman my darkness had blamed, it wasn’t. It was yet another lie my mind had created, a feeling of false security, to ensure I wouldn’t get hurt again, trying to protect what I had left. But it didn’t help, it only made things worse, unbearable, because I need you, Daenerys. I always have and always will.”

Her expression softens at your confession, your heartfelt admission to how you almost lost yourself to your own mind, the rest of the sharpness in her gaze fading away, becoming open. Taking a step forward, you watch, with bated breath, as Daenerys’ arms uncross and she tentatively reaches for you, testing if it was safe to touch again — clearly remembering the times you had rejected her affection. When the warmth of her hand finally rests upon your chest, over your heart, the contact is like a lifeline you’ve needed for so long, pulling you from the murky waters that have been trying to pull you under, grounding you in the reality of her presence.

“I missed you,” she confesses in return, voice thick with emotion. “Every day, I missed you. Even when I was angry, even when I was hurt by your actions, even when I thought I hated you.”

The words hit you like a wave, almost causing you to detach from the buoy her touch had given you, but you refuse to let yourself sink again, to be consumed by the darkness when finally in the face of your sun. You reach up to take her hand in yours, holding it tightly to ensure she didn’t slip away, as you reply. “I missed you too. Even when I was at my worst, even when my thoughts didn’t feel like my own, some part of me, the truest part of me, missed you too. I’m just glad I didn’t ruin everything.”

Daenerys shakes her head, tears still steadily slipping down her cheeks, but she no longer looks devastated. “We’ve both made mistakes,” she admits. “We’ve both been hurt, but the one thing that could never change is the love I feel for you, not even when it felt like everything was falling apart, my love has always remained true.”

You can’t hold back your tears any longer, blurring your vision for a moment, as you pull her into your arms, holding her as tightly as you can; trying to make up for all the time you had lost while apart. Daenerys, in return, clings to you just as tightly, body trembling against yours as the weight that seemed to have pressed upon day-by-day began to finally lift.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper against the soft skin of her neck, your face pressed as close as you can manage; delighting in the familiar scent of your Khaleesi. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I know,” Daenerys soothes, arms tightening as she presses a kiss to your temple. “I’m sorry too.”

For a long time, you just hold each other, the silence that had descended between you — not the familiar entity that had kept you company for so long — filled with an unspoken understanding that you both had been through hell, but you’ve managed to come out on the other side.

The scars are still there, the wounds still fresh, but the love that has been between you is there, shining through the pain. A North Star in the darkness that promised salvation, leading you home within your Khaleesi’s embrace.

Eventually Daenerys pulls back, only slightly as she didn’t wish to put too much distance between you, but just enough to be able to look at you fully. Her eyes, still red and swollen from crying, are filled with a warmth that you haven’t seen in such a long time; amethyst pools shining like the precious gems as Daenerys seemed to glow from within.

“We’ll get through this,” Daenerys vows, determined to not falter again. “We have to get through this, ñuha perzys. We belong together.”

All you can do is nod in response, throat too tight with emotion to allow any form of speech, instead you lean forward to press a kiss to your Dany’s cheek, nuzzling against the warmth you find there, heart swelling with a mixture of relief and love.

Knowing, with everything within you, that as long as you had her by your side, your Khaleesi’s warmth keeping the cold at bay, you’d be able to face whatever comes next.

Together.

[lockheed-martin-unofficial]

I was thinking about Cybertronians freezing in the Arctic due to the ice that forms on them instead of just the cold & not knowing what humidity is again, and what if they weren’t instantly aware of all the abilities of their alt modes?

They’d have a warmup period after scanning them and have to gradually get used to/ discover all the things they can do. There’s little to no water on cybertron, no reason for them to know that ice forms in the cold, no reason for them to have de-icing. And when they come to earth and choose aircraft as their new vehicle modes, they have no idea those aircraft come with built in warmers on the wings.

I thought about how some flying decepticons would deal with it. Let’s go with Starscream first because I love him very much.

(Also because he complains about cold the most out of all the characters. I imagine everyone ices up the same amount, but the cold is an entirely different problem and one that affects him more because he’s all thin and lanky, not very good at retaining heat. It’s worth clarifying that the freezing is what’s dangerous to them. The cold bothers them but isn’t a threat in and of itself, seeing as they can walk around in space just fine. But I ramble on)

- If he had a human friend or partner, he’d be complaining about how cold it is in front of them and they’d be like “Wait, aren’t you a plane?” He’d ask what that has to do with anything and get very annoyed that he didn’t know he came with extra heating.

- He claims he totally knew about that all along and merely forgot about it in the moment. He also claims he totally knows how to turn it on, but…remind him again?

- The realization that he can just… make himself warmer at will is incredible. He’s still gonna complain about the cold though. Probably out of instinct, he complains to fill the silence. (Is it obvious I want him to be safe and warm. I think it’s obvious.)

- Cue a concerned human asking if he’s been flying through clouds and terrible weather and all the way into the stratosphere with ice building on his wings for all this time. How is he still flying? He just replies that he’s built different, and that he’s far superior to human machines yap yap yap blah blah.

- He doesn’t want to admit how great it is, but after the human shows him how to turn it on, he’d be waking around with the de-icing turned on all day, even when he doesn’t need it. I reckon it’d make the area between his wings an excellent nap spot. He could just put a human in there and squeeze them between his wings and it’d feel like being put in one of these bad boys, I dunno what they’re called in English

In any case, peak nap spot.

Up next is Megan:

- Megatron doesn’t actually have an earth based vehicle mode, leading me to believe he wouldn’t have any form of de-icing. My headcanon is that his bigger, bulkier frame would require and generate more heat, but look at him.

He got a lot of nooks and crannies that ice could build up in. Even spikier than Starscream. Much like Starscream he doesn’t have paint which may also have acted like an extra layer of heat insulation. Additionally, his joints on the arms and legs are visible.

(Actually unsure if Starscream is painted and just gray, but Megs definitely isn’t)

- My point is, I’m not an ice expert but Megatron is terrible for both heat insulation and icing prevention. Megatron is a tough bot, he can take a lot of punches, and as prideful as he is I doubt he’d ignore the fact that a snowstorm would be a genuine threat or hinderance to him.

- Not that he’d let anyone notice, of course. He has a reputation to maintain, and he can’t allow anyone to know his weakness. When he’s in private though, I find the image of evil dictator Megs snuggled up in a billion blankets drinking a hot cocoa hilarious. I’ll probably draw it.

- A human pal or partner may not be able to advise him to turn on de-icing that he doesn’t have, but they might be able to offer him another solution. A badass cloak or cape to protect himself from the snow, while also remaining intimidating. Anyone would think it was just for show, unaware that it’s actually to keep him from freezing.

Last but certainly not least, Soundwave!

-Oh, Soundwave totally knew about the de-icing without needing anyone to mention it. Soundwave knows a lot of things. He’d totally read his own altmode’s manual. I don’t think we’ve ever seen Soundwave in the Arctic though.

Trying to find a good gif for my own reference hang on-

- I’d argue that out of these three he’s probably best with the cold. Sure, he’s spiky too, but nowhere near the other two. His “elbows” are awfully small and exposed, but since his wings form the arms there’d be no issue once he turned on the de-icing. In the gif he easily covers his entire body with those huge arms, so he could easily curl up around himself and defrost if be needed to. Now here’s a good writing idea I probably will never use

- Laserbeak probably has its own de-icing, which makes Soundwave extra warm when he requires it. ADDITIONALLY Laserbeak could be deployed in order to warm up a human friend or partner from afar. Tactical warms.

- Not much to say about Soundwave. Maybe I’ll edit and add later.

[secretlysimpash]

Hybrid/Shifter 141+ Graves & the reader wanting to sleep in

For one reason or another, you REALLY don’t want to get out of bed. Also, for some reason, there’s a shapeshifting hybrid guy in your house.

Characters: Price, Gaz, Soap, Ghost, and Graves

Warnings: small warning for mentions of a dead animal in Ghost’s section

–Price–

Lucky for you, Price also doesn’t want to get out of bed. Being a bear hybrid, he wants to stay curled up with you on your bed more and more as the leaves change and the air turns crisp. 

It's overcast right now, not a single ray of sun poking out from the thick covering of clouds…Such a gloomy day makes for the perfect conditions for you to just sleep in. Snuggling under your covers, you keep your eyes shut despite being conscious now. A weight is draped across your body too…And you know for a fact it's not a weighted blanket. No, it's actually the one who accidentally destroyed your weighted blanket a few weeks ago. 

Price, in his burly brown bear form, is lying right next to you. One of his thick, furry arms is flung over your smaller form. It’s only one arm, but god, it feels heavy. You shift slightly under the weight, earning a grumble from Price. Slowly, he drags you closer until you’re flush against his fluffy body, his fur almost suffocating when you breathe in. Despite bear fur filling each breath, the natural, somewhat piney scent he holds is comforting.

Oh, and don’t expect to get up anytime soon…Because even when you’re ready to finally rise, Price won’t have any of it. You’re stuck until further notice.

–Gaz–

You stayed up late scrolling again, despite Gaz’s warnings. He told you to get some rest, said you’d regret it in the morning. And yet, you still ended up going to bed sometime in the AM. 

Did you know that red-tailed hawks are diurnal? That means they’re more active during the day. Well, you certainly know that now, since one is now flapping loudly into your room. Despite it, you squeeze your eyes shut tighter. 

Meanwhile, Gaz takes it upon himself to fly right over to your window, grabbing the curtain with his talons. He practically tears them down as he forces them open, the first bright beams of the morning sun pouring into your room. You simply grunt and pull the covers up over your head.

You think that’s all? Think again. Frustrated, he flaps his way over to your bed, landing on the pillow beside your head. Before you have time to process what’s going on, that damned hawk lets out the loudest, most shrill screech…Directly into your ear. The covers do nothing to muffle the sound either. This is far worse than any snarky “I told you so” that Gaz could’ve thrown at you in his human form.

After he screeched a few more times, you finally swat at him, making him stop mid-shriek. He stares at you, offended by the sheer audacity. When he flies back out of your room, you sigh and slowly uncover your head. Did he finally give up…? Is he finally going to go out for his hunt alone…?

THINK AGAIN, CHUCKLENUTS. Minutes later, the beating of wings can be heard again. Gaz flies right over your head and…Thunk. One of your shoes lands square on your face. It is then that you realize he’s not giving up…As he goes to get your other shoe. Either you get up and accompany Gaz on his morning hunt, or suffer as his attempts to get you out of bed get increasingly worse.

–Soap–

You’re finally able to sleep in after a rough couple of weeks at work. It's heavenly, the feeling of your blankets wrapped around you and your head laying on a soft pillow. Nothing could make you get up right now…Not even the sound of a meowing Scottish fold barreling into your room. 

Soap is currently meowing loudly…Long and annoying meows as he circles your bed. The meowing stops as he bunches up before leaping and scrambling onto your bed. You glance down at the foot of your bed, met with the blue-eyed gaze of a brown and white furball. His pupils dilate slightly as he creeps up to you…Purring all the while. Even in this form, he has a stupid little mohawk between his folded ears. 

He pads up until he’s standing right on your chest. Still purring, he begins to circle, his tail whacking your head every time he spins. And he circles…And circles…Until he curls up and settles down. Despite his cat form being small, it still feels like he weighs a ton when he’s laying on your chest like this.

His tiny paws knead at the blanket, slow-blinking at you as you try to tell him to get off…To just lay on the mattress beside you. But no, he doesn’t want to. Why would he when he’s so comfy right here, bonnie? When you try and tell him again, he raises his paw and places it right on your mouth. His gentle, wordless way of telling you to shut up and close your eyes. 

But when you finally close your eyes again…Suddenly he bolts up and darts across the bed. Fuckin’ zoomies…

–Ghost–

You are hungry…But you really don’t feel like getting up just yet. Your bed is the right amount of warm and cozy to stop you from moving an inch. Of course, your wolf hybrid buddy Ghost is wondering why you haven’t woken up yet. He pokes his head into the room, seeing you just laying there. He snorts, padding up to the bed as he observes your sleeping form. 

All he can think of is something’s wrong. Something’s wrong with you, you’re unwell, that’s why you’re not awake yet. He heaves himself onto the bed, his tail low as he looks you over carefully. Pressing his muzzle against your neck, he checks to see if you have a heartbeat. Thankfully, your pulse thrums under his cold nose…And his ears prick as you make a sound of discomfort at the sudden tongue lapping across your cheek a few times.

So you’re alive and well, not quite awake yet, you don’t smell of sickness…Then he hears it. Your stomach growls, and you curl up on yourself, rolling onto your side. You’re hungry…And too weak to get up to get your own food? This isn’t the case, you know this, but Ghost’s wolf brain rationalizes that it is…And he NEEDS to help.

You hear him leave the room, and so you allow yourself to fall back asleep after wiping the slobber from your cheek. So you’re able to get a few more hours of sleep in…And it's nice, minus the slight hunger that you’re still not willing to fix.

But you are awoken again by the sound of shuffling downstairs...A dragging sound. You sit up and practically jump out of bed when a howl comes from downstairs. What did Ghost want? You rub your eyes and begrudgingly make your way to the living room…Being met with quite the sight. 

Ghost, the massive wolf with black fur and nicked ears, and a massive deer carcass laying before him. A trail of blood stretches from the door to the center of the living room floor, showing where he dragged the buck. Upon seeing you, he wags his tail and barks, brown eyes lighting up with pride…As if to say “Look what I caught, look, I hunted for you”. 

Of course, he goes into his human form to help you butcher the deer so you can cook it together…He even saws the antlers off and saves them as a nice trophy.

–Graves–

Do you know what the most annoying sound in the world is? Worse than any alarm or even nails on a chalkboard? Maybe you didn’t know until you met Graves, resident Commander and annoying clever fox hybrid. Because for some reason, he’s in your house…In his red fox form…Screaming. 

You’re just trying to get some extra Z’s in after a fairly restless night. But Mister Phillip Graves has OTHER plans for you. He wants you to get your ass up out of bed, demands you get up since he so kindly made you a proper southern breakfast like you asked (you didn’t). When you responded with a groggy “five more minutes” before turning onto your side, he just nodded and left the room before shifting into his fox form. 

He screeches, yowls from the hall all the way to your room. You throw a pillow at him, and he’s not having it. Graves grabs the pillow in his jaws, muffled yips leaving him as he jumps onto your bed with it. Once he’s on top of your blanketed form, he violently shakes the pillow…Demolishing it and making a mess of stuffing before letting go of it. 

Before you can protest, he bounces on you a few times with his front paws. And then he has the AUDACITY to shove his muzzle against your ear. The fucker licks directly into your ear, causing you to gasp and recoil in disgust. You swear the next yips out of his stupid muzzle sound like laughter. When you glare at him, he just stares back…Looking just as smug as his human form. 

God, he sucks…But he’s a hell of a cook.

[kquil]

hi hope ure okay 🤗 will u be posting a chapter 7 preview?

i'm doing great, thank you (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)♡ i've been getting pretty busy lately and have just gotten over my monthly visit with mother nature (ಥ‿ಥ) so i'm sorry for being late with my preview. here it is for you!

DIVORCING ORION BLACK | CHAPTER 7 (PREVIEW)

Screams rang out through the night, horrific and painful, that was what had woken Sirius up. Shaken by the disturbing sound, Sirius clambers out of bed to look out of the dorm room window. Like some sort of haunted picture, the full moon hangs suspended in the night sky, laying claim to its dominance over the vast expanse of space, outshining the stars and ousting all clouds that still linger. It glowed like the many poltergeists that roam Hogwarts’ halls but the moon’s presence was incomparably menacing. 

“What is that screaming?” Sirius utters, his grey eyes searching the landscape through his window for some form of explanation. 

“I don’t know but Remus still hasn’t returned,” James speaks up from the shadows, nearly making Sirius jump out of his skin. 

“W-wait, Remus isn’t back yet?” Peter asks, also slipping out of bed and the three make their way over to their friend’s absent bunk. “Where could he be?”

“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out,” James grins and holds up a cloak. 

“How is that gonna help us find out where Rem—” Sirius begins, rubbing his eyes from sleep but stutters to a stop when James’ figure disappears beneath the fabric. The eldest Black brother shares a look of surprise with Peter before turning a grin back to James who was now a floating head. 

“I like your thinking, James old chap!” Sirius jests and slips beneath the invisibility cloak with him. 

“Will we all be able to fit inside?” Peter’s eyes swim with a healthy level of uncertainty, only to be pulled under the cloak despite his protests. 

“We’ll fit, just keep in time with my pace and be very very quiet,”James warns and the two nod affirmatively, Sirius being much more enthusiastic compared to Peter’s hesitance. 

“I hope we find, Remus soon,” Sirius comments under his breath, pressed against James’ right as Peter staggers along at James’ left. 

“I know… with all that screaming outside, I hope he isn’t in any trouble.” The three make their way to the hospital wing but falter at a hallway junction. Which way was the hospital wing again? 

“I-I think we should go right,” Peter helpfully stutters after some thought. 

“I thought it was left?” Sirius scratches at his head as James gnaws on his inner cheek. The three collectively decide to go right for the time being and if it was wrong, they simply turn back and go the other way. 

Later that night, you ask Kreacher for more information. The topic clearly made Regulus uncomfortable and you didn’t want him to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with, which is why you didn’t ask any further questions, especially at the dinner table where the atmosphere should be lighter. Hopefully, you can fully dismiss all tensions from dinner when you tuck him into bed later on. 

Seated at your desk, you suppress the groans of discomfort that were being conducted through the walls from Orion’s private office — you can’t believe he’s still hasn’t asked Kreacher for a healing potion. But you suppose it’s fitting that his ego is making him suffer more at this point. You savour the sounds of his pain for only a few moments more before calling for Kreacher yourself. 

“Mistress has called for Kreacher?” the hunched house elf immediately asks after appearing before you with a pop. He remains ever aged and wrinkled but his unruffled demeanour and, somewhat, contented expression certainly makes him appear brighter. 

“Yes, I was wondering if the house had any secret rooms, perhaps down the hall from the library,” Kreacher gives you a skeptical look, one that was doused with suspicions you immediately set about diffusing, “it seems my fainting spells are getting to me and tampering with my memories,” At this, Kreacher’s expression morphs into worry and he begins to clutch tightly at his ragged clothes while falling into rambles upon rambles of heightening anxiety for your health. It was a rather endearing sight, knowing someone cares so deeply for your well-being, but you think the poor elf might just self-induce a heart attack if you let him continue like this, “it’s okay though Kreacher, I’m okay. Please just tell me about that secret room?”

Kreacher takes a moment to catch his breath and flush away his anxiety before answering, “Ladies of the noble and most ancient house of Black were the only ones, Mistress, they be the only ones allowed into the parlour,”

“Parlour?”

“The private parlour, Mistress, yes,” Kreacher nods, subconsciously flattening the wrinkles of his clothes with his hands, standing a little straighter and subtly puffing out his chest, “the powerful, esteemed ladies like to talk in priiiivateeee,” he drags out the word in a low tone, which spikes your interest and reaffirms your speculation on the room being used for dark purposes. 

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔݁ ˖

Regulus reads his letter again and nods in satisfaction. This was his third draft of it but he felt his efforts to be worthwhile. Letters were a special occasion and something that made a person feel immediately special when they read a letter that’s addressed specifically to them so he wanted to put in a good effort for Sirius. He just hopes it reaches him in good time. 

“Mother,” Regulus stands with his letter in hand, ready for postage, “my letter is finished, may I deliver it Sirius now, please?”

You smile warmly and nod, slipping Alphard’s letter into the main drawer of your desk. With a small wave of your hand, you gesture him over to you, “would you like to give it a wax seal?”

Regulus’ eyes sparkled with excitement, “I’m allowed?”

“Of course, little love, come here,” you pull him into your lap and gesture to the apparatus around you to create a wax seal.

“First, pick out the coloured wax you want for your seal,” Regulus picks metallic silver wax, a perfect choice for the black envelope he was sending it in, a signature of the Black Family. “Now you put it in this little spoon and melt it over the candle,” with an eager nod, Regulus holds the spoon over the candlelight and the two of you wait for it to melt together. 

“I think it’s melted now mother,” 

“Let me see…” he shows you, swirling around the liquid wax to demonstrate it’s fluidity and grins at your approving nod, “good good. Get the seal ready,” he diligently takes the Black Family seal in his other hand, “now, when you stamp the wax, don’t wiggle it around or else the design will get muddled,” Regulus gives an affirming nod and waits for your instruction to pour the wax before stamping it. He doesn’t wiggle it as you’ve advised. After a few moments, you whisper that it was finally okay for him to take away the stamp and he gasps in delight at the beautiful seal that was left behind. 

“Thank you, Mother!”

“Would you like to post it or ask Kreacher to post it for you?” 

“I’d like to post it please,” his request pulls you away from your desk, just in time as it was nearing 5pm already. You patiently lead him to the family owl and watch with a smile as he hands over his letter and waves off the owl with a cheer. “Sirius is going to love the letter, darling,”

“I hope he sends one back soon!”

“I don’t doubt that he will,”

navi. | series masterlist

i hope you darlings enjoyed the preview and are looking forward to the full chapter on 1st December!ヾ(。✪ω✪。)ｼ

[cookiqueen13]

Headcanons and details I noticed in Trolls!

Rest of the post under read more cause it’s kinda long��️

TROLL ANATOMY

Troll tongues are the same/a similar color to their noses. Their gums and mouths are similar colors to their skin. On a morbid note, this means there’s a possibility that whatever internal organs they have are also colorful.

Trolls have sparkly/rainbow blood. This is probably just a gag/censorship joke but it isn’t a far-fetched idea.

POWERS/SPECIAL ABILITIES

Trolls can use music as a force. In Trolls 3, they use the Family Harmony to break the diamond. In Trolls 2, the Rock trolls can destroy things and hurt people with their music. Queen Essence seems to create a wave/boom using a tuba. Chaz uses his Jazz to hypnotize people and make them hallucinate. Trolls may also have the ability to use music to fight. In a deleted scene from Trolls 2, the Classical trolls and Rock trolls fight using their instruments and voices. In another deleted scene, the Yodelers cause a building to fall apart by yodeling.

Trolls have special adaptations to their specific kingdoms. Rock trolls are heat resistant to combat the fact they live in a VOLCANO. Techno trolls have fins and glow to become more visible in dark water. Country trolls are tough, built for long distance running and work. Pop trolls have advanced hair manipulation to navigate and hide in trees. Classical trolls have wings to safely travel in the mountains/clouds. And idk about Funk trolls💀 But Sub-genres are probably adaptable to most situations.

TROLL REPRODUCTION

Trolls can reproduce sexually and asexually. When 2 different trolls reproduce, the resulting offspring will share traits from both parents. Asexual reproduction results in offspring that have extremely similar traits to the parent or a total clone. Both female and male trolls can produce and incubate eggs. Reproduction can happen from physical contact😏 AND/OR extreme feelings of love/connection. The extreme feeling can be for a partner or just a feeling in general. This would explain how Bruce and Brandy were able to hybridize so well despite being different sizes and species. Guy Diamond mentions how he, “Didn’t know his heart could be so full.” I interpret this as Tiny Diamond coming from the love inside his father’s heart.

EFFECT ON OTHERS

Different trolls have different tastes and effects. As we know, Pop trolls, (when eaten), make the user very happy. But what do they taste like? I imagine they would be overwhelmingly sweet, like candy or cake fondant. Rock trolls would have a spice or bitterness to them and give the user a feeling of aggressiveness or hype. (Kinda like steroids💀). Classical trolls would be buttery and sweet and make the user feel satisfaction or bliss. Techno trolls would taste sweet and sour/citrusy and give the user a major energy boost/sugar rush. Country trolls would taste savory or smoky like BBQ or a home-cooked meal, giving the user a feeling of coziness or nostalgia. Funk trolls would have a mainly tangy/sweet flavor with an underlying spice. The user would feel a general feeling of liveliness or fun.

Trolls 3 introduces more exploitation of trolls in the form of talent stealing. Velvet and Veneer use Floyd to sing Pop music. I imagine that using a troll of a different genre gives the user talent and musical ability in that trolls genre.

[fantasyinvader]

The ending titles for Byleth and Edelgard are pretty damning.

Edelgard’s is simple, Flame Emperor. The same title she gave herself during White Clouds, and her death in SS/VW is referred to as the death of the Flame Emperor. She doesn’t get a new title like Dimitri’s Savior King or Claude’s King of Unification, she’s referred to as the alias she used at the beginning of the game. Considering that Dimitri’s represents his character growth from the “One-Eyed Demon/Boar Prince” while Claude’s indicates his success at bringing people together rather than being the “Table-Top Demon/Master Tactician,” the fact Edelgard’s remains the same says things about her rule. This ties into the truth of Edelgard’s character, that the Edelgard we are introduced to is, in fact, her real mask akin to the playboy image Bruce Wayne uses to hide the fact he is Batman. Like she says at the end of White Clouds in the Japanese script if Byleth fights her, she did and said whatever she could during White Clouds to sway Byleth to her side. Considering that Safflower shows that Edelgard is manipulating everyone, it’s a statement that it’s not “Edelgard” who you aligned with and brought victory. It was the Flame Emperor.

This comes to Byleth’s title, Wings of the Hegemon. It’s because of Byleth that Edelgard, the hegemon, was able to conquer Fodlan. We also see the term hegemon used at the end of Azure Moon, with Edelgard’s Hegemon Husk form. The Japanese text translates as something like Hegemony Corpse Emperor, and it’s not the only one to imply death. Spanish calls her a Hegemonic Specter, Chinese a Skeleton, and Italian and French call the form Shadow of the Conqueror/Hegemonic Shadow. The term “Hegemon Husk,” it implies the form is merely a husk or her outer shell that has been left behind. That “Edelgard” is dead, like the other versions say, and what we’re fighting is what she leaves behind. A husk, a skeleton, a corpse or a ghost.

Considering that Dimitri calls Edelgard’s path the animal path in Safflower, hinting towards the Hegemon Husk transformation, and says that this form is at the end of the path Edelgard follows serving her ideals (which is reinforced by the Cipher card), the player isn’t fighting Edelgard at the end of Azure Moon. They’re fighting the ideals she would have shaped Fodlan around and left behind had she had won. They’re fighting against the future Edelgard wants to protect those in the present.

With the Wings of the Hegemon title, it’s indicating that because of Byleth these ideals won. And remember what the devs said about the themes of Flower, believing something different and mowing down anyone who stands in your way. Despite Edelgard making the player believe they saved her from becoming a monster, the player is still supporting beliefs that go against the rest of the game leading to a route that has a black frame during it’s ending rather than a white one. The player has walked down a path considered evil with Edelgard. Byleth has rejected their own path, that of the “Flame that Seeks their own Destiny/Wandering Flame,” to support Edelgard’s even if that meant getting rid of everyone who opposed them.

Edelgard herself calls the path she has walked “hadou” in Japanese during her S support, just like Claude calls her path in VW. Hadou does lend itself to the idea of hegemony as well as conquest and military rule, and VW still gives the player the death of the Flame Emperor scene. VW also states that Edelgard was manipulated into starting the war by the Agarthans, while Hopes shows Thales chucking the Crest Stone of Maurice, tied to the devil arcana and corruption, at Edelgard to turn into the Hegemon Husk. Aymr also has that same Crest Stone, and is used to say that Edelgard is Thales’ puppet. If Edelgard is supposed to be doing this for her ideals and because of TWSITD manipulating her, Hopes heavily implies those ideals came from them and are the means they do so.

[hooty09]

One-Winged Angel Analysis

Okay so Sephiroth’s theme..! I was looking at the English translations and found some interesting stuff. The first set of lyrics, which are usually “Estuans Interius, Ira Vehementi,” translate to “Burning inside, with violent anger.” This translates to Sephiroth’s true feelings towards humanity itself, despite many people’s mischaracterization of him being a teasing and “hopeless romantic” for Cloud. Really, the way he behaves towards Cloud comes from a spot of hatred and anger in his heart for just how easily Cloud was able to sneak up on him and impale his torso with the buster sword. Depending on the version of FF7, Sephiroth was either thrown into the life stream below the Mt. Nibel reactor, or he jump in himself. Sephiroth’s consciousness was only able to survive in the life stream without being absorbed because of the Jenova cells flowing inside him, and his status as an “unnatural life form” due to the super human abilities of the mako (mixed with Jenova cells. Normal SOLDIERS, who are also infused with Mako, are able to be absorbed by the life stream). The many times you actually see Sephiroth in game are actually just clones of him using parts of Jenova’s body, while his true body is in the North Crater. This all ties to the “Ne me mori facias” lyric, which translates to “do not let me die.” Sephiroth cheated death and was able to rise to the strength of a god, and his desperate hold on immortality is shown in this lyric. The next new words, “Gloriosa” and “Generosa” mean Glorious and Noble. This ties to Sephiroth’s belief that his actions are “good,” due to what humanity did to Jenova. Tying everything together is his main goal in FF7, which is to summon meteor and make a rift in the life stream, where the essence will clot up. Sephiroth will be in the center of the wound, absorbing the lifestream essence and becoming a god. With this, Sephiroth would be the last (known) living being in existence, which is the empty fate he refers to. All in all, while Sephiroth’s true theme would actually be “Those Chosen by the Planet,” his battle theme “One-Winged Angel” puts so much more depth into his character to study. One-Winged Angel focuses on Sephiroth’s fall from grace, and his idea of fate. In the new FF7 remake trilogy, fate is emphasized as the main idea of the games, and this ties in with Sephiroth’s character (as well as other characters) so much more. I made the gif below myself btw. THE END!!!

[my-great-big-book-of-fan-fiction]

The Taming of Man: chapter Seven - Dragon Shifting!Katsuki Bakugou x F!reader

Ok, ok, I know I said I don't normally write chapters this long, But the creative juices were flowing! Don't expect this all the time though, I'm only writing so much because you're so cute. much love, hope you enjoy this chapter, it's a doozey!

Words: 3,825

This is incredibly based on the song The Willow Maid by Erutan, I highly recommend giving it a listen for the best experience.

Warnings: Cursing, reader is She/Her and will be AFAB in later chapters, Katsuki is practically naked for a sec, reader has mommy issues, Kat is trying his best

"Turn around," Katsuki ordered, his face getting redder and redder as he realized his own nakedness. If he wanted to turn into a dragon, he'd have to take off the only shred of clothing he had left, and he sure as hell wasn't doing that in front of you.

You obliged him, sighing and facing the wall. "Take this too," he huffed, not giving you a singular second before the satchel he wore hit your back. "Hey," you shouted, kneeling and doing your best not to turn around, grabbing the satchel and holding it. The strap broke when Katsuki transformed last, so you had to just keep it under your arm.

The sounds you could hear from Katsuki were unfamiliar, like popping and glimmering and something else entirely. You could feel his presence grow larger, his form expanding. You turned around at the sound of giant feet planting on the ground, and what you saw...he was majestic.

His body took all available space, each ruby colored scale no doubt the size of your face, His piercing red eyes even more capturing as he glared down at you. His wings expanded outward, above the nearby buildings, albeit short ones...if you didn't know any better, you'd say he was showing off.

You stepped closer, you hand gingerly resting on his snake-like underbelly, looking up and squinting to see. You could stand on one of his big black claws no doubt, each of his scaled legs like the base of a tree trunk, his form solid and his stance proud.

He leaned downward, causing you to take several steps to the side so you wouldn't be crushed. His massive head nearly touched the ground, and he let out a low rumbling sound. He was telling you to get on.

Slowly and with a lot of struggle, you clambered up his side, situating yourself between a couple of the giant gold spikes that ran down his spine at an angle. As he sat back up and prepared for take off, you began to realize what exactly you were doing.

You've never ridden a dragon before, what if you fell? Katsuki wouldn't let you get hurt, you were sure of it. Shaking your head and taking a deep breath, you watched as his wings began to slowly flap, his body rising with each beat. You gripped onto one of the spikes, taking deep breaths to calm yourself. Wind was being generated all around you, your hair flying as he began to go up, and up, and up, and up.

You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself, but when you opened your eyes after only a few seconds, you found that you were already far above the market. Everyone looked like ants from here, ants that were slowly disappearing into the horizon as you soared forward.

You could feel the wind in your hair, your eyes forced shut from the pressure, but you also felt weightless. Your anxiety subsided, left with the awe of being so high in the air. If there were clouds, you'd certainly be above them. You've never been this high in the air before, even when riding a Pegasus, nor have you moved so fast.

You could already see the palace ahead, and when you were able to see just past the wall surrounding it, you could feel Katsuki begin to descend.

He ended up veering to the right of the palace, landing around the area you came out of.

Of course, when you got off he made you turn around, poking you gently with his tail to remind you he'd be rather naked. You yet again obliged him, Listening to the sounds of his transformation, before you were graced with the sound of his voice.

"Give me my bag, It has that cloak in it," he ordered, his voice as gruff as ever.

You aimlessly tossed it behind your shoulder after taking your dress out of it, wanting to get him back for hitting you with it earlier, although from the sounds of it he caught the thing.

After the rustling of fabric, he told you you could turn around, and once again the cloak was wrapped around his waist.

He had you go through all the motions of sneaking into the palace grounds, although of course he made you go first up the wall, given his...current predicament.

Keeping you once again in Versengen's den, he left to get clothes. You took the opportunity to change back into your green dress, although you felt weirdly self conscious changing in front of the currently sleeping dragon.

Katsuki returned after about 10 minutes, wearing clothes nearly identical to the ones he had on before, and he seemed visibly disappointed for a second after seeing you out of that red dress. "What's even the point of buying you a dress if you're not going to wear it," he grumbled, pulling you out of the barn.

"Well, If I showed up back home wearing a brand new dress I think that'd raise suspicion," you laughed, watching Katsuki scan the area out of the barn before pulling you farther along. All this sneaking around and climbing and hiding was getting pretty repetitive.

Eventually, you reached the edges of the forest once more, and Katsuki wasted no time holding you by the shoulders like a shield. He hated how stupidly easy traversing the forest was for you, after all the time he spent dodging every danger it had.

The acrimony trees pressed their roots into the ground so you could make it through with no trouble, even going as far as to whip away the little pebbles you nearly trip on.

The trees in Eisen, densely packed and thick, separated for you, bending their trunks out of the way and allowing you to step through.

The trees in Schatz dropped their leaves behind you, showering you in golden flakes as you walked.

In Leben, vines extended towards you, offering you blooming flowers.

In Nebel, the little mushrooms glowed as you walked past, almost bending towards you...

Entering the center ring you knew so well, Katsuki released you and watched as you happily walked toward the giant tree trunk, standing atop it and stretching out towards the setting sun.

"Thanks for doing this for me, I had a lot of fun," you said, smiling as you watched him from afar. He didn't get any closer than the outskirts of the ring, he had to make the walk home and he didn't want to do more than he had to.

"Yeah yeah," he scoffed loudly, waving you off as you made your way to the water so you could go home. Going your separate ways, you couldn't help but feel giddy for next time.

When you got home, Ochako was there waiting for you, ready to help you get into bed. You greeted each other, and as she silently combed through your hair, she seemed to be thinking about something.

"What's the matter," you asked nervously, worried she might be on to you.

"Nothing," she said sweetly, bringing your hair into a loose braid. "It's just..."

"What," you asked softly, turning to face her after she finished. She sighed and looked to the side, closing her eyes. "Look, I don't know what you've been doing when you go out there, but...You seem happier. So whatever it is, keep doing it."

You were surprised, eyes wide and blinking. "Oh...well, uh...thank you." You smile at her, moving to your bed to lay down. "And for the love of god, don't tell me what it is, because I already know the queen won't approve," she sighs, meriting a laugh from you.

You settled into bed, and Ochako began to leave. You stared at the ceiling, pulling the covers to your chin. Did you really seem that much happier? Did he make you more happy...?

"Uhm, Ochako," you called out, your voice cracking.

"Yeah," she responded, turning to face you.

"Have you ever...liked a person? Like, really liked them?"

"I...can't say that I have," she admitted nervously, giving you an apologetic smile. "Why? Do you like someone," she asked quickly, her mood immediately lifting.

"N-no," you shot back, sitting upright with warm cheeks. If Katsuki were here he'd call you a shitty liar.

Ururaka sighed, giggling a little as she moved to leave again. "Well...If you did...I'm sure he'd be more than happy to have you."

"T-thank you," you mumbled, your heartbeat slowing as you calmed back down.

"Don't worry about it! I mean, with your status, any duke would jump at the chance," she laughed, leaving you with that as she shut the door.

right. You were supposed to like a duke, one of the many you met with. Your eyes hit the ceiling once more, brows furrowed as you blinked back a couple tears. What was wrong with you? You never cried, and all of a sudden you're crying about nothing?

So what if you couldn't be with Katsuki? So what if you had no say in your future? Tears kept spilling down your face, rolling onto your silken pillows and staining your cheeks in the process. Why can't you be happy with what you have, you're a princess, your life was handed to you on a silver platter...

You shouldn't yearn after something you can't have...and yet...

A life outside of this, a life with him...was it worth risking it for a chance?

Katsuki didn't make it home until late, like usual, but thankfully he didn't bump into anyone while traversing the halls of his palace. He really didn't feel like talking to extras. Making it to his bedroom, he immediately collapsed onto the bed, tired from the day he's had. Unfortunately for him, Kirishima poked his head through the door, looking at him with a giddy smile.

"What," Katsuki grumbled through gritted teeth, one arm behind his head with his eyes closed.

"C'monnnn dude, tell me about her!" Kirishima walked into the room quickly, shutting the door and practically flying over to Katsuki.

"Like I said, there's nothing to tell." Katsuki opened one eye, looking up at Kirishima while he stared him down.

He finally sighed, shaking his head and pouting. "Alright, I get it..."

Finally, he was going to leave.

"You're just grumpy because you can't pull her," Kirishima sighed, turning around and walking away so Katsuki couldn't see the shit eating grin on his face.

"Wha- Who said I can't," Katsuki shouted, sitting upright and staring daggers at Kiri. That really hit a nerve, not only because of his pride, but also because he was pretty sure he actually couldn't.

"You did, with you're eyes," Kirishima announced, being completely serious, as he turned back around to face him again.

"Shut up! If I wanted her I'd have her already, I'm the damn prince of the Dragonborne," Katsuki barked, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Just 'cause you're a prince doesn't mean she likes you," Kirishima responded, sitting next to Katsuki.

Now all Kat could do was stutter and stumble, unable to come up with an argument. "W- uh- you-"

Alright, now it was time to actually help him out. With a sigh, Kirishima smiled kindly at Katsuki. "Listen, dude, whoever this girl is, she's important enough to you to fight for, so I say go for it!"

Katsuki looked to the floor, his jaw clenched. "...if I hypothetically had feelings for someone, how do I know?" Katsuki knows Kiri's been in love before, or at least liked a couple girls enough to pursue them.

"well..." Kirishima paused in thought, looking to the ceiling to try and give him an answer.

"For starters, your heart feels like it's gonna explode out of your chest, but like, in a good way..."

check.

"your hands get all sweaty..."

check.

"your always feel breathless, even if you can breath just fine..."

Fucking check.

"There's some other stuff, but it all depends on the person," Kiri finished, shrugging. From the look on Katsuki's face, his words rang true to him. "I'm goin' to bed," Katsuki announced suddenly.

"What about Pajamas," Kiri asked, given the fact Katsuki never changed out of his day clothes. "What about 'em? Just get the hell outa here," Katsuki grumbled, laying in bed and angrily pulling the blankets over himself.

With a chuckle, Kirishima got up and blew out all the candles, moving to the door and leaving him be.

Katsuki stared at his ceiling, intent on figuring this out. He liked you? Did he really...? He did. Good, got that out of the way. So, now what? Was he going to court you? Was he able to...

Of course he was! He was motherfucking Katsuki Bakugou, prince of the Dragonborne! He'd court the hell out of you, He'd court you so well you'll be weak in the knees! It was decided then. You won't know what hit you.

For the past two weeks, as in to say two weeks after going out to the market, you've noticed some weird things about Katsuki. First of all, He's started wearing more intense colors...if you could say that. His clothing, originally consisting of beiges and muted reds, now contained mainly black and deep, vibrant reds, not to mention his animal tooth necklace was now accompanied by golden rings and bangles.

He's also been bringing more things for lessons, like drac coins to teach you about his currency, little glass figurines to teach you about his culture's history with glassblowing, and different bits of jewelry with different gems inlaid to teach you about the stones' meaning historically. It was all interesting, and you appreciated his consideration when teaching you, but all this stuff was getting harder to hide when you went home.

Lastly, and this might be your imagination, but you swear his arm scales are turning a deeper orange and becoming more prominent.

Eventually, you just chalked it all up to the coming spring. Some animals changed their behaviors and appearances in the spring, and maybe Dragonborne were no different.

"Hey, you listening," Katsuki asked, his tone accusatory as he nudged your side.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry." You were lost in thought about it, despite the fact it really wasn't that important.

"You beg me to teach you things and don't even listen when I do," he huffed, leaning back on the stump and looking up at the pale pink sky. An orange butterfly floated right past him, catching his attention and leading his gaze to you as it landed in your hair and sat like a broach.

You didn't lean back with him, but your gaze was locked on the clouds drifting past lazily, the sounds of the babbling brook filling your ears.

All Katsuki could look at right now was you. Why wouldn't you accept his advances? He was clearly flirting with you, doing practically everything necessary to signify he wanted you as his mate. He gave you treasures, he sat as close to you as possible, he wore more eye-catching things when he went to see you. Hell, he's been doing this so long even his body started reacting.

When dragons, usually male, want to begin looking for a mate, they intensify their colors and release pheromones. Once they find the mate they want, they bring said mate treasures, spent as much time around them as possible, and dance for them. Of course, this is all for full-blooded dragons, but some things remained for Dragonborne people.

Genetically, he's still wired to change colors and release pheromones when he's entered the mating stage, and he's been doing just that. What else did you want from him?! You should be love-drunk off of his pheromones, at the bare minimum. Did he need to dance for you? It wasn't something people did anymore, the kind of thing some geezer on life support would suggest, but maybe you were old fashioned.

"What's up with you," you asked him, this time it was your turn to be annoyed.

"Do you want me to dance," Katsuki asked gruffly, looking into your eyes with complete seriousness.

"Wh- huh," you asked, a smile on your face as you processed what he could possibly mean by that. "Why," you giggled.

"Well you don't like anything else I do," He grumbled, brows furrowing. How dare you laugh, he was trying to be sincere!

"What are you talking about right now," you asked, laughing even more. You were so confused, completely lost.

He sat straight up, scowling at you. "Don't pretend like you don't know, There's no way in hell you...don't...know..." He started, yelling before tapering into mumbling.

You don't know.

How could he be so dense? You weren't a Dragonborne, you probably had some other dumb mating ritual. He should have done some research on faerie mating.

"Know what? Katsuki, Just tell me what you want to tell-"

he grabbed your face in his hands, squishing your cheeks a little as he looked deep into your eyes. He wasn't going to let you get confused, he was going to make this loud and clear.

"I. Like. You."

You froze, lashes fluttering nearly as fast as your heart. Was he serious? No way, he couldn't be...

"Like...Like-like?" You said "like" too many times. You were just so nervous.

"Well...yeah..." he mumbled, his initial confidence and bravery dwindling as he became more and more aware of how ballsy this was. He quickly released your face, turning to stare at the water as his cheeks got redder by the second.

"Just forget about it, 's not that big of a deal, so go ahead and shut up already-"

Now it was your turn to interrupt him. you brought your hand to his cheek, gently turning him to face you as you leaned in close. Without skipping a beat, you pressed your lips to his, eyes squeezed shut from how embarrassed you made yourself. The kiss was sweet and chaste, his lips warm and ever so slightly chapped as he sat there frozen in shock.

Like hell he'd let you just kiss him like that, not without fighting back.

He brought one hand to your waist, the other to the back of your neck, pulling you into him as he took a sharp breath in from his nose to calm himself. He was practically vibrating with satisfaction, with happiness that you reciprocated his feelings. He spent all that time refusing to believe that he was admiring you, wishing that he could feel you closer, wanting more than anything to experience your affection, when he could have had all of that so much sooner.

You could feel him breath out against your face, the air hot, almost like steam. Every part of you was on fire, flames fueled by the raw passion Katsuki emitted from simply being. His hands, his lips, his lashes, all of them felt on your skin and all of them making you feel weak in the knees.

Slowly and reluctantly, the two of you pulled away. Katsuki could hear your heart pounding. You could feel the heat around Katsuki. All you did was stare at each other, his eyes slightly lidded and intense in every sense of the word.

you were the first to break the silence, swallowing deeply as you said, "I-I've never done that before." He could hear how shaky your voice was, it made him proud to know he had such an effect on you.

"M-me neither." Damn it. Stupid body, giving away how you made him feel, you weren't supposed to know you effected him that much too!

"Uh...for the record, I like-like you too," you laughed, trying to play off your nerves with a joke.

Katsuki smiled, snickering. You were so cute. He was glad he could say that now, without feeling delusional. "I can't believe I spent the last two weeks trying to court you when I coulda just told you," Katsuki groaned, shaking his head at his own idiocy.

"You've been trying to court me," you asked, astonished. Katsuki burst out laughing, and after lots of begging from you and the swallowing of his pride from him, he explained it all.

"Ohhhhh...that...makes a lot of sense," you giggled, the lingering high from that kiss making you feel bold enough to rest your head on his shoulder. He allowed it, inching his hand closer to yours until your pinkies touched. You smiled to yourself, looking up at the sky as you interlaced your fingers with his. The beautiful deep orange hue, transitioning into a dark blue as nightfall was encroaching-

crap.

You pulled away from Katsuki, standing straight up and causing him to give you a confused scowl.

"I gotta go," you announced, your voice thick with apology. "I'll come back tomorrow though, promise," you supplemented quickly, brows quirked as you looked to Katsuki for acceptance to these terms.

"Fine, yeah, don't get in trouble," he grumbled, looking away from you with pink cheeks.

You grabbed your stuff, cheekily giving him one final peck on the lips before you left. "Hey, get back here," Katsuki shouted, grabbing you by the arm as he stood. He took your chin in his fingers, kissing you again. "Can't have you giving more kisses than I do," he mumbled, releasing you.

You looked up at him, surprised at first, but gave him a love-struck smile. "That's fair," you giggled, waving him a quick goodbye as you hopped into the underwater portal. He watched as you left, a stoic expression on his face, but the second you left for good he let out a breath he had no idea he was holding. "Holy shit," he mused, practically clutching his chest.

You were practically glowing as you walked home, making your way through the forest and to the palace walls. "Katsuki Bakugou, prince of the Dragonborne, my boyfriend," you muttered to yourself, smiling as you skipped along. A little bunny hopped into your path, looking up at you with round black eyes, contrasting it's pure white fur.

"I have a boyfriend," you squealed to it blithely, picking it up and spinning it around, before releasing it to continue hopping.

You greeted everyone you saw sweetly as you walked through the palace back to your room, which was a surprising large amount considering the time. 10...15...20 people you saw in total as you walked to your room? Everyone seemed so busy, you wondered what it was for.

You walked into your room, bright and happy, before you saw your Mother sitting on your bed. The queen of the Fae. Her deep blue dress made her stand out in your room, the white and pastels paling even further in her presence. "(Y/N) dear, take a seat," she urged, patting the space next to her on your bed, her voice and smile sickeningly sweet. Your stomach twisted in knots, your demeanor wilting.

"Let's have a little chat."

oooooo scary. Let me know if you liked this chapter in the comments, each one means so much to me!

Taglist: @sky-angel101 @the-galaxy-fiend @chixkadee @ssplague @sappho-the-kitten-tamer @andysdrafts @daria-rona @tanjirofan63 @aizawaslut09 @tsukiiomii @me1297

[innerchorus]

Arslan Senki Chapter 132

Hoooooly fuck. I knew from the chapter title (Warriors From Beyond the Grave) that some horrific stuff was going to go down, but after spending all month worrying about Isfan and Kubard facing Shapur, the fact that they don't even appear this time didn't make this one any less traumatic, lmao.

So, the contents of the other head jars were revealed as dead warriors pop up across Ecbatana. Seems as though they are the ones Team Zahhak were able to gather the heads of (the two who were missing in action at the first Battle of Atropatene are not included; presumably their bodies were never located and were left somewhere on the battlefield).

I enjoyed how Arslan does as Tahamenay asked and tells Gieve to spread the word that Andragoras died in the fall when Innocentis flung them both from the tower... and that Gieve looks at the bloody dagger on the floor. You know that he knows, his look to Daryun and Narsus before he gives his assent just confirms it, and you also know he won't breathe a word of that truth.

(And here we have the first of the dodgy translations in this chapter, because of course there's not going to be further fighting between Parsians at this point unless you count undead Parsian warriors...)

I like that we see word spreading like a ripple through the city. Zaravant's reaction of "NO FUCKING WAY" followed by "Wait, really?" was hilarious. And as we see a lot of the citizens are thinking the same; a man of Andragoras's might, toppled like that? Zaravant had a close encounter with Andragoras; it's no surprise that his first reaction is denial.

Also lol Elam, not quite lying in his attempt to uphold the official version of events. Yes, he saw him die, but not quite in the way that was reported. So Zaravant wasn't wrong, really. Not that he'll ever know it.

Rumours spreading that Arslan killed Hilmes in a duel! It does make me wonder, might the truth of Hilmes's survival be kept quiet and this rumour allowed to flourish instead? Mirroring Hilmes surviving when all thought he had perished in the palace fire, this would allow him to eventually make a quiet exit with Irina and go and live out his life peacefully beyond the borders of Pars. (I would still like to see him rule Maryam with her, though.)

Tahamenay being left alone to watch over Andragoras's body is giving me prickling feelings of imminent Team Zahhak interference...

Dark storm clouds heading towards the city in that one panel look veeeery ominous. I still keep wondering whether we are going to see any of Team Zahhak's creatures unleashed on the world. I'm not sure exactly how dark things are going to get, but we did see winged apes when the legend of Zahhak and his earlier defeat was presented in Chapter 127. So who knows?

THE FACT THAT UNDEAD VAHRIZ SHOWS UP IN THE VERY COURTYARD WHERE HE USED TO TRAIN ARSLAN! I cannot scream about this coming full circle enough, and here it is so very wrong.

But even though it's his uncle, Daryun's typically fast warrior's response saves the day and he gets in front of Arslan to defend against Vahriz's blow (and fuck, these undead warriors are fast!).

The horror just continues to mount as more and more famous undead warriors return, but wrong, so very wrong. I am really digging the way they are presented, though.

Silent, black-eyed, still bearing the wounds they wore in death on their faces, their bodies wreathed in bandages... I'm... honestly not sure that anything below the neck is even corporeal. They look like severed heads on bodies formed from sorcery, wrapped in the same sort of magic-infused cloaks that Team Zahhak wear. Even their weapons are formed from tendrils of snakes (see Kharlan's spear forming). It makes me think that when they are defeated, their bodies may just disintegrate and only the severed head will remain. And that's... fucked up, considering they are fighting people who remember them, who fought by their side, who loved them.

More off translation when Manuchurh shows up; Kishward didn't see his head (he was in Peshawar), he only heard about it. I did wonder why Gieve was so slow on the uptake given that it was his report that confirmed Manuchurh's death to Kisward and Nasrin, but he heard about it from Parsian soldiers rather than recognising Manuchurh for himself. That's why he only infers it from how Kishward addresses him here.

I do like that we get to see Manuchurh's sword here! Sure, it's probably made of snakes, but it is at least modeled on the weapon he would have wielded in life, and that's a neat detail to have so late in the story.

As always, I badly wanted to see Team Hilmes but given what's going on my heart still started to beat faster in alarm when we cut to the room they're in. But it's Sam who leaves the room and is confronted by Garshasp! An undead version of the man whose death he envies... not sure I'm ready for this but please for the love of god let Sam kill a sorcerer before this is over.

Please know that when I scrolled down just far enough to spot Kharlan's moustache I scrolled back up so fucking fast and had to sit for a bit before I could continue.

ZANDEEEEEEH. THAT'S NOT YOUR FATHER! His face and the way he says "Father?" so questioningly breaks my heart.

Hilmes sees quickly that it's not, it can't be Kharlan, because he knows Kharlan is dead, and (unlike Zandeh, who hasn't actually witnessed any sorcery yet) he knows that this is something Team Zahhak are capable of... in fact, he knows it can only be them.

For one horrible second I really thought Zandeh was going to get stabbed right in the heart. Definitely made me realise how utterly devastated I'd be if he died in the manga version.

Thankfully the wound he receives on his shoulder doesn't look life-threatening, but you can see how unprepared he is for it, how he can't quite understand why his father (IT'S NOT YOUR FATHER!) is attacking him like this. I really don't think it would have gone well for him if Hilmes hadn't gotten involved. The way these jar warriors move.. It's fast, it's unnatural, it's deadly. These were all skilled warriors in life; are they even more dangerous now they are dead?

Hilmes protecting Zandeh like this is a brilliant moment, and never have I been so fucking glad to see Hilmes in a rage as I was to see him FINALLY display some anger towards the sorcerers who he knows are responsible. He must finally see now that they are not, and never were, on his side. Sam was right, and I hope Hilmes lets him know before this is over.

I keep thinking about the way the eyes of some of the undead seem to leak blood like tears... their faces look... empty, I guess, but this does make me wonder, is there any sort of awareness there? Do they know what their bodies are being used for? That bit of blood in Kharlan's eye at the end; is there part of him that somehow knows he's attacking his son? Perhaps it's nothing more than the remains oozing blood as they are puppeted by sorcery. The thought that there might be even a fragment of consciousness there is horrific, so I truly hope not.

So yeah, no sign of the encounter with Shapur but all of the undead jar warriors have now taken to the stage, and that stage is set for some unpleasant clashes next chapter. I hope to see some Team Zahhak deaths for sure, and I'm still banking on Team Arslan capturing a mage before this is all over. I imagine the disciples are largely seen as disposable by the Holy Master at this point, but there's no way he would allow himself to be killed or captured so easily, not when he is so close to his goal.

I am worried, though. This is... a lot... for all of Team Arslan to come through unscathed. What a horrible position for them to be in, and even if their instincts tell them that they're not fighting their comrades/relatives, they're surely at a disadvantage due to the shock and emotional turmoil involved. And I'm left wondering, what are Team Zahhak up to? What's the purpose in bringing the dead back like this? Do they wish to kill, torment, or capture other warriors as snake food? Do they simply seek to cause Ecbatana to fall into chaos? Where the heck is Zahhak?

It's going to be a difficult month until the next chapter, lol.

[hibiscus-writing]

Dragon AU

another modern au but very different from the last. Zhongven is mentioned here but it isn’t the main focus of the AU

tldr: Long into the future, all the immortal beings live in a sanctuary mimicking old teyvat. Majority of the beings remain in non human forms, including the majority of archons living as dragons.

-takes place during modern times, all immortal and magical being take the form of dragons (for the archons + dragon sovereigns) and other mythical beings (for adept us, youkai, Melusine, ect)

-they all live together in a sanctuary protecting beings of old, the staff are the current vision holders.

-the archons have gone into hiding, taking a sort of retirement living in the sanctuary. The staff aren’t aware the archons live within the sanctuary.

-the sanctuary itself is a large space modified to fits the needs of each species living there, it’s got a see through dome on the top of it to let natural light in, it’s also through this dome that visitors can observe the species inside.

-each area is modified to match each region of teyvat, including miniature models of the old cities and landmarks.

-most creatures from a specific region will stay in their home region, but some outliers travel between multiple 

-creatures will set up dens or nests as their homes, staying in them for years. A certain dragon has stayed in the same nest for so long that it’s filled to the brim with gold, jewels and antiques collected from outside the dome and mantua lot put inside the liyue region for him.

-Ei’s den is deep underneath the sacred Sakura, nahida’s den is within the leaves of a grand tree within sumeru, furina’s within a decommissioned opera house

-workers are tasked with ensuring the fake teyvat is able to sustain itself, show tours, provide medical care if needed, ect.

-zhongven, they share a den by stone gate. 

-zhongli looks like his usual dragon form, venti looks a bit smaller, similar colours to dvalin with bird wings and feathers. During the winter, venti’s feathers will turn white and puff up to protect from the snow.

-sometimes zhongli and venti will sneak out and return to their human forms for a little date, and return before the sanctuary workers can notice.

-non-archons living within the sanctuary include the adeptus (Xiao, Madam Ping, Cloud Retainer, ect), Youkai (Itto, Gorou, Kujou Sara, ect) and various species in teyvat such as Lynette’s cat species

-other vision holders that survived the celestial war became immortal me thinks, so your favourites are still alive too.

-some characters in particular include: Lyney & Lynette as Cat hybrids (but more cat then before), Arlechinno as a nocturnal bat/panther hybrid, Freminet as part penguin Mecha. There’s more I can add later on

-Klee is all grown up and is the CEO of the company running the sanctuary!

[hetalianskywalker]

Day 28: The Sea Alor

Pairing: Sea Alor Mer Jango Fett x Harpy Reader

Summary: The in hiding king of the Mer feels bad for a caged Harpy.

Author’s Note: I hope this turns out alright.

Warnings: non- permanent main character death and reference to physical and mental trauma.

Word Count: 1646

Prompt: Well funded ships keep a harpy caged at the helm, for calling or dispersing winds when necessary. Mermaids and harpies are natural enemies. But still, I feel sorry for them.

Prompt 3236 by deepwatwrwritingprompts

Well funded ships keep a harpy caged at the helm, for calling or dispersing winds when necessary. Mermaids and harpies are natural enemies. But still, he feels sorry for them.

Jango occasionally found work on these ships. The captain believes him a storm summoner and in truth it’s what most of his employers believe. While he prefers to hunt for bounties across the high seas, these jobs weren’t a problem if they paid his fee. He often finds himself in the company of a caged and wing clipped harpy, but this is different.

Your eyes linger on him for long stretches of time and you look like you wish to speak with him. Usually Jango would just ignore the looks, but this did not feel like begging for help that would not come. It’s inquisitive and analytical; he wonders if you have figured out who he truly is. What he truly is.

Being the Sea Alor has many benefits, one being the siren song ability. He makes sure the crew will remain asleep before walking up to your cage. You are wide awake, waiting for him.

“Sea Alor.” You cut right to the chase and look him dead in the eyes through the t-face of his helmet. Well, that’s one question answered.

“Harpy.” Jango curtly responds as he crosses his arms. “What do you wish to say?”

You suddenly look very unsure. Your talons scratch at the metal bars and deck beneath you. “Have you taken the deal with Tyranus yet?”

“What?” He bites out in complete disbelief. There is no way you should be able to know that. You watch his whole body go absolutely still.

“I see…” Your voice trails off before taking a deep breath. “When your only recognized child is ten, you shall leave him an orphan.”

Both his hands reach in and snatch the collar of your shirt. You barely have enough time to grip the bars to stop your face from hitting them as he pulls you to him. His face is twisted in a terrifying snarl with his sharp Mer teeth coming out inches from your face. You feel choppy waves slam into the ship and see the stars vanish behind dark clouds. It’s terrifying to think this is but the tip of the iceberg of his destructive power.

“Tell me what you know, Harpy.” You summon all your anger and courage, feeling the wind fight back against him. It was first your ally, not his. You think of all you have seen of the future. How his longing for revenge against the Jedi helps almost doom the world, leads an army of Mer clones to suffer and die in vain, and one boy orphaned.

“My freedom first, Fett.” You hiss, snapping your own sharp teeth. You extend out one of your hands, knowing he has the magic to bind you two to an agreement. “Deal?”

Once the journey is done, Jango leaves the ship before swimming up in Mer form that very night. He breaks you out true to his word and you keep up your end of the bargain. You explain, like how Tarre Vizsla was both Mer and a Jedi, you are both a harpy and blessed with a wider range of magic. You get snippets of the future. You tell him how a 10 year old Boba gets to watch his father get decapitated by a Jedi.

While he believes you're being honest, he can’t have you spreading word around about Kamino island so he half drags you back with him. While that might be everything on his death, you obviously know far more about everything else than you're letting on. Especially with the amount of disdain you hold for him. Also, any more visions could give more context or details about his death in eight years.

At first, you are just the stranger next door to Jango’s apartment. The one off worlder that isn’t a trainer, but Jango is keeping here anyway. It gives you the freedom to move around the facilities, but interacting with the mer clones is far more difficult. But you are kind in little ways when the Kaminoans and the trainers aren’t looking.

Rex, Cody, Wolffe, Fox, Ponds, and Bly are the main ones. Unlike many of the others, you’ve stolen multiple hugs from Bly, Rex, and Cody and ruffled the hair of the other three. The amount of slowly grown trust in their bright brown eyes means the world to you.

You have seen them the most in your visions about the Mer clones, but you do your best with all of them. You try to keep track of the clones you’ve seen in visions, but it’s impossible to run into all of them all the time. Some you see maybe a couple of times in your entirety of time on Kamino like Delta Squad for example. Emerie and Omega are the only ones you never get to see.

While you have a few more visions of the coming war, there is nothing to help the Mer clones or how to stop Palpatine completely. Kark, just avoiding the sith’s attention was hard enough work.

However, something unexpected happens in your plans. You slowly become Boba’s other guardian. You have a soft spot for him from all the visions you’ve seen and you're more than happy to watch him for Jango. But about a year in, you find him calling you mom and Buir; it warms your heart more than you're willing to admit.

Jango, on the other hand, you continue to deeply despise. Does he have a valid reason for wanting the destruction of the Jedi? Yes, even if he is taking it too far and it needs to be stopped for everyone’s good. However, his treatment of the mer clones as cattle makes you want to scream. You tolerate him for the goal of changing the future.

When he begins to take interest in Cody, however, you panic. You had thought you had covered all your tracks. You apparently had for the Kaminoans, but not Jango.

“Is that one meant for glory?” He mutters under his breath as you walk away side by side.

“What do you care?” You hiss, too angry to look at him. “Go back to ignoring him; it’s less cruel that way.”

But the cruelest twist of fate is how behind closed apartment doors, when you can’t see the cold stare he gives the army made in his image, you grow to like his company. It takes five or so years to realize it, but you love the little family you, he, and Boba have made together. Longing stares and soft touches become nights shared and living with him and Boba in their apartment.

And you hate yourself for falling for him. This man was simultaneously filled with so much love and disdain. Who is just as capable of protecting family as he is abandoning it. Who is able to abandon his responsibilities as Sea Alor and yet still has a code of honor. He is a mess of contradictions. You want to hate him. It would be so much easier to just hate him.

Geonosis is a desert island and Boba is ten. Jango clearly recognizes all the details from your visions over the years. He goes in anyway. Knowing who he’s going to face, he thinks he can win.

He doesn’t. His fate comes for him anyway. You and Boba are left in heartbroken shock. But this… this isn’t the end. You refuse to stand there while fate takes its course. When the battle ends, you and Boba work fast to get him aboard Slave I. And you then start the ritual.

Jango doesn’t understand why he’s on Mandalore. Or how he’s on Mandalore. He’s dead; he died. His fingers trace along his neck and he finds a burn scar going all the way around. It was definitely real.

A thirteen year old Boba soon explains as best he can after a tearful reunion. While his son explains the insanity of the war, how your kindness had left channels open with multiple battalions, and with Boba’s growing magical strength as the next Sea Alor, they were able to unite the Mandalorian Sector, he conveniently circumvents how Jango was alive.

“What did she give, Boba?” His son goes deadly quiet. Boba looks so much older and it makes Jango want to be sick, thinking of all he’d missed. “You need to tell me.”

“She’s lived with it for three years already. It’s not…” Boba whispers the next part. “That bad.”

Jango has to switch into mer form to find you. You tucked yourself away in a quiet cove that’s hard to access by land. He pulls himself up to sit next to you on the sand. He watches the way the drowning sun’s light reflects off his silver scales.

“It all happened as you prophesied.” He states, unsure of how else to start. You were right about everything.

“Not completely.” You smile sadly. “I got to save a few more Mer clones and Jedi. I’ve sped up how fast they’ll be free from their mind control enchantment. And Mandalore won’t fall victim to the empire and it’s stable.”

“Besides, I have you, Boba, and so many of my other sons. I did quite a lot without magic since your death.” You look out at the setting sun. Jango analyzes you and hates to see that his son was right. The wind doesn’t react to you anymore.

“Cuyan…” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I was not worth your wings.” Your back itches when he says that. You had almost gone mad trapped in a human body at first, but Boba and the mer clones had helped keep you grounded.

“You are.” Jango gives you a truly genuine smile and leans his forehead against yours.

[somethingsomethingimmakingapoint]

The Tearsmith (Long Post)

Okay so, like I just recently watched this movie and then bought a digital copy of the book and read it and I just wanted to post a review because I've been seeing a lot of mixed opinions.

I want to start by saying that, arguably it's not that bad. Lets be real, okay, yes, it does have a wattpad quality to it BUT strip it down to it's core for a quick second and look past the "twilight" vibe and actually focus on the key points.

One of the things I've seen is that Nica doesn't have any depth to her, which just isn't true, at least in the book.

Nica has a personality, ya'll!!! It isn't quite portrayed as deep in the movie but she is three dimensional, I promise!! Nica comes across a bit naive and with her head in the clouds but THAT'S the point. She lost her parents at a young age and grew up in an abusive and toxic situation where she was constantly told to be a "good" girl, nothing else. Now imagine if you were in that scenario? Where you're being raised among other children who have had no chance to grow or flourish? Who have their passions or joys ripped away as a form of punishment. I think personally that would stunt anyones personality. The only thing Nica can hold onto, the only thing that couldn't be taken away was her tenderness, which is often times shown through her love for animals. If you've ventured to read the book, it definitely explores that side of her much more. Hence why she wears band-aids around her fingers, from helping wounded animals. In the movie when Norman asks her if she's hurt Margaret says that she tends to hurt animals. In the book she later because a veterinarian because of her love for animals!

Now that I've said that, lets get into Rigel. I have found that a lot of people don't really care for his character and while I can understand to an extent, I quite throughly enjoyed it. Rigel isn't a good person, but he isn't a bad one either. I think people aren't analysing things in depth because when you look past Rigel's broody and harsh exterior you can actually see who he is as a person.

Let's start with the bleeding obvious, his abandonment issues. It doesn't go into the nitty gritty in the movie because timeline wise, they wouldn't have been able to fit everything in, but, there's a memory from Rigel's point of view of when he was a child, a doctor talks about his abandonment issues to Margaret who is vehemently denying them, saying that he was only a baby and couldn't possibly remember being abandoned, yet the doctor tells her that children are quite capable of understanding when they get older. The doctor continues to say that children that young can feel the lack and tend to blame themselves and make it so they feel responsible for it. And that's taken directly from the book.

Rigel is a broken child, he says that he's been disaster from birth multiple times. He thinks that because of his condition that's why his parents left him at Grave. While it is assumed that most of the children there are left orphaned from guardians deaths, Rigel is the only kid who was left behind, no note, no birth certificate. Nothing, he doesn't exist and I don't think knowing that helps how he views himself. Rigel believes he's a wolf, something dangerous and monstrous and it didn't make things better that other kids were scared or hateful of him. In the book, it explains that kids were scared of him because he had outbursts, scratching at his eyes or pulling and digging at the dirt and grass. These are all side effects from his condition, which I really do wish they had included that he got hallucinations whenever he got headaches and stuff because that made up a huge part of his character in the book. He used to see Nica with wings, like she was an angel.

I also think that they portrayed Rigel more angsty then what he was in the book. Sure, he had this cynical part of him but often times was described as being sarcastic and could be seen as snarky at times. Which I feel wasn't shown as well through the movie. I think the two times I can remember was when Lionel was introducing himself to Nica and just as he goes to say his name, Rigel interrupts and says bothersome. And the other time was when Nica asked him if he gave her the rose and he says, "Me? Give you a rose?". I think netflix really leaned heavy on the mysterious dark teen look instead of the "I'm gonna be snarky and sarcastic as a way of pushing boundaries." Because sexy and enigmatic sells more, not trauma.

His trauma from Margaret forms exactly who he shows on the outside. She for all intents and purposes raised him as her own and Rigel hated that. I mean, Nica even says that whenever he plays the piano Margaret is all he thinks of and she wants to erase that. That's how so deeply intwined this woman is with Rigel. He was her pride and joy and consequently ignored everything that was wrong with him, leaving Rigel a husk someone who could never move on from his issues. She ruined that boy, she ruined him to forever keep him close.

Now that I've deconstructed Nica and Rigel's characters a little, lets talk about the most obvious "issue" I've seen going around. Ladies and gentlemen, yes, I'm going to crack open the incest nut.

It's not incest. Please let me be clear when I say, what goes on between Nica and Rigel, isn't in anyway a form of incest! Throughout the entire movie, everyone refers to Rigel as Nica's brother but she denies it. The only time she says it, is at the start with Anna and Norman but I can explain that. Nica says they were like siblings at Sunnycreek, but we as viewers knows that wasn't the truth. In the book, it goes into further detail about how much Rigel bullied her. Pulling ribbon out of her hair, tugging at her clothes etcetera. While it isn't the greatest bit of evidence, I can firmly say that that's what little kids do when they don't know how to interact with the person they like. I was always told that a boy bullying me meant he liked me, which while it is shitty and not a good enough reason to do it, it is a thing. Boys really just don't know how to talk to girls, honestly.

So, while Nica tells Anna and Norman they're like siblings, it's a blatant lie to get the Milligan's to like Nica. She doesn't want to cause waves with the potential new parents, so she says that her and Rigel are like brother and sister to appease their idea of family. What else would she say? Actually, we don't like each other and never really have? Of course not! Nica needs Anna and Norman to love her, needs them to get her fairytale ending because like she says in the book, no one comes for teenagers, they were the metaphorical old dog in the pound that gets bypassed when adults saw the puppy who is trainable and cute.

In conclusion,

Nica never intended to fall for Rigel, all she wanted was a family but by chance she does. I think that while Rigel always knew she was the only attachment he had ever experienced, he couldn't have her because he knew what she wanted from life and he didn't fit into that fairytale, not with him being the wolf that he so badly thought he was. However, we get the scene when Rigel comes back from his fight with Lionel and we finally, finally see his walls come down, in his sickness he can't lie, can't have an icy exterior to the only person who had shown him honest kindness, tenderness. Because even though he hurt Lionel, Nica still helped him, took him upstairs, stripped him of soaking wet clothes and got him medicine to help with his fever. He begs her to stay because for the first time, he doesn't have to be strong, doesn't have to be brave. Nica has him, tends to him with no ulterior motive, just tenderness and the need to make sure he would be okay.

He's shown for the first time, things aren't black and white and aren't transactional like with Margaret. In the book there isn't so much physical touching, because it's a tender moment. Just two kids who survived different sides of abuse, finally free just to be alive. I do think that the physical touching added something, I didn't mind it because I saw it more so as a need to feel something solid beneath fragile skin. It was desperate, fuelled by Rigel's need to erase Margaret's touches, which we see when he has the flashback to her kissing his cheek and him immediately wiping it away when she's gone. He's touching Nica, the light that never seems to dim, a person who hasn't judged him, just wanted to know why he did what he did. She's the good he so desperately wants to have but ultimately can never obtain.

Take away the steamy erotic grabbing and kissing and want. Look at these teenagers, really look at them. It's not a dark romantic story, it's about the trauma that bonds these two together, how no one can understand what they've been through, not really. It's about a fairytale that doesn't end in "ever after" it's about reality, about how change can happen, even if it seems impossible. It's about hardship that turns these two characters into who they are, how they react to certain situations, how they behave around others who've never experienced trauma.

Rigel and Nica are proof of life after soul breaking childhoods. They aren't perfect and Rigel never does make amends with his issues because in reality no one ever does, but he finally has a chance to grow, to let those bad parts of his life fade and that can only be done with Nica, because she has to let those bad parts of her life fade too.

They end up staying together, creating their own family. One that will never be tarnished, never torn apart or abandoned. Nica get's the chance at her family and Rigel learns to accept that not every person is going to make you believe you're unlovable.

[solidaritygaming-fanblog]

I am supposed to be working on my lab report but pathetic borb bri'ish man is running around my head and I must scream

TW: For a bit of angst but also Ranchers fluff because Ranchers my beloved.

Also sorry in advance for writing a full one-shot in your inbox, idk what possessed me :,3

-.-.-.-.-

It was a dark and stormy night. Thunder roared up above, clouds had rolled across the sky until the sun had been completely swallowed. A man stood on the edge of a cliff, golden wings torn apart after countless battles both against nature and against himself.

One step.

Just a matter of taking the leap. Closing his eyes, falling into the abyss, like he had done time and time before.

The canary's brush glided through a canvas propped up in front of him. Each stroke shakily landed to form what he could only describe as a representation of the tsunami of emotions raging through his mind.

Two games, out first. Was he just cursed? Would history repeat itself?

No, that couldn't happen, he wouldn't forgive himself. He couldn't drag Tango down with him. They were soulmates after all, bound by fate, or whichever deity had decided to use him as the punchline of this cosmic joke they were all trapped in.

But how long would he be able to stay alive? If the only thing he could do was worry about not being enough, not enough for Tango, with his boundless energy and bright mind that contrasted greatly with the Canary's dullness in all thing technical and constant tiredness. Not enough to protect the Ranch, the home him and Tango had built together.

Not enough for Daisy, the Warden the pair had rescued from the Deep Dark and were now raising as their own. What would happen to her, if both her parents were gone one day?

What if?

One simple question that stole the Canary's sleep hours, one simple question that led him down a rabbit hole of doubt and despair.

One simple question.

"Jimmy?," a raspy voice reached the Canary's ears, it seemed so distant, so far away, and yet it was his lighthouse.

Following the first call, a grumbling sound through the fog. A sudden weight settled on his lap, and his first instinct was to run his hand along her back. Her breathing was slow, he tried to match it.

"Are you okay?," the same voice from before, now tainted with what the Canary assumed was irritation, "I have been calling for you, Jimmy, I've been calling-"

The Canary focused his mind on the feeling beneath his fingers, mossy fur, slightly humid, raising and falling rhythmically and accompanied by a purring tune.

"Jimmy?," next thing the Canary's eye caught was a figure standing between him and his canvas, he closed his eyes shut, "Hey. It's okay, it's fine," Tango grabbed his free hand between his claws.

The Canary took a deep breath, the fog was still too dense. But he could feel himself getting closer to land.

Tango perched himself on a box the Canary had been using to put his supplies on, and a familiar warmth ran through the bird man as his rancher leaned his head on his shoulder.

A golden wing wrapped around the other's back, pulling him even closer, an almost natural reflex. The creature on his lap snuggled closer. He took another deep breath.

And for just a moment, the storm stopped.

There was so many things the Canary wanted to say, he wanted to apologize, he wanted to make up for being so pathetic, he wanted to tell Tango and Daisy how much he owed them. But Tango spoke up before he could get his words in order.

"We will figure it out, okay? We won't leave you behind. Just promise me something, yes?"

One simple question.

"You stay here with us. We will stick together. All three of us."

Just one step.

"We will make it through."

It was not a dark, stormy night. Clouds rolled on, and the rain made way for the sun to shine again.

Even if it was for just a moment, the Canary felt everything would be alright.

.-.-.-.-

We ain't never leaving the Ranch amirite

... I'm actually going to explode I CANT HANDLE THIS!!!!!! DROPPED IN MY INBOX RANDOMLY RAQHHH I LOVE THE SYMBOLISM EEHEHEHHE

[bell-the-hungry-dergun]

Dm or ask me if u wanna talk about dragons, snakes, digimon, pokemon, vore, mushrooms, furry stuff, or food

here are descriptions of all my sonas

sona flavors

azalea or azzy for short tastes like icecream, mint and chocolate chip, her tail is soft, long and very strong, she can trap people in her coils very easily, her body is also very soft and squishy.

nyx tastes like fruit and berry gummy candy, his horns are hard but not sharp, theyre made of hard candy and can be painlessly broken off to suck or chew on. or left on to use as handlebars or to suck on, theyll melt with saliva touching them.

bell tastes like icecream sorbet and will melt if made too flustered, her wings are very sensitive and have feathers while the rest of her body has soft, velvety fur

and berry is blueberry flavored all over, with very fluffy, soft fur that feels like a little cloud, his tail can get extra puffy if he gets freaked out, and itll also get bigger if he eats too much, the exta mass adding to his fluff.

personalities

bell, thick and fluffy dragon/snake hybrid, switch in both vore and sex, very loving and gentle, sill wrap their tail around people if she likes them, will lick anyone she wants if they let her, loud purrer, likes being fed stuff or having anything (or anyone willing) into one of her mouths

azalea (nickname, azzy) mommy vibes, thick snake lady, has a naga and a feral form, loves coiling around people, squeezing and smothering them in her tail for a bit before either letting them go or eating them, depending on which one they want, will just eat people without letting them choose in order to keep them safe though, or if she thinks they belong in her stomach

nyx, subby dutchie femboy, likes being eaten, will eat people if they ask him nicely, very sweet, not really able to be rough, likes his wings rubbed and will let you grab his horns, but only if youre making him do something extra fun, also has magic

berry, sweet little candy foxxo, loves tail rubs and belly rubs, likes eating people and lovesssss being eaten but will never admit it. likes stuffing himself with too much food until his belly is too big for him to move

forms:

berry- feral (his usual form, fluffy blue fox about 2 ft tall), anthro, (about 3 ft tall, walks digitigrade, like the rest, otherwise, looks mostly the same apart from head, and paw shape, also has a bigger tail and a slim waist)

azzy- anthro (her usual form, about 6 ft tall, 18 foot tail), naga, (same proportions for her torso and tail, just minus legs), feral (noodle, 20 ish foot long thick snake)

bell- anthro (her usual form, about 6 ft tall, 6 foot tail with a hungry maw on the end, big fluffy wings), small feral (about the size of berrys feral form, smaller wings, not able to fly very well with them, same tail but smaller), big feral (big dragon, much bigger wings, extra fluff and a slightly round tummy usually, big soft paws, about 12 ft from head to butt with an 8 foot tail)

nyx- anthro (7 ft tall, can change his height a bit with magic, big floofy tail, horns, all that stuff), feral (a bit smaller than berrys feral form, no wings, same tail proportions)

~~~~ nsfw ~~~~

azzys pussy tastes like pineapple icecream, her milk tastes like vanilla icecream, her rump tastes like cherry candy

nyxs cum tastes like a dragonfruit smoothie, his ass tastes like strawberries

bells milk tastes like vanilla icecream as well, their pussy tastes like honeysuckle, their cum tastes like pineapple and coconut, and their butt tastes like raspberry

berrys cum tastes like blue raspberry, his ass tastes like strawberries as well

[boxmanhq]

If Adam falls how strong would he be?(ported from Ao3)

So Adam is pretty strong and I’m tired of people pretending otherwise. First, when we see him when he sings “Hell is Forever” He shows he can make a hologram? Astral projection? I don’t know, he makes a visual copy of himself that is incorporeal, but we then see that he can choose to make it interact with objects which is fucking terrifying as a concept, I mean look at poor Charlie’s eyes when she realizes he could have hurt her at any point.

Then we see him create these golden exorcist clone things that are pretty neat, they seem to be capable of just about everything a normal exorcist is, and this seems to have no strain on him physically or mentally as he is able to play the guitar and sing while doing this (and they are moving around and dancing while he does that).

Then he creates clouds which suggests he can just….choose to manipulate the weather(scary for several reasons). And obviously he can fly just like any other angel, although we see both him and Lute float and fly without their wings moving so maybe they are just magic bullshit??

We also see Adam is capable of spying on people(at least in hell) and apparently they just have no way of noticing that? He can also create portals which is always a fun ability (once again he can do all of this with no visible strain). He can also summon his golden guitar axe, which is a holy weapon and can also shoot a projectile slash which has decent range. And said axe wounded Alastor enough (with one slash) that he decided to leave.

But his trump card is absolutely the giant fuck off beams of light. One burst vaporized Pentious and his blimp, and while using two hands the beam was capable of slicing through the whole hotel and the hill it stood on. And once again Adam didn’t appear drained by doing ANY of that, I mean he immediately goes to attack Lucifer after that.

Adam also withstood several hits from Lucifer, who is the strongest being in hell, and Adam got back up. Even after Lucifer entered his more serious form, Adam got back up after getting hit several times in the face by said form, so clearly Adam is durable on top of all that. Hell, he even shows a pretty high pain tolerance, because Charlie stabs him through the arm and he gets up after that and his first reaction was to gesture at the wound like he was upset it stained his clothes. I mean you could chalk that up to shock but he keeps fighting after that and then fights Lucifer.

And then the cherry on top is that both Lucifer and Alastor comment on how Adam is ‘sloppy’ or has ‘let himself go’. Like, that implies this isn’t Adam at his strongest.

I don’t know if I missed anything but these are the things that came to me off the top of my head. Now, keeping all of this in mind, how powerful would Adam be as a sinner? Because we see several sinners become extremely powerful after entering hell, some seemingly just arriving with new scary powers. All of Adams talk about being the first man is NOT for show. If that’s the power he got upon entering heaven, surely entering hell would lead to similar results. Sure, he’d probably lose his divine abilities but I think he’d gain quite a bit in exchange.

Now that’s if he’s a sinner but there is another possibility. What if he were a fallen angel like Lucifer? Because we see despite Lucifer’s falling he still can summon these golden instruments, which just so happen to look an awful lot like Adams guitar. This implies that Adam should, in theory, be able to keep similar angelic abilities despite falling, hell he might even gain some more demonic ones due to this change (maybe it would result in him losing some oomph from his divine abilities? Lucifer seems to prefer fire but we don’t know what he had before).

But all of this is to ask what you guys think his abilities would be like, there are no wrong answers I just want to hear everyone’s opinion on this.

Although I should mention there is a clear division in what is just “for show” and what Adam can actually do during musical sequences, we see the abilities I’ve listed even after those scene transition bits so I’m saying those are real and the ones that happen purely for visual effect are just that, purely visual.