#god im tired i need to sleep

[hinamie]

cursed kids v2 ⚠️👹

i've been a jjk first years stan since day one and have been wanting to redraw the first art i did featuring the three of them

[theythemmer]

phinktober day 11: ur fav AU

i dont rlly do AUs so i just drew them how i wish they would dress xo

(dan’s tats r carnations and snowdrops and phil’s r roses and honeysuckle. for no reason 🤗)

ALSO bonus version w makeup bc i couldn’t pick <3

[napping-sapphic]

Send me every little selfie you take so that i can look at them whenever i miss you

[starry-bi-sky]

realizing i have. a lot of untapped trauma potential for clone^2 danny because i just Fully Processed Four Months Late the fact that his parents were capturing and torturing ghosts in the basement before he became Phantom. and the fact that he was on house rest for 2 weeks. during that time period. and he wasn't really leaving the house. he could hear their screaming through the floorboards

*points at clone danny* i can give you suuuuuuch a bad time babe ahaha. i've got two untouched years before you meet damian what fucks you up before then

[pup-pee]

he is the dirt under my fingernails

[lastchr1stmas]

I wanna smoke cigarettes and do drugs so so bad BUT I CANT

[teh-inggris]

yo this might be a stupid question, but did pvpciv evbo ever slept (or rested at all) after the iron swords found out that he could respawn??

Just think about it; they had Tabi captive so it's basically pressuring him to get through the gold level as fast as he possibly could. But he could only get to the gold level when it's his guard friend's turn to escort him.

We don't know exactly how long the average duration that he was kept in that cell for in a day. He's kept in a cycle of dying and respawning. It's insanity, especially when he had to fight Ferre.

And the iron swords don't know if it's day or night, Evbo does when he respawns though. Or perhaps they do know in the form of their circadian rhythm but still!! They dont know if it's actually day or night!! They could be killing Evbo anytime of the day regardless if it's late or not

Now mix that with sleep deprivation

Like do you think he purposely didn't get up from his wood level bed and the only reason he did is because a guard is forcing him to. He doesnt get to sleep in his own mansion that he bought himself. And i cant imagine the floor of his cell being comfortable to sleep on (im saying this as someone who occasionally sleeps on the CERAMIC floor of their room)

His bed on the wood level is practically the only proper bed he has access to. He so desperately wants to sleep and not think about anything else but nooo he became The Sacrifice, and has to 'go save the world', and his friend is held hostage and he has to free her, or whatever and hes just not allowed to sleep for more than 8 hours!!!!!

This is the rambling of a madman. I have a killer headache rn so its not organized but pls do humor me im going insane about this stupid minecraft roleplay series

[lighthouseshepard]

writing idea - john gets considerably injured and doesn't tell arthur cause he thinks arthur would judge him cause "arthurs had so much worse happen and he just got back up" and arthurs like "dude you've had a human body for like two weeks i would expect you to not be used to pain" and its like a stereotypical hiding injury thing you know

HI HI thanks for this!! again i tried to keep it under 1k but. it ended up... 4.3k.....

heres a mostly unedited first draft i might play around with more later!! (: not so much a considerable injury but this is where my brain went anyways!

As John takes the stairs up to their small apartment building, Arthur in tow with one arm wrapped loosely around his just behind him, he stumbles.

It’s a quick, clean slip of his left ankle, rolling outward at an unnatural angle just as he reaches the last step. The movement itself would have been almost unnoticeable if not for the sharp stab of pain which accompanied it, a searing pressure radiating outwards in undulating bursts. He hisses under his breath, hurriedly letting Arthur go so as not to accidentally drag him down too, and tries to casually play off the lurch.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, righting himself. Immediately he bangs it against the cement edge, eliciting another silent wince he’s immensely grateful Arthur isn’t privy to. “Lost my footing, I guess.”

Arthur hums, instinctively reaching out for John’s guidance and huffing when none was received. Cautiously he takes the remaining steps, coming to stand just beside John at the top before the door.

“It’s alright, John,” he replies, head tilted in his direction. “Thanks for not pulling me down with you.”

His smile begins to fade after a moment of silence in which John stares dizzily at his own feet, struggling to control his breathing. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” comes the hasty retort. “I just… hit it on the stone, I think.”

His brow furrows. “Hit what?”

“My ankle,” John growls, blinking away spots of light dancing across his vision. In the dying sunlight they blended in amongst the cloudless sky, shimmering specks deceptively working to trip him up again as they wavered in front of him. As soon as the words leave his lips he regrets them. 

“I mean,” he clarifies, “I barely knocked it. Nothing to worry over.”

“Oh.” Arthur frowns, searching for John’s hand in the middle distance between them. “Do you want me to take a - well, not a look, but perhaps we could patch it up? Is it bleeding?”

“No.” John pushes slightly past him, fidgeting for keys in his pocket. Arthur’s arm is left hanging at his side, fingers lightly clenched. “I said it’s fine, Arthur. Can we drop it?”

“Okay,” Arthur mutters exasperatedly under his breath, following him hesitantly inside once the door is unlocked. “Whatever you say.”

John all but limps his way into the front hall. If the shuffle makes a noticeable sound against the faded rug he attempts to ignore it, desperately gritting his teeth. With each shift of his leg the throbbing increased, sending burning jolts of agony up through his foot. Beads of cool sweat were breaking out on his temples. Irritably he wipes them away, squinting into the living room through the haze of pain clouding the forefront of his mind.

“Stupid fucking ankle,” he mumbles.

 “What was that?” Arthur calls from behind him. John struggles to turn, one flattened palm braced against the wall. He watches as Arthur unwinds the scarf from around his neck, smoothly kicking off his shoes into the corner. Shoes that he, too, needed to probably remove if bending down didn’t seem like a far impossibility.

But he doesn’t answer. Instead he slowly twists back around, hobbling towards the promise of relief found in the couch awaiting him.

“John? Did you hear me?”

His eyes shut tightly as soon as he sinks into the cushions. The pain refuses to dull despite the lack of pressure once he sits, if anything only growing stronger when he attempts to prop it up on the coffee table, as though gravity were relentlessly trying to tug it down again for his own good. He groans, the noise pulled unbidden from his throat, and hastily covers it up with an aimless cough he feels as a weak imitation of one in his chest.

“John,” he hears a second time. Arthur’s voice is closer now, somewhere directly to his left. Although he turns his head in acknowledgement, his eyelids remain closed, brow furrowed. 

“What? I heard you.”

He could practically sense the crossed arms. 

“What’s going on?” Arthur asks, his tone firm. “Why are you sitting like someone threw you there and you don’t know how to get up?”

“How do you know that?"

"Lucky guess."

"Nothing’s going on. I’m… comfortable.”

“Really? You don’t sound like it.”

“I said it’s nothing,” John snaps. The wince which pulls his lips taut lessens any blow he’d intended within his retort. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“I thought you hit your ankle on the steps?” Arthur says thinly, stepping closer. “So which is it?”

It never ceased to irritate and amaze, Arthur’s ability to weasel the truth out of him. Back when he’d just been a voice behind those deep amber eyes it was magnificently easier to conceal the truth, hiding himself in falsehoods he had ample time to conjure up while Arthur slept or moved about the world amongst others, unable to talk to him. He hadn’t been bound to a body which would betray him at the slightest inconvenience: all his emotions, he felt, were visible on his face and in the lines of his silhouette all the time. Being given away by the twitch of his mouth or the hesitancy in one look of his eyes was maddening. He couldn’t control it, hadn’t yet mastered the subtle art of physical deception. He had no reason to, he knew, but it continued to bother him regardless, being so visibly and openly seen by everyone around him. Every thought was laid bare, ripe for someone else to pluck.

These visual cues didn’t apply to Arthur, of course, but it didn’t need to. It didn’t matter when it came to him. He could sense each ripple of truths withheld in John’s voice as though they were tangible vibrations running beneath his fingers, plucking incorrect notes from a string of music. Whether this was a skill gained through time or familiarity, he didn’t want to ask. Perhaps he’d just had plenty of practice, before John came along.

“It’s… both,” he says lamely, eyes flicking open to watch as Arthur shifts from one foot to the other impatiently. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he exclaims, a frustrated scoff behind his words. “I’m not even looking at you. I can’t.”

“Like you know exactly what I’m thinking,” John presses, willing himself not to wither beneath that sightless gaze. Like a parent, he thinks to himself, who’s just caught someone doing something they shouldn’t.

“Maybe I do.” Arthur comes to stand beside him, bumping up against the edge of the couch. “Maybe I’m just trying to help, you donkey. What is going on with you?”

“It’s-” he begins to say, but he’s quickly cut off.

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’ve been like this all day: grumpy, antagonistic, walking… very oddly. Did you not sleep very well?”

“I slept fine,” John mutters. “How could you possibly know I was walking strangely?”

“Ah, so he admits something!” Arthur says with a scoff. “I can feel it along your arm when I’m holding onto you. The movement of your gait is different from anyone else - Noel, Oscar, even Marie. Your footsteps all sound unique, too. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were trying not to limp.”

The silence stretches. John breathes in shallowly, as if the quieter he became, the more likely he was to become invisible.

“John?” Arthur asks uncertainly. “Have you been limping all day?”

“I… not all day, Arthur.”

He sighs, a ragged exhale. “Jesus fucking Christ, John, I knew it!” he says, throwing his arms up. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

John tries to prop himself farther up on the couch cushions, sliding the dead weight of his leg along the coffee table. “Because it’s not important, Arthur,” he protests angrily. “It’s just a - a sprained ankle or something! Noel says it happens to people all the time.”

“You told Noel?” Arthur’s demeanor shifts, and John can’t quite place where it was going. “Is that who you hung up on over the telephone yesterday, when I walked in?”

“I - yes, I told Noel,” John says, glancing away. “I didn’t want to… I mean, I wouldn’t-”

“But you didn’t tell me,” Arthur states, frowning. “I don’t understand, John.”

“Because I didn’t want to bother you with it, alright? Jesus fuck, Arthur! It’s just a little bit of pain!”

His shout rebounds around the living room, echoing along corners and twisting through the dark. Once it dissipates, all that nervous, fearful energy fading into thin air, John realizes the sun had already set. In the shadow of the singular lamp they’d kept on after they left earlier that day, Arthur looked smaller than John had ever seen him previously - socked feet, soft button down shirt untucked, shoulders slumped while his head was turned away from John’s direction.

Hurt, he understood after a solid minute of nothing spoken. There was hurt on his face.

“Arthur,” he says hastily, backtracking. “I didn’t…”

But Arthur was already interrupting.

“Is it bleeding?” he asks flatly. “From where you knocked it as we were coming in.”

John’s eyes widen. “What? No, no, like I said it’s probably just a sprain.”

“Don’t get up.”

“I wasn’t. Where are you going?”

He watches helplessly as Arthur begins to trod across the living room to the hallway just behind them. His left hand searches for the wall, brushing against it occasionally as he vanishes around the corner, the thin lines of his silhouette blending into the darkness. John waits with gritted teeth, listening to the faint but unmistakable sound of a drawer opening in the bathroom, before he’s rejoined in the living room.

“Give me your foot,” Arthur instructs. He comes around on the opposite side, taking a careful seat on the table in front of the couch. “Which one is it?”

“It’s… it’s this one,” John stutters, glancing at the little white box he’d placed between them. “What is that?”

“First aid kit. Came with the apartment, I think. Never thought I’d have to use it.”

There’s a bite to his tone which causes something in John to cower. Panicking at the unfamiliarity of the uneasy feeling, he thinks immediately to fight back against it. Yet no manipulation tactic in his mental catalog nor no insult he’d ever learned from Arthur was readily able to be wielded. He stares, unsettlingly dispirited, at Arthur’s hands while he begins to search through random items in the kit.

“Arthur.”

“Put your leg on my knees, John,” he says. He’s facing away, still wholly focused on determining which items were what through sensation alone. The subtle surprise when John does as asked without further complaint doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Oh. Thank you. Now tell me where it hurts.”

Stretching over as much as he was able, halfway balanced on the edge of the cushions and held now partially up by Arthur’s own legs, John indicates with one pointed finger. 

“Here,” he says, lightly touching the far side of his ankle. “Move your hand just - just there.”

As slender fingers come into contact with the swollen skin, John hisses. Arthur moves as if to draw back, but after some hesitation makes a second attempt with a touch so gentle John hardly senses the wandering examination at all.

“It’s swollen, John,” Arthur says, staring into the middle distance as he feels along the reddened skin. “You’re going to have to take your shoes off.”

“I know it’s swollen,” he grinds out, “I can feel it.”

Immediately he regrets the display of aggravation. Eyes flick worriedly to Arthur’s face, searching for any kind of reaction there, but he may as well have been surveying a blank canvas.

“I think we should try ice,” is all he says. “Before attempting any kind of compression. Wait here.”

“It’s not like I could go anywhere,” he mumbles beneath his breath as Arthur leaves him for the second time. “I’m not running a fucking race on this thing.”

When he returns, grasping a cloth wrapped bundle, John studies him curiously. Nervous muscles stiffen in preparation for another round of sharp throbbing; but as Arthur sits again opposite him, the grip which guides his foot is somehow even kinder than before, cradling the injury into position across his knees.

“Let me take your shoe off,” he murmurs. “I’ll be quick.”

"I’d rather you didn’t,” John protests. “Can’t we just - God, Arthur!”

No apology is forthcoming. It’s palpable in the tension of Arthur’s fingers regardless, the unhappy twist of his mouth. He fumbles the laces undone with one hand and slips the shoe off, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. One black sock follows. The hem of his trousers is rolled back up to his calf, delicately smoothed along by a soothing touch.

The introduction of cold is almost worse than the prodding he’d just undergone. John jolts as the cloth touches his skin. A pang similar to shattered glass ricochets across his foot and he has to bite his tongue to keep from shouting. Arthur holds him steady, other hand firm on his calf, bent over the injury.

“Easy,” he says quietly. “It’ll hurt for a minute or two, but this will help to numb some of the pain and swelling.”

“Numb?” John gasps, “or worsen? What even is that?”

Arthur readjusts the bundle. “Peas wrapped in a washcloth. You should know, you bought all the groceries last.”

“Why the hell would I buy peas? They’re repulsive.”

“Well I didn’t, and we don’t have ice in right now, so it’ll have to do.”

True to his word, after some uncomfortable minutes of silence, the throbbing begins to lessen. John sinks back in relief, a sweet dullness overtaking pain receptors which had not let up on their constant alarm for what seemed like eons now. Thoughts broken up by the unrelenting ache finally begin to clear. From behind the haze he sighs, tilting his chin up towards the ceiling. Long hair spills over the back of the cushions.

“That’s… much better,” he says weakly. “Thank you.”

“I imagine it is, yes… John?”

“Yes?” he answers, anticipation sitting nauseatingly in his gut. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you hurt your ankle?”

In the low light he steals a glance over. His vision was better than most - better than Arthur’s, when he had been able to see out of his eyes. Things came across with astonishing clarity, even when there was little illumination to help refine the world around him. John narrows in on the long pink scar across Arthur’s throat, an indelicate reminder of the Dreamlands, the incomprehensible weight of that last stand reduced to one single, jagged divide. His torn ear hid neatly enough behind reddish gold curls, but the mark across his face where those dangerous sands had scraped away the skin there was not so easy to miss. 

In the break between their conversation he rolled up his shirtsleeves and there too John could spot scars, dots and lines of invisible constellations, healed but not forgotten. The wooden pinky finger taps his ankle as he shifts the peas. John’s pinky, he thought. Or, it had been.

Everything about Arthur was a testament to some horror he’d survived, that they had survived together. And John, in this new body, had nothing to show for it.

“John?” Arthur asks. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay,” he argues. “It hurts.”

“Is this helping at all? We can always wrap it afterward. Hopefully it won’t need to be seen by anyone.”

There’s concern in his voice, so genuine despite the way he’d just been treated that something snaps just around John’s lungs, a sharp, bitter pull. Whatever he had been about to say dies under his tongue. Nothing comes out, although his lips part for several seconds.

“John?”

His restraint falters.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” 

“...What?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, yanking the words agonizingly out. “It wasn’t my intention to lie to you from the start, I - I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Tell me what, John?” comes the baffled prompt. “That you injured yourself?”

“Yes,” he emphasizes. “I don’t even remember how I did it, I guess I just… stepped incorrectly? Tripped over something? I don’t fucking know, Arthur, and it’s so goddamned stupid. I can’t even control my own two legs! How am I going to keep existing in this body if I break under the slightest influence? It’s not like you get hung up over a fucking sprain, or don’t bounce back from a coma, or a car crash, or-”

“Hang on, John, wait,” Arthur interrupts. “Is that what this is about? Me?”

“Yes! No. I don’t know, Arthur. A bit of both?”

Frustration boils beneath his skin, hot and shimmering. The corners of his eyes prickle but he doesn’t move up to rub at the sting coiled there, waiting for release.

“You don’t let anything stop you,” he says, the living room blurring. “Gunshot wounds to the chest, electrocution, multiple stabbings, so many falls I’ve lost count-”

“Technically the gunshot would have killed me if not for the wraith, " Arthur offers feebly, but John doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Not even getting gutted through inside those mines in Addison! Not even my shitty job of sewing you back up.” He swallows, breathing heavily. “You’re practically fucking invincible, and meanwhile I take one wrong step and I’m incapacitated for days, can’t even take a stroll with you down the street, can’t carry you up to bed when you’ve fallen asleep on the sofa.”

Tears were flowing now, trickling in trails of shame down flushed cheeks. “It’s ridiculous. I witnessed you wade through literal nightmares, Arthur, and you did it without losing yourself. You still managed to laugh where you could, to have hope, and-”

The thought was running swiftly away from him. He twists sideways as far as he could, facing the other side of the room, held in place only by his ankle. Again wishing to disappear, again wanting to crawl back inside Arthur’s head where it was safe.

It takes Arthur far too long to respond. For some time nothing moves in their midst, save for the rapid rise and fall of John’s chest, the hitched cadence of his breathing. Eventually Arthur shifts. John listens to his clothes rustle and wonders when the floor would swallow him whole.

“John?” Arthur says softly. 

His jaw clenches. “What.”

“Look at me.”

Sniffing, he turns. The hand not keeping the frozen vegetables on his foot coaxes his chin up and over. Arthur’s touch doesn’t linger, giving him ample space. John wishes it would. Frustration continues to slip across his face, lines of damp salt.

“I didn’t react that way to all of those things because I wanted to, John,” he says gently. “I did so because I had to. I was surviving, trying to keep us both alive. What would have happened if I gave in and just laid down and let it all overtake me?”

John mulls it over. 

“Nothing,” he concludes, wiping angrily at one eye. “We wouldn’t have gotten very far.”

“Exactly. You think I didn’t struggle? You saw me, John, you saw through me!”

He laughs, the first bright sound to filter through the room since they’d come home, tinged by bittersweet memory. “You were there for every second of it. Remember me waking up from the coma? I could hardly drag myself out of the bed, much less walk. And everything else that’s happened to my body, well…”

Briefly he touches his stomach. “Sometimes I wonder how there’s any blood left in me. I feel patchy, like I’m just made up of gaps a person could see straight through. It all still aches, John. I’m aware of it all, every stupid mistake or scar or… whatever else Addison and the Dreamlands, all those monsters did to me; but if I refused to accept in some capacity, where would that get me? Fuck, I’d never leave the bed, and I’d have every right to do so. Why do you think I still sleep in some mornings?”

“You’re saying you’re hiding things too, then,” John says slowly. A flutter of remorse crosses Arthur’s smile, curving it downward. 

“Yes,” he nods. “A little bit. I didn’t want you to worry, John.”

“This is the same thing, then!” John exclaims. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry!”

“It’s not the same, but… it is similar, sure. I’m still figuring this all out, what to do now afterwards. I know we both are. I suppose we’re each guilty of something here, aren’t we?”

A mutter answers him, unintelligible. Arthur sighs, rubbing John’s leg placatingly. 

“I have experience with this kind of thing, John. You, frankly, do not. We don’t know how this body is going to react to the smallest of injuries, so when you’ve hurt yourself, or tripped, whatever, you need to tell me. I can’t help you if you’re so determined to be… stoically adamant that you can handle it.”

He winces. “No, poor choice of words. You’re more than capable of handling anything. The point here is that you don’t need to do it alone. I didn’t do it all by myself, either, even if it was our body at the time. I still had you there with me.”

“Okay,” John mumbles. The tears had stopped, drying in faintly gleaming tracks. Unable to help himself, he reaches over and directs Arthur’s free hand to his face. Arthur catches on quickly enough. One gentle thumb brushes the dampness away beneath both eyes.

“You said I didn’t lose myself in the midst of all that,” Arthur adds contemplatively, “but I did. You brought me back over and over. I won’t let you drown here, either. I guess we need to be more honest with each other in general.”

He flashes a small smile. “Works in progress, hmm?”

“Sure,” John says, wavering under that look. It was impossible not to. “Okay, Arthur. Thank you. I guess I…”

“Hmm?”

“I know it wasn’t easy, but you made it seem so effortless. I guess I wanted to be able to react the same way.”

“Nothing about being human is effortless, John. If it were easy, you’d be something else altogether.”

Neither are sure what else to say, so they choose to say nothing at all. Arthur removes the cloth, saturated with condensation. The swelling had gone down somewhat. Beneath the inflamed skin a dull ache persisted, but it was milder, simpler to deal with. Darkness shot through with distant city lights and a sliver of the rising moon sits just behind the glass window panes of the front room, enticing and comforting with its allure of endless promise. In the lamp’s glow, John watches Arthur start to slide off the table, cradling his foot until he’s able to place it down atop its surface.

“I think you should sit here for a while,” he advises, frowning. “I can help you down the hall later. If you want, that is. It’s doubtful you’ll be able to keep much weight on this over the next few days if you want it to heal properly.”

“Great,” John mutters. “Wait, where are you going?”

“To change out of these clothes? Why?”

“Can’t you,” he stutters, “stay here? I can’t reach the washcloth. What if I need it again?”

“I can place it next to you,” Arthur says wryly, catching on. “It’s only a foot away.”

“What if I have to get up?”

“You shouldn’t be moving at all.”

“Arthur, please.”

“Christ, alright,” he agrees, fondly. “Just for a while. I’m exhausted too, you know.”

He slips next to him. They fit together seamlessly after some adjusting, John avoiding old wounds, Arthur working around this new one. It’s a recently acquired habit, this circling of one another, quietly curling up until they were consoled enough in their own selves and each other. John’s head ends up across Arthur’s thighs, his foot propped up on the armrest of the other end. He was so tall his leg stretched past the edge of the sofa, halfway dangling in mid air.

“John, darling?” Arthur asks absently, untangling dark curls spread out across his lap.

“Yes?”

“You’ve… carried me up to bed before?”

John blinks. “Of course. I couldn’t leave you on the sofa like that, shivering.”

“I wasn’t shivering,” he retorts with mock affront. “Was I?”

“It was kind of pitiful. To give you credit, you had kicked off the blanket I put over you earlier.”

“I was wondering where that had come from,” Arthur mumbles. “Thanks, John.”

“You’re welcome. You sleep like you’re the prize boxer in a dream ring.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You kick,” John says meaningfully, eyes already beginning to close. “Hard.”

“Oh. Sorry. At least I don’t hog the blankets all the time,” Arthur retorts sheepishly.

“I do not hog anything. I’m much taller than you now! I need more of it.”

“Not all of it.”

“Buy a second blanket, then, if you’re so concerned.”

They bicker until John falls asleep. Sentences drop to single word responses, and soon enough he’s out, trying to get one last quip through the heavy pull of slumber. Arthur sighs as he feels his breathing even out, one palm flat on his chest. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to change clothes. 

“John?” he whispers. “John?”

He doesn’t answer. Arthur lets loose another weary exhale. There was no way he could move now.

“I think you did this on purpose,” he says softly, yawning. “You just want me to play with your hair, don’t you? Unfortunately for you, I’m probably going to fall asleep right here beneath you.”

He brushes stray strands off John’s forehead. It continued to puzzle him how someone who had once spent thousands of years inflicting agony on others now flinched beneath the prospect of bothering those closest to him with pain of his own.

Arthur drifts into unconsciousness soon after the thought dissipates like smoke, head dipping to rest sideways on one shoulder. John, clinging to the last dredges of wakefulness, peers up through heavy lidded eyes just in time to catch a glimpse of Arthur’s silent goodnight, John, on his lips. 

[bluestjayy]

fck stop begging for comments on here all the damn time. i did like u as a writer but its getting so pathetic and annoying now jus begging constantly. Ur writing isn't that good for getting tonnes of comments anyway half the time Ur dragging plots and characters r so uninteresting probs coz Ur on here begging instead of writing properly. every update feels rushed lately it shows u don't even care anymore. just stop begging and focus on updating instead that's all pppl want

Hey anon, I normally don't respond to rude asks like these because I think what you want is the attention.

I especially don't usually respond to asks that have, in any way, anything to do with begging or demanding I update my fics (and I have seen an uptick in those in recent months) but I'm gonna respond to this one, and by proxy, all the others currently sitting unread in my inbox, and any future asks of this nature that may come my way.

Buckle in, this is a long one.

First, I'm going to assume by 'begging for comments' you mean the few posts I have been reblogging over the past couple of days that encourage readers on AO3 to engage with authors by leaving positive and thoughtful comments, and discouraging them from making unreasonable and impersonal demands. If this is the case then I would like to clarify that I am not 'begging for comments', rather I am supporting a community of writers like myself who are actual human beings who take several hours, days, even weeks, out of our very real lives in order to make something and share it with the world and for some reason are beginning to see a trend of entitlement slowly growing across our comment sections. A trend we wish to nip in the bud because, as I previously pointed out, fanfiction authors are real life human beings, taking time out of their days to make something, not machines on a factory line that churn out content at the behest of someone's demands. We want our fandoms and communities to be safe, supportive spaces where we can have fun. We don't want them to become workloads that begin to feel like full time jobs.

Secondly, to say my writing isn't all that good but in the same message tell me to update? Wild my guy. Truly. But let's keep breaking down AO3 comments/kudos/general feedback (such as this delightful ask you sent my way, I guess hoping it would make me want to update??) from readers and how this can affect an authors updates, this time using one of my favourite metaphors for this type of thing and see if it helps:

AO3 is a potluck. It's a backyard party. There is a veritable buffet at this party. My fic is the cake I baked myself to bring for all my friends to eat. One of my other friends brought potato salad. Another friend brought the punch. Everyone who is at this fun get-together brought something to offer at the buffet table.

Now, I might not like potato salad, but you know what I'm not going to do? Tell my friend to her face that her potato salad sucks and she never should have brought it. I'm going to politely pass on eating it, and be glad that all the people at the party who do like potato salad have something to eat. In the same vein, not everyone is going to like my cake, maybe the flavour is wrong, maybe I used too much icing, maybe they just don't like cake. But that's fine, they don't have to eat my cake. But if you choose to eat my cake, and find you don't like the flavour after taking a bite, then the polite thing to do is quietly stop eating the cake, and go and find something else to eat.

Do not seek me out and tell me to my face everything that was wrong with my cake, and why you don't enjoy it. Do not tell me to my face, that my cake sucks and you wish I'd never brought it.

Do you think telling someone that you hate the way they made a cake is a good and productive way to get them to keep making cakes for you? Or perhaps, is the way to keep an amateur baker wanting to bake, to tell them what you enjoyed about their cake. Even a simple, 'I really liked this cake' goes a long way.

And if you do like my cake, if you love my cake actually, do not then follow me home from the party and start demanding I make you cake all the time. I don't always have time to make cakes.

And just to cover all of my bases, because I am also seeing a trend of folk who think that sharing fanfiction online is the same as submitting manuscripts to publishers and that therefore criticism is allowed. It's not.

To continue to beat this cake metaphor. This is the difference between taking my cake to a party with friends (AO3) and taking my cake onto the Great British Bake off (A professional publishing environment).

If I wanted constructive criticism on my cake, I'd seek it out from expert bakers who know what they're talking about.

No one goes to a friend's party with a cake they made and wants to hear what they're doing wrong. Unless explicitly asked, keep your criticisms to yourself and put the cake down if you don't like it. It's so very easy to not eat a cake if you hate how it tastes.

Finally, a combination of both the points above, really, but I cannot stress this enough. These usernames you're sending anonymous asks to? The handles on AO3 you're writing comments for? They're people. They are human fucking beings that deserve respect and kindness. I am a human being. And sending what you sent up there to another person over fanfiction?? That's just mean, friend. That's just out and out cruelty. I have no other words to describe that.

I could give a flying fuck if you think I'm begging for comments. I could care less you wanna say my writing is terrible. At the end of the day, my writing is mine and I'm going to keep doing it because I find writing fun. It's a hobby that helps me de-stress from the horrors of my real life situations. Frankly, you should be begging me to stop because I have no plans to do anything but keep inflicting my drawn out plots and bad character writing on the world for as long as it keeps making me happy.

But I beg you to take a second off of social media today and think over what makes fandom- something that should be a hobby, a safe place to escape from the world- this serious for you. Because the kicker in all this? My friend, if you think what I post is annoying and my writing is bad, you can not see it. You can block me. You can click away from my stories. Your online space is yours to curate and no one, literally not a single person, is making you engage with things you don't want to engage with. Curate your space, fill it with people who aren't 'begging for comments', fill it with fics you think are really good and deserve to be told how good they are through wonderful comments. Please, I am begging you, because at the end of the day to live in such negativity must be so exhausting for you.

I've no idea if you, the original sender of this message will even read through all of this, but if you did, please, if not me, then any other fandom creators you come across going forward. Please treat them with kindness. Please respect that sometimes fandoms are spaces people hide in when their real lives are scary and frustrating and negative enough and all you do with messages like these is drive people away.

TL;DR: this is not the way you get more updates from fic authors, and further from that, it's not the way you treat anyone. Ever. Do better. Do much better.

[ethmaron]

not to be overly sentimental or anything but i do think that @icyfox17 is one of the best people you will ever meet in a fandom space,,,, nothing but supportive to all fans (whether writer or artist or gifmaker or whatever else) and is always excited to talk about things. always has something kind to say and is so lovely and nice in a way i dont find most people are nowadays, especially online

i've known them for several years at this point and they are just very dear to me and have introduced me (directly or indirectly) to some of my other close friends like 🙁 icy you are so wonderful and special love u

[arsenicisaddictive]

Telling me that I just need to be positive about my chronic illness

And then telling me that I talk about it too much and I-

I’m sorry that I mention the condition that affects me every minute of every day. You think I’m mentioning it too much but I’m not mentioning it enough for how much it affects my life.

*Internal screaming*

Just me being mad about something a ‘friend’ said cause he’s kinda turning into an ableist piece of shit

[joshbruh10x]

Midterms are here, I hate it. Anyways Monty drawn while I was being dragged around the hall earlier

If only it was that easy, Monts 😔✊

[hillerska-official]

(Ignore me I just gotta scream a bit before I lose my mind entirely)

[strwbrydolli]

i think its getting better cause its 5:30am rn and i might finally be able to sleep again cause im about to fall asleep while typing this

[marsi-is-depressed]

Finding a Family series - Chapter 12: I don’t care what the gods have chosen!

The dining hall buzzed with the low hum of conversation as the Targaryen family gathered for yet another formal dinner. The reader sat near the end of the table, Rowena perched on her lap as the toddler busily grabbed at the edges of the tablecloth, babbling in her own little language. Normally, the reader cherished these moments, but tonight, a strange heaviness had settled over her chest.

She felt the edges of her composure fraying, and her breathing grew shallow and labored. Rowena tilted her head, looking up at her mother with concern as if sensing something was amiss. The reader kissed her daughter’s forehead and murmured, “It’s all right, my love. Mama just needs a little air.”

With a practiced calm, she turned to Daemon, who sat on her left. “Father, could you take her for a while?” she asked, her voice steady despite the growing tightness in her chest.

Daemon immediately obliged, scooping Rowena up with the ease of someone who’d long mastered the art of cradling children. Rowena let out a soft giggle, her small hands reaching for his silver hair as she nestled against his shoulder. The reader smiled weakly, smoothing down Rowena’s dress before excusing herself.

The air outside was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the warm and stifling atmosphere of the castle. The reader made her way toward the cliffside where she knew the kraken would be waiting. The rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the rocks was soothing, and as she approached the water’s edge, she saw the familiar glow of the kraken’s orange eyes just beneath the surface.

The creature emerged partially from the water, its massive head and tentacles rising gracefully. The reader sank to her knees, reaching out to pet its smooth, glistening skin. “Hello, old friend,” she whispered, a genuine smile lighting up her face for the first time that evening. “I needed some peace. These family dinners are exhausting.”

The kraken tilted its head slightly, almost as if listening. The reader ran her hand along its massive head, her fingers tracing the strange patterns of its skin. “I feel like everything is piling up,” she said, her voice soft. “Rowena’s growing so fast. She’s so brave, but there are moments when I worry she’s carrying a burden too heavy for someone so small.”

The kraken let out a low, echoing hum, one of its tentacles curling gently around her hand in what felt like a comforting gesture.

“You always know how to listen,” the reader said, laughing quietly. “Thank you for that.”

For a few more moments, she simply sat there, basking in the creature’s silent companionship. Eventually, she stood, brushing off her dress. “See you soon,” she said softly, giving the kraken a final pat before turning to head back to the castle.

When she returned to the hall, the warm buzz of conversation was still ongoing. She scanned the room, her eyes immediately finding Rowena. The toddler was in Aemond’s arms, her small hands clutching the fabric of his tunic as she buried her face against his chest. Aemond’s expression was uncharacteristically gentle, his single eye focused solely on the child as he bounced her lightly to soothe her.

Rowena let out a small sniffle, and when she caught sight of her mother, her tiny arms stretched out desperately. “Mama!” she cried, her voice wobbling with the remnants of her tears.

The reader hurried over, ignoring the stares of the family as she took her daughter into her arms. “Oh, my darling, what’s wrong?” she asked, holding Rowena close as the toddler clung to her like a lifeline.

Daemon, who had been observing from his seat, leaned forward with a concerned frown. “She’s been like that since Alicent arrived,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with an edge of suspicion.

The reader’s brows furrowed as she kissed Rowena’s forehead, murmuring soothing words into her hair. “It’s all right, my love. Mama’s here,” she whispered, rocking her daughter gently. She glanced at

Aemond, whose expression had returned to its usual stoicism, though there was a faint glimmer of something softer lingering in his gaze.

“Thank you,” the reader said, her voice sincere despite her exhaustion.

Aemond nodded curtly, his eye flicking briefly to Rowena before returning to his plate. “She has a strong will,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “Like her mother.”

The reader offered a small, tired smile before taking her leave, Rowena still clinging to her as they stepped into the quieter corridors of the castle. The toddler had calmed significantly, her little head resting against her mother’s shoulder as she mumbled sleepily.

The reader held her daughter tightly, her heart heavy with love and a gnawing sense of unease. Something about the way Rowena had reacted to Alicent unnerved her, and the lingering presence of the bloodied catspaw dagger weighed heavily on her mind. As she carried her daughter back to their chambers, she silently vowed to protect Rowena at all costs—no matter what dangers lay ahead.

The salty air brushed gently against the reader’s face as she strolled along the cliffs, Rowena balanced comfortably on her hip. The toddler was fascinated by the rolling waves below, pointing and babbling excitedly as the direwolf padded alongside them. It was a rare moment of peace, and the reader savored it, focusing on the rhythmic sound of her boots against the gravel path.

Just as they rounded a bend, Aemond appeared, his lean figure silhouetted against the horizon. His single eye locked onto the reader, and he approached with a measured stride. “Where are you going?” he asked, his tone curious but laced with the usual edge of formality.

The reader adjusted her grip on Rowena, offering him a wary glance. “Just walking. Clearing my head.”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking to the toddler, who looked at him with a curious pout. “May I join you?” he asked, surprisingly cordial.

Before the reader could respond, Rowena reached her tiny arms toward him. “Ag!” she babbled, clearly associating him with safety. The reader hesitated but handed the toddler over. Rowena immediately clung to Aemond’s tunic, playing with the fabric as she cooed softly.

The three continued walking, the direwolf trailing close to the reader while Aemond carried Rowena. After a few moments of silence, he broke the quiet. “You’ve built something of a family here,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

The reader glanced at him, unsure where he was going with this. “Yes,” she replied simply. Aemond’s expression was contemplative as he shifted Rowena in his arms. “Have you ever considered... marriage? For Rowena’s sake, if nothing else.”

The reader stopped in her tracks, turning to face him fully. Her eyes were sharp, her voice firm. “No. I’ve seen enough to know that I don’t need a man telling me what to do, Aemond. I’ve built a life for myself and my daughter. We’re free, and that’s all I want.”

Aemond seemed taken aback by the vehemence in her voice but quickly masked it with a nod of understanding. “I see,” he said quietly, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

Rowena, sensing the tension, tugged on Aemond’s tunic and patted his chest. “Ag!” she exclaimed, her bright smile breaking the moment’s tension.

The reader couldn’t help but smile at her daughter’s antics. “She seems to like you,” she said, her voice softer now.

Aemond’s lips twitched into a faint smile as he looked at the toddler. “She’s... spirited. Like her mother.”

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

The cool night air wrapped around the reader as she slipped out of the castle, the faint glow of torches casting long shadows against the stone walls. With Rowena tucked safely into bed and everyone bidding their goodnights, she had seized the opportunity for solitude, her mind heavy with the events of the day. The path to the cottage was well-worn in her memory now, and she moved silently, her direwolf absent for the first time in her nocturnal excursions. It wasn’t long before the dark silhouette of the cottage loomed in the moonlight, its eerie stillness matching the chill that settled in her bones.

But the moment she stepped through the broken doorway, the unmistakable sound of boots crunching against the earth reached her ears. She turned swiftly, her heart hammering in her chest as The hooded man emerged from the shadows, his face devoid of his usual composure.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice low but firm, masking the unease bubbling within her.

The man’s face twisted into a smug sneer. “I could ask you the same, my lady. Always poking around where you don’t belong.”

The reader squared her shoulders, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. “Why did you kill them?” she asked bluntly, her voice shaking slightly but steady with resolve. “What could possibly justify murdering an innocent woman and her child?”

His expression darkened, his features hardening. “She knew too much. Rowena’s mother was privy to secrets that could unravel the very foundation of the realm,” he said coldly. “She would have betrayed the religion—my duty was clear.”

“And the little boy?” the reader shot back, her voice rising in anger. “What threat could he have posed to you?”

The mans lip curled. “Collateral damage. Necessary to ensure silence. And you think anyone would believe you, with no proof? Your accusations mean nothing, girl.”

The words struck her like a slap, but before she could respond, he surged forward, his hand closing around her throat and pinning her to the wall with brute force. She gasped, clawing at his arm as he leaned in, his expression twisted with malice.

“You’re the thorn in my side,” he hissed, his grip tightening. “It’s time someone reminded you of your place.”

Panic shot through her veins, but she forced herself to focus, driving her knee into his stomach with all the strength she could muster. He stumbled back, momentarily stunned, and she followed up with a kick to his chest, sending him crashing into the wooden table in the center of the room.

Before she could take another step, a shadow moved in the corner of her eye, and then Ser Criston was yanked backward, the cold steel of a sword pressed against his throat.

“Enough,” came Daemon’s voice, low and deadly, y/n’s father stood there, his face a mask of controlled fury, Dark Sister gleaming in the moonlight. “Whatever it is you’re hiding, it will come to light.

And when it does, there will be no place for you to run.”

The man glared at Daemon, his jaw tightening. “You think you’re above the all mighty?

Daemon interrupted sharply, his voice dripping with disdain. “And you’ve crossed a line. A very, very dangerous line.”

The man’s eyes flicked to the reader, who stood nearby, breathing heavily and clutching her side where her wound from the earlier attack still throbbed faintly. She met his gaze with unflinching defiance, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Leave,” Daemon ordered, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Now.”

Daemon turned to his daughter, his expression softening as he sheathed Dark Sister. “Are you hurt?”

The reader shook her head, though her hands were trembling. “I’m fine,” she said hoarsely. “But I know now. It was him. He killed Rowena’s family because her mother knew something....”

Daemon pulled her into a firm embrace, his hand resting protectively on the back of her head. “You’re not alone in this,” he said. “We’ll protect Rowena. Together.”

As they stepped out of the cottage into the crisp night air, the reader glanced back at the darkened building. She felt a renewed sense of determination coursing through her veins.

The warm evening moon bathed the castle grounds as the reader walked through the courtyard, the breeze tugging at her loose hair. She had just returned from speaking with her father about the unsettling encounter with that man, determined to put the pieces together for Rowena’s sake. As she leaned against the stone wall, catching her breath, she noticed Aemond approaching, his strides purposeful and his one-eyed gaze locked onto her.

The reader sighed internally. She had noticed a shift in Aemond’s behavior over the past few days—his teasing glances, the lingering pauses when they crossed paths, and the way he seemed to gravitate toward her and Rowena more than usual.

“Y/N,” Aemond greeted, his voice smoother than usual, a small smirk playing on his lips.

“Aemond,” she replied, raising an eyebrow as he stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back.

“I was wondering,” he began, tilting his head slightly, “if you’ve ever thought about... expanding your little family.”

She gave him a wary look. “I think I’ve expanded enough. Rowena keeps me plenty busy.”

He chuckled, and there was something almost boyish about the sound. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You’ve built something remarkable, I’ll admit. But it could be... better. With a partner by your side.”

The reader crossed her arms. “You think so?”

“I do,” Aemond said earnestly, stepping closer. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’ve always admired your strength, Y/N. You and Rowena deserve someone who will protect and care for you both.”

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Aemond, we’re family.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but his resolve didn’t falter. “It’s not unusual in our house—”

“No,” she interrupted firmly, her gaze steady. “I don’t want to marry. Not you, not anyone. I’ve made my choice, and it’s Rowena and me. That’s all I’ll ever need.”

Aemond’s eye softened, but there was a flicker of desperation as he reached out, his fingers brushing her arm. “Y/N, at least give me a chance—”

Before he could finish, a high-pitched voice cut through the air. “No!”

They both turned to see Rowena wriggling out of Daemon’s arms, her tiny legs moving as fast as they could carry her toward her mother. Her little face was scrunched up in determination as she planted herself protectively in front of the reader, her arms outstretched as if to shield her.

“My mama!” Rowena declared, glaring up at Aemond with all the fierce defiance her small frame could muster.

The reader couldn’t help but smile as she bent down, scooping Rowena into her arms. “Well, that settles it,” she said lightly, brushing her fingers through her daughter’s hair. She glanced back at

Aemond, her tone softening. “See? I’m destined to be free.”

Aemond’s expression faltered for a moment, a mixture of disappointment and understanding flickering across his face. Before he could respond, Rowena reached out with her tiny hand and tapped her mother’s cheek, as if demanding her attention.

“Mine!” the toddler said pointedly, her gaze flicking to Aemond with a clear challenge. “Mama mine.”

The reader chuckled, pressing a kiss to Rowena’s forehead. “Yes, I’m yours,” she said softly, swaying slightly to comfort her child. “And you’re mine.”

Aemond let out a quiet sigh, his smirk returning, though it was tinged with a hint of self-mockery. “It seems I’ve been overruled.”

“It seems so,” the reader said, her tone teasing but firm. “Aemond, I appreciate your... feelings. But this is the life I’ve chosen, and it’s one I wouldn’t trade for anything.”

He nodded, his eye lingering on her for a moment longer before he stepped back. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” she said, her voice carrying an air of finality.

With that, Aemond gave a slight bow and turned to leave, his posture as composed as ever, though the reader could sense the weight of his disappointment. She sighed softly, holding Rowena a little closer as the toddler buried her face in her mother’s neck.

From across the courtyard, Daemon stood watching, his arms crossed and a smirk on his lips. As Aemond walked away, Daemon approached, his gaze flicking between his daughter and granddaughter.

“Well,” Daemon drawled, “I see Rowena has taken her stance on the matter.”

The reader laughed, shaking her head. “She always does.”

Daemon grinned, reaching out to ruffle Rowena’s hair. “Smart girl.” He turned his sharp gaze in the direction Aemond had disappeared. “Though I’ll admit, it was satisfying to see him humbled for once.”

The reader rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as she turned back toward the castle, Rowena’s small arms wrapped tightly around her neck. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she knew one thing for certain: her daughter would always be at the heart of everything she did.

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

The sun hung high over Westeros, casting a warm, golden glow over the cliffs where the reader and Rowena sat. The toddler giggled as she ran her tiny fingers through the direwolf’s soft fur, her other hand gently patting the stag’s side. Half of the Kraken's massive form rested above the waterline, its orange eyes watching attentively as one of its tentacles patted Rowena's head with surprising delicacy. The scene was tranquil, filled with the laughter of a child and the rustling of the sea breeze.

Caraxes was absent today, accompanying Daemon on a flight, leaving the group with a rare moment of solitude. That peace was interrupted by the sound of boots crunching on the gravel path. The direwolf’s ears perked up, and it let out a low growl as Aemond approached, his figure stark against the sunlit horizon.

“Aemond,” the reader greeted, placing a calming hand on the wolf’s neck. Its growls softened but didn’t stop entirely.

“I mean no harm,” Aemond said, raising his hands in a show of surrender. “Though I see I’m still not entirely welcome.”

The reader patted the dire wolf firmly. “He’s just protective. Don’t take it personally.”

Aemond nodded and stepped closer. “I’m not here to argue or push my case, Y/N. I just... thought I’d check in.”

“Good,” the reader replied, her tone even. “Because I don’t want to have that conversation again.”

With a slight smirk, Aemond glanced at the Kraken and then down at Rowena, who was now toddling around, holding a handful of flowers she had picked. “Quite the family you’ve built,” he said softly.

The reader followed his gaze, a gentle smile spreading across her face. “They’re everything I need. Now, sit down, Aemond. Enjoy the peace for once.”

He hesitated but eventually relented, settling onto the grass near the group. The direwolf huffed, keeping a watchful eye on him, while the Kraken shifted slightly in the water, its presence a looming reminder of the reader’s unique bond with the world’s creatures.

The moment was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats in the distance. The reader’s head snapped up, her sharp gaze scanning the horizon until she spotted a figure emerging from the treeline. It was a white stag, its graceful form trotting toward her, its coat shimmering in the sunlight. But as it drew closer, the reader’s smile faltered. The stag limped, and when it reached her, it bowed its head, letting out a soft, pained whimper. A gash on its side, still bleeding, glistened against its pristine fur.

The reader’s heart clenched, and she knelt down, gently running her fingers along the stag’s neck. “You’re hurt,” she murmured, her voice filled with concern.

Rowena toddled closer, her tiny hands reaching out toward the stag, but the reader caught her gently and scooped her up. “Not now, little one,” she whispered, her eyes scanning the wound. She turned to Aemond, her expression serious. “I need to tend to this. Can you watch Rowena for me?”

Aemond hesitated but saw the urgency in her eyes. “Of course.”

She handed Rowena to him, and the toddler, though initially resistant, settled in his arms after a moment. The reader stood and motioned for the stag to follow her. “Come on, boy. Let’s get you patched up.”

The stag let out a soft grunt and limped after her as she led it toward the dragonpit, where she kept her supplies. As they disappeared over the hill, Aemond shifted Rowena in his arms, her small face scrunching up as she whimpered softly.

“Mama will be back,” Aemond assured her, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “She’s just helping the stag.”

Rowena, still clutching her flowers, regarded him with a wary expression before laying her head on his shoulder. For a moment, Aemond was struck by how small and fragile she seemed—so different from the fiercely protective child who had staked her claim on her mother just days ago.

Meanwhile, in the dragonpit, the reader worked quickly, her hands steady as she cleaned and bandaged the stag’s wound. The creature remained remarkably still, its dark eyes filled with trust as she murmured soothing words to it.

“There we go,” she said softly, patting its neck. “You’ll be okay now.”

The stag let out a low rumble, bowing its head again in gratitude before nuzzling her shoulder. The reader smiled, her fingers brushing through its soft fur.

When she returned to the cliffs, she found Aemond sitting on the grass with Rowena in his lap. The toddler was playing with her flowers, babbling happily as if she had forgotten all about her earlier distress. Aemond glanced up at the reader’s approach, his expression unreadable.

“She’s quite attached to you,” he said as he handed Rowena back to her mother.

The reader smiled, holding Rowena close. “She’s my world.”

Aemond stood, brushing off his tunic. “You’re remarkable, Y/N. Truly.”

The reader raised an eyebrow, her tone laced with humor. “Flattery won’t change my mind, Aemond.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I know. But it’s the truth.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the reader to her peaceful moment with her daughter and their unusual family. Rowena, now cradled in her arms, rested her head against her mother’s chest, her tiny fingers clutching the edge of the reader’s tunic. The direwolf stretched out beside them, the Kraken's watchful eyes never leaving their forms, and the newly bandaged white stag stood tall at their side.

The reader sighed contentedly, pressing a kiss to Rowena’s head. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she knew they would face them together

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

The dragonpit was quiet save for the soft sounds of the reader humming to Rowena, who sat contentedly on her mother’s lap, gently patting the white stag’s side as it stood patiently for its wounds to be tended. The sunlight filtering through the massive arches illuminated the stag’s pristine coat, the stark white contrasting beautifully with the dark stone around them.

The reader’s hands moved deftly as she re-bandaged the stag’s side, murmuring soothing words to it. “There we go, boy. Good as new,” she said softly, tying off the last knot and running her hand down its neck. Rowena giggled, reaching out to mimic her mother’s gesture, her tiny hand stroking the stag’s fur.

The peaceful moment was interrupted by the sound of heavy boots on stone, followed by the unmistakable rumble of a dragon’s growl. The reader turned her head to see her father, Daemon, entering the pit with Caraxes trailing behind him. Caraxes’s serpentine neck swayed as his glowing red eyes locked onto the white stag, but he made no move, seemingly intrigued rather than hostile.

Daemon stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth slightly agape as his eyes fixed on the stag. “Seven hells…” he breathed, his tone laced with awe.

The reader, noting his expression, raised an eyebrow. “What? It’s just a stag.”

Daemon took a cautious step closer, his gaze never leaving the creature. “That’s no ordinary stag, Y/N.”

The reader frowned, continuing her work as Rowena babbled happily at her side. “It came to me for help. It was hurt, so I’m helping it. That’s all.”

Daemon shook his head, his voice hushed but filled with urgency. “Do you know what this means? A white stag is a symbol of the gods’ favor. It’s said to appear only to the rightful ruler of Westeros.”

The reader froze, her hand stilling on the bandage. “What?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Daemon stepped closer, his gaze now shifting to her. “The gods are declaring you their chosen. The rightful queen.”

Rowena, oblivious to the weight of the conversation, clapped her hands and cheered, “Mama!” as if confirming her grandfather’s statement.

The reader shook her head vehemently, her heart pounding. “No, no, no,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I don’t want this.”

Daemon’s expression softened slightly, but his tone remained firm. “It’s not about what you want. It’s about what the gods have chosen.”

“I don’t care what the gods have chosen!” she snapped, her voice rising before she caught herself. She pressed a hand to her forehead, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “You don’t understand. If people think I have a claim, they’ll come for me. They’ll fight me. They’ll fight each other.” She paused, her eyes wide with fear. “Great. I’m going to get killed.”

Daemon crouched in front of her, his piercing gaze meeting hers. “You’re my daughter. You’re not going to die. Not while I’m breathing.”

The reader bit her lip, torn between the enormity of his words and her own rising panic. “But I don’t want to rule,” she said, her voice cracking. “I don’t want a throne or a crown. I just want to live my life, raise Rowena, and be free.”

The stag let out a soft grunt, nuzzling her shoulder as if offering comfort. Rowena mimicked the motion, pressing her small head against her mother’s chest. The reader hugged her daughter tightly, finding some solace in the child’s innocent warmth.

Daemon stood, his face unreadable as he looked down at her. “You may not want it, but if this is what the gods have decreed, it won’t matter what you choose. Others will see the stag as a sign. You’ll need to be ready.”

The reader looked up at him, her eyes fierce despite her fear. “I won’t let anyone take my peace away, Father. Not for a throne. Not for anything.”

Daemon nodded slowly, respect evident in his gaze. “Then you’ll fight for it. For your peace. For Rowena. And I’ll fight with you.”

Caraxes let out a low growl of agreement, his head lowering to the stag’s level as if acknowledging the divine creature’s presence. The stag remained calm, its luminous eyes reflecting the sunlight as it stood tall beside the reader.

The reader closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the weight of her father’s words and the reality of the situation. When she opened them, her gaze was steady. “If anyone tries to come for me or Rowena, they’ll regret it.”

Daemon smirked, a glint of pride in his eyes. “That’s my girl.”

[volivolition]

✨ thinking of him thursdayyyy ✨ (<- said in a monotone deadpan with jazz hands)