#i just feel a deep and inconsolable sorrow.

[tmblrkid]

"bad" news: my cat is staying at the vet's for a bit and i don't know how to process it! i am incredibly suicidal and even more impulsive!

good news: just snagged the sickest fetlife username ever oh my god

[theunholybastard]

Kinktober: October 9th - Breeding (Papa Emeritus III x Female!Reader)

Tags: Established Relationship, Breeding, Mentions Of Miscarriage, Hurt/Comfort, Rough Sex, Praise, Light Body Worship, Multiple Orgasms, Cunilingus (Terzo Is A Munch), Fluff And Smut, First Person POV

My knee bounced up and down in anticipation, sat on the edge of the bathtub, waiting impatiently. When it's time, I gulp, anxiously looking down at the tiny test in my hand. Negative. Again. Tears start to brim in the corners of my eyes, but I quickly brush it off, taking a deep breath to self-regulate. I was used to the disappointment.

Me and Terzo have been trying for a baby for nearly a year, to no avail. I've seen dozens of negative pregnancy tests, and even the ones that appear positive at first, I end up losing that pregnancy soon after. I try my best to keep my head high, but the more negative tests keep building up, the bigger the pit in my stomach grows, swallowing any and all hope I've held onto. It was like a sick joke, the dream of having a family being just out of reach.

I toss the test in the trash, stepping outside the bathroom with a sigh. Terzo, who had been pacing around the bedroom with his hands clasped behind his back, stops in his tracks when he hears the door creak open. His head immediately snaps up, gaze nervous, expectant. "Well?" He asks tensely. I say nothing. I don't have to. My expression says all that needs to be said. Terzo frowns.

"Oh, amore..." His arms immediately encircle me, engulfing me in a bone-crushing hug. My heart ached as soon as I heard him speak, clearly trying his best to be strong for me, yet I can hear the disappointment in his voice. My throat grows tight as I choke back a sob, my hardened exterioir starting to crack.

"I thought... I thought it would take this time..." I sniffle, unable to hold back the everflowing stream of tears stinging my eyes as they cascade down my cheeks. "I don't u-understand... What's w-wrong with me?" I wept uncontrollably into the crook of his neck.

"Shh, shh... Nothing is wrong with you." Terzo reassures firmly, stroking my hair, his chin rested on the top of my head. "These things just take time, tesoro..." I pull away from his embrace, practically pushing him off me, remaining inconsolable.

"How much time? How much longer do we have to wait?" I heave frustratedly, my voice raw and cracking painfully with every word. Terzos eyes glazed over, powerless as he watched me break down. I know he hated seeing me in such despair, over and over again, while also feeling equally as devastated. I hardly consider the fact that this is destroying him, too.

Terzo swallowed harshly, rubbing his eyes before the tears even dare to escape, trying to remain stoic. "We'll keep trying." He croaked calmly, sounding as if he's trying to convince himself that everything's going to be okay more than he's trying to convince me. "We'll keep trying..."

My bottom lip quivers, my eyes already red and puffy, snot building up in my sinuses, no doubt looking like a hot mess. "I... I need to be alone right now..." I whimper hoarsely, overwhelmed and needing time to wallow in my sorrows by myself. Terzo nods understandingly, even though I can tell he's reluctant. I avoid looking him in the eyes, for fear that it would send me over the edge even further.

"Let me know if you need anything, amore." He murmured. "Just don't keep yourself locked away for too long, si? I love you, tesoro..." And with that, he left the room, gently closing the door behind him, granting me the space I asked for. I immediately fell onto the bed, burying my face into the pillow to sob hysterically.

-

I can't pinpoint when exactly I managed to fall asleep, but I woke up suddenly to a delightful smell. Opening my eyes, I see Terzo, holding a plate of my favorite food in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. "I knew you'd be roused awake as soon as I brought your food in." Terzo grins, admittedly relieved to see me up.

"I thought this would make you feel better." He says, placing the dish down on the bedside table. He shakes around the bottle of wine enticingly. "And this is here to make me feel better. But you're welcome to have some too, of course..." He kneels down beside me, brushing strands of hair out of my face, gazing into my eyes sincerely. "How are you feeling, tesoro?"

"Terrible." I chuckle humourlessly, my nose stuffy and voice slightly nasaled. I feel nothing but numb at this point, empty. Terzo smiles weakly, squeezing my hand and gently stroking the skin with his thumb. He'd seen me in this disheveled state a hundred times before, but this time it was different. I felt so defeated, resigned, and to Terzo it seemed like I was giving up, which terrified him. "I know." He acknowledged, smile fading. "Me too..."

We sit together in silence for what feels like hours, halfheartedly picking at the food he brought me with a fork, my appetite lacking. Terzo lay down in the bed beside me, an arm wrapped securely around me as he takes a swig of his wine straight from the bottle, neither of us so much as looking at each other, devoid of our usual energy.

"We will have a baby." He declared, his brows furrowed with a look of unwaivering determination. "One of these days, it will take, and we'll have a little one of our own in our arms, filling our life with joy and stinky diapers. But until then, we will keep trying. It's not hopeless, cara mia. You need to know this." I couldn't help the faint smirk that grew on my face. It always warmed my heart to see his determination and resilience shine through, even in the hardest of times.

I nod in silent agreement, but he tuts, setting the bottle of wine down to use his spare hand to grab me by the chin, gently maneuvering my face to look at him. "I want to hear you say it, amore mio." He insists, gaze unwavering. For some reason, his face so close to mine, his commanding tone, sends a shiver down my spine and a fluttering sensation in my chest and... somewhere else. I breathe in. "It's not hopeless." My words came out a bit shaky, but still resolute. "We will keep trying."

Terzo takes notice of the subtle shift in my demeanor, cocking an eyebrow. He can feel my breathing starting to pick up, and he's immediately on guard, eyes flicking down towards my lips briefly; I know that look. "Who knows," he purrs. "Perhaps the one that takes... Could be conceived tonight?" He suggests, half-jokingly. His usual confidence waivers, unsure if he should be suggesting that kind of thing while just hours ago I was in such a fragile mental state.

My body is hyper-aware of his proximity, the scent of him surrounding me, his gloved hand trailing down from underneath my chin to caress my neck. "I wouldn't mind trying." I shudder, my breath hitching audibly as he leans closer, lips ghosting mine. Heat pools in my core, the idea, the hope, that tonight might be the night, that maybe we could finally get what we'd been wanting for so long. It sets my blood on fire.

He closes the gap between us, lips pressing together, exchanging kisses, sweet and tender at first, but they quickly build to be more passionate, desperate. Our teeth clash together from the force, but we are both too wound-up to care, our tongues intertwining and sloppily fighting for dominance. His hands slide over my body, slipping under my shirt to grope my bare breasts in a firm, possessive hold. "Get on your back." He whispers lowly, leaving no room for questioning.

I do as I'm told, excitement rushing through blood, causing a full-body shiver of anticipation. Without another word, he rolls on top of me, trapping me between his body and the mattress. He licks his lips hungrily, wasting no time tearing off my pajama pants and my underwear with renewed vigor, lowering himself down to press his face against my sex. "Need to get a taste of your cunt before I stuff you full..." He gruffs before delving his tongue into my hole, lapping up as much of my slick as possible.

I clench, my hips gyrating against his face, in need of friction on my clit. I let out a noise between a gasp and a moan, obnoxiously loud and needy. He knows exactly what I crave, and runs his thumb across my slit, up to the little bundle of nerves that so desperately needs attention. He puts pressure on my clit, rubbing it in slow, circular motions, as his tongue delves in and out of me, devouring my pussy as if it was his favorite meal.

Terzo, with his impeccable skill, has me cumming on his tongue within minutes, greedily slurping down every last drop of my juices. My vision is blurred from the intensity of the orgasm, my body tingling in a daze. Before I can come down fully from my high, Terzo has already hoisted himself up over me, swiftly taking his throbbing cock out and plunging deep in my walls. Hes always loved fucking me after making me cum with his mouth, claiming I was all the more wetter, warmer after a good, hard orgasm.

Usually when we were intimate, he was gentle, loving. We made love, sensual caresses and sweet nothings whispered into one anothers ears. But tonight, he was fucking me. His hips snapped brutally against mine with reckless abandon, giving me no time to adjust, which in return only made me squeeze tighter around him. There's no time for softness now, only a deep and primal urge to breed.

"F-fucking good girl. S-so tight, fucking milking my cock. Satanas!" He growls, his eyes trained on the way my body bounced and jiggled as he pounded into me, especially my belly. He rubbed his hands up and down my torso, gripping the supple flesh appreciatively. "You are going to look so beautiful when you swell with my child. Seeing this fucking stomach, all round and full of me... I won't be able to keep my hands off of you, tesoro."

This was a side of Terzo I've never seen before. Desperate, greedy, borderline animalistic, like he was addicted to my cunt and was using me as a means to get his fix. He was filthy, starved, and filling my womb with his seed was the only way to satiate his hunger. He thrusts harder, faster, till it's almost too much for either of us to handle. Almost. Terzo has always pleased me so good every time, better than anyone else ever has, but this time was incomparable. I was so embarrassingly wet, creaming on his dick, watching the white foamy mess encapsulate his member below, making a mess of his well-trimmed pubic hair.

My head is spinning, another orgasm brewing within me once again. The coil in my abdomen tightens with every thrust, ready to snap. "Are you ready for Papa to breed you? Are you ready for me to make you a mother? Cum on my cock, cara. Let's cum together." His words are exactly what I need to hear to cause the dam inside me to finally break, indescribable pleasure sparking throughout every nerve ending in my body, forgetting everything I've ever known, nothing remaining in my mind but pure bliss.

He finishes soon after me, a final rut into my tight walls as he spills himself impossibly deep within me. I welcome the comforting warmth of his seed filling me, feeling so close to him in more ways than one. For a moment, we are one, truly one, and there is no moment in history more beautiful to me. Dick softening, he pulls out of me, eliciting one last whine from him. He drops to my side, chest heaving, the both of us feeling boneless and tired.

"You okay?" He murmurs, compassion and concern etched in his voice. I nod, my mind too far gone to speak properly. The only thing I can focus on is the blobs of his spend leaking out of me and dripping down my thighs. He is warm and secure, and I've never felt better or safer than I do right now with him. Of course, I do hope his seed will take root, but the idea of getting to be fucked like this more often makes me hope we will have to keep trying, again and again. I don't ever want to go an evening where I'm not stuffed full.

-

[itsplumwriter]

Worst Nightmare

POV: Bucky has a nightmare he has hurt his entire family, but has no memory of doing so.

A/N: So this was intense... I love that it's a dream but we have y/n's perspective as if it's real. I think this would be Bucky's worst nightmare if he had a family. I can't wait to write a part ii for this! Would you guys like to see that? (:

Warnings: wounds, blood, nightmare, implied children attack

—-

Bucky pulls into the driveway. He can't quite remember the drive home or what he was doing right before he got there, but his mind is fixated on changing out of his dirt-ridden uniform as quickly as possible and eating the spaghetti you promised you’d make him when he came home.

His shoulders relax as he approaches the door, fumbling for his keys.

“I’m home,” he calls out, tossing his keys in the entryway table bowl and dropping his work bag.

The lack of an immediate answer was a little odd. The announcement that he was home usually sent the boys rushing towards him at least.

“Doll?” he calls upstairs. No response.

It was strange, the house being so silent. 

Then he hears a strained whimpering from the kitchen. He bolts towards it.

“Honey?!”

When he rounds the corner, his eyes widen.

You were on the floor, clutching your stomach. Blood everywhere.

Bucky rushes to you. “Y/n!! What happened??”

“Bucky... The kids...” you utter, as he eyes the large gash pooling blood on your abdomen.

“Your stomach...” he utters in horror, unable to focus on anything else.

He grabs the kitchen towel, trying to put pressure on your wound.

“James...” you say, grabbing his hands. “Check the boys... Upstairs...”

He stares at you, his eyes now red. He doesn't want to leave you, but he knows you won’t forgive him if he doesn’t put the kids first.

He secures the towel in place. “Keep the pressure on it.”

He runs up the stairs, two at a time.

He bursts into their room. “Boys!?”

Bucky falls to his knees when he sees what happened to them.

---

You’d been sitting on the kitchen floor, breath hitching, barely hanging on, drifting in and out... but you needed to hear what happened to your kids.

You hear Bucky storm down the stairs. You’re not sure if you’ll be able to speak, but you’ll be able to tell from his face the status of your children.

So when he enters the kitchen and he can’t even look you in the eye, you immediately start crying.

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears burning through. It feels as though your heart’s been ripped out of your chest, worse than any pain from your injuries.

“It’s gonna be okay...” Bucky says. “You hear me?”

Bucky kneels beside you, gripping your shoulders, trying to ground you. You were inconsolable. You couldn’t even catch a breath.

He inspects your wound, eyes widening when he sees the towel hasn’t done anything, completely soaking in blood.

He looks down, trying to think. “I can fix this.”

You shake your head.

Bucky tries to carry you. “Please let me fix this.”

You push him away. You refuse to let him take you to a hospital. You already know it's no use.

Bucky sits beside you, defeated. He rolls his head back, the tears stinging his eyes. “This can’t be happening. Why did this have to happen?”

He buries his head in your neck, crying softly. "I can't lose you too."

You’re really weak, but you manage to rest your head on his shoulder. As soon as you do, his whole body shakes with sorrow.

The two of you sit on the kitchen floor, accepting the reality of it.

Suddenly, he pulls back his tears and takes a deep breath. He takes your hand and squeezes it tight. “Honey, who did this...”

Your eyes widen, shaking your head.

Bucky takes both your hands and puts them in his. “Honey, please. You need to tell me.”

You press your lips together, burning tears streaming down your face.

Bucky narrows his gaze, confused as to why you won’t tell him. “Honey, just tell me.”

You look him in his watery eyes. You hesitate for as long as you can. You weren’t gonna tell him. You told yourself you weren’t gonna tell him. His pleading blue eyes squeeze it out of you.

“You did.”

--- --- ---

Part ii on my Patreon!: https://www.patreon.com/itsplumwriter

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i really hope you guys liked it!! I love u and God bless you, dolls!

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - "Nodology", Part 2

Just a reminder that I'm not stressing too much about this story making sense within the canon plot. Think of canon less like a straight line and more like one of those inkblot pictures in a Rorschach test.

Also, this is a very relationship-focused piece. Politics plays a hand, because how could it not? But I'm not trying to rewrite the whole set of books here and tackle larger issues than the immediate present. The heart of this is Jon and Sansa. Hopefully that answers some of your questions about the larger plotlines or political ramifications of the current setting. (On a side note, I fucking LOVE that you guys are so invested in this AU that you're asking such questions. It's incredibly humbling and encouraging all at once. I just don't have the energy to make it that deep right now, lol.)

Much love. Stay frosty, fam.

Nodology

Chapter Two: The Salt of It (And the Wound)

"The knot fastens ever tighter." - Jon and Sansa. After rescuing her from King's Landing and bringing her to Riverrun, the two try to navigate a love they never intended to start, especially with so many watching eyes.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2

* * *

"How's the shoulder?"

Jon turns from the practice dummy he'd been raging at all morning, his chest heaving, knuckles white where they grip his training sword. His tunic clings to his sweat-dampened skin, his hair pulled back in a knot at the base of his neck.

The Blackfish watches him from his lean against one of the courtyard's pillars, arms crossed loosely over his chest, awaiting an answer to his question.

Jon tries to steady his breathing, lowering the sword in his grip as he turns to the older man. He rolls his shoulder gingerly, a tender ache still lingering from his wound. "Not as much mobility as before, but it's getting there."

Brynden nods, pushing off from his lean and walking toward him. "I hear you wounded it on the road here. With Sansa."

Jon nods quietly, his sword now held limply in his hand, his breathing steadier. He doesn't know what the Blackfish wants to hear, so he says nothing.

Brynden glances at the roughed-up practice dummy beside him, frowning. "That supposed to be Joffrey Baratheon? Or Theon Greyjoy?"

Jon works his jaw, a heavy sigh leaving him. "Both, probably."

He hadn't a person in mind when he entered the training yard earlier that morning. Just a feeling. Just a rage.

The thought of Bran and Rickon's tiny bodies strung up in Winterfell's main courtyard, their flesh burned from them – or maybe flayed – hadn't left him all night. Nor had the thought of Sansa's scar-lined back, or her tremors as she choked out an apology. An apology! For keeping him from rescuing their brothers – keeping him too busy with her, as she said.

But he won't let her take on that kind of guilt. And he won't let himself, either. Because if he does...

If he puts that on his own soul, then there's no going back. There's no climbing out of that hole. And he's no good to anyone at that point. Not to the North, not to Robb. Not to Sansa.

And he can't afford to be useless.

So, he puts that sorrow and bitterness in a box, and sets it aside. Buries it deep. Packs the dirt around it tightly, so it can't crawl back out. He smothers it beneath the earth. And beneath duty.

And then he comes to the training yard every morning and swings and swings and swings until he's breathless. Until there is nothing left to bury. Until it is drained from him completely.

This is how he grieves his family.

Brynden Tully heaves a weighted sigh, eyes still fixed to the dummy. "With the young ones gone, Catelyn is..." He stops, a sound brewing in his throat. He turns back to Jon. "Well, she's a mess."

Jon keeps his silence, his eyes never leaving the Blackfish.

Brynden clears his throat, crossing his arms over his chest once more. "But she'd be truly inconsolable if both her daughters were lost to her, too. And they're not. Arya is somewhere in the Riverlands. And Sansa – Sansa is with her now, here in her family's home, because of you."

Jon's throat tightens, any words failing him. He simply watches Brynden, simply keeps his gaze.

The other man's face hardens somewhat, his jaw squaring. "She won't thank you," he says surely.

Jon feels the lance of it in his chest, his lungs aching at the words. It's not a truth he hadn't known before, but to hear it aloud – to know it so plainly, and from another's mouth –

It hurts more than he thought it would.

Brynden grumbles at Jon's silence, taking a step toward him, his hands falling from their cross over his chest. "You're her husband's bastard, you understand. The one stain upon their marriage. The biggest threat to her children's future and security."

Jon's gaze falls to the floor, fixed on the Blackfish's boots, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth.

He knows this. Has always known this.

A moment of heavy silence passes between them, before the Blackfish plants a hand on Jon's shoulder, and he looks up to meet the warrior's gaze.

"But that is not your failing. It's Ned Stark's."

Jon blinks up at him, his teeth clenching at the words.

"And she is grateful, son. More grateful than you could ever understand. Though she may never be able to voice it, I know this in my bones. I know this better than anything."

Jon's lips part, a shallow breath stealing out between them.

"You saved her child, Jon Snow. She will never forget that. Nor will I." His hand slips from Jon's shoulder, a last, solitary look passing between them, before he's turning from him, walking back the way he came.

Jon is overcome suddenly, the words bubbling up inside him, until they make it to air. "Everything left that I care about in this world is here," he calls out to his back, stopping him.

Brynden turns to look at him over his shoulder.

Jon heaves a steadying breath, his grip tightening over his sword. He levels the Blackfish with a determined look. "I'm not going anywhere," he assures him, the words equally needful and confident.

The faint edge of a smile curls at the corner of Brynden's lip, before he offers a silent nod and turns back to leave.

Jon stands in the training yard for several long moments, just breathing.

No, he's not going anywhere.

* * *

When Sansa answers the knock on her chamber door, she doesn't expect it to be Robb. He gives her a stilted smile and a nod in greeting. "Sansa," he says.

She stands with her hand still on the door, blinking quietly at him. "Your Grace," she says finally.

Robb briefly frowns at the formality of the address, but then he sweeps his hand out toward the hallway. "Walk with me, please."

Sansa steps out of her chamber at the invitation, taking his arm obediently.

They make it all the way to the gardens before either of them speak, and Sansa's anxiety is practically thrumming beneath her skin.

Robb clears his throat.

The sound is jarring after so many minutes of silence and her attention swings sharply to him, her fingers clenching over his arm.

"We haven't... well, we haven't really spoken much since your return," he begins.

Sansa watches him quietly, content to let him find his way through the words.

(She remembers the warmth of his chest as he'd carried her back inside the keep the other day, after her grief had overtaken her on the riverbank.)

Robb stops their stroll, his eyes focused on some unnamable flower bush, his brow furrowed in thought.

Sansa sets her other hand along his arm now as well – tender and encouraging. "No, we haven't," she says softly.

He glances up at her. "It's my fault, isn't it?"

Sansa sighs, her gaze drifting away. "It's not about fault."

"Except it is." Robb turns to look at her more fully. "You won't say it, but it is."

Sansa presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, not meeting his eyes.

Robb wipes a hand down his mouth, a heavy breath leaving him. "You won't admit to the resentment my inaction has stirred in you."

Sansa meets his gaze again. "What do you want me to say, Robb?"

He frowns again, a quiver arching through his brow. "I don't know."

It's the truth, at least, it must be. This, she's sure of. Because she doesn't know what she wants to say either.

She's gone over it in her head a thousand times and yet, the words still never seem quite right.

She loves her brother. She needs her brother. She misses her brother.

But there's a bitterness now that sits sour in her gut, and she doesn't know how to calm it. She doesn't know how to not hurt when she looks at him.

"I think I... I never asked you," he begins again, the words tight in his throat, "because... I couldn't." Robb licks his lips, his eyes hesitant on hers. "I couldn't ask you what they'd done to you because then... then it meant I let it happen."

Sansa pulls a shallow breath through her teeth, the remembrance bright and sharp behind her eyes – the lash, and the gauntleted hand, and the terrible, terrible sound of her own cries.

(Her only companion, most days.)

Robb settles a hand over hers along his arm. "But I shouldn't have let that stop me. I should have – I should have come to you, and talked to you, and... and given you comfort."

Sansa feels wetness dotting her eyes.

"I didn't," he says tightly, his gaze falling to his feet. "And after leaving you to the Lannisters..." He chuckles darkly, his hand slipping from hers to press over his eyes. "I'm not surprised that you hate me, Sansa."

"I don't hate you," she says immediately, the words not even a question.

Robb glances back up at her, his hand falling from his face.

There's no doubt in her at the statement. There's bitterness, yes. There's the sting of abandonment. There's disappointment. The kind that leaves you gazing up at the ceiling most nights, sleepless and aching.

But not hate.

Never hate.

Not for him.

The tears are hot on her lids now, and she reaches up to brush at them. "Come," she urges him, leading them to a bench in the garden. "Sit with me, and I'll... I'll tell you. I'll tell you all that you couldn't ask."

And she does. She tells him of the beatings and the humiliation she suffered before the court. She tells him of her ripped dresses and her bruised body, and her silent, unanswered tears. She tells him of dinners spent at the receiving end of Cersei's constant insults and taunts. She tells him of the endless threats against his and their mother's lives if she didn't keep her place. She tells him of Joffrey's sinister laughter at every slap she received. She tells him of Tyrion's wandering eye and the way he'd touched her on their wedding night. She tells him of her captor husband's overtures dressed up in the guise of kindness. She tells him of the jeers and the scars and the ever-present threat of death hanging over her head. And she tells him of the loneliness.

The nauseating, bone-deep, lung-scraping loneliness.

(She tells him of how she thought once to fling herself from the terrace. To end it then and there.)

"And the one thought – the only thing that kept me breathing, was knowing my family would come for me," she gets out raggedly, the breath raking from her, the sob clenching behind her teeth. She blinks up at him through tears.

He's staring at their joined hands resting over her knee, his jaw clenched, his mouth a tight line.

She takes a shaky breath in, her voice breaking as she tells him, "But you didn't."

Robb looks up at her, pain etching across his face. "Sansa..." His voice catches, his throat flexing tightly.

"You didn't come for me, Robb," she cries out, the sob breaking free. She reaches a hand to her mouth, tries to stifle the wave of anguish clawing up her throat. She blinks back the hot tears, her lungs clenching in her chest. "And I needed you to. I needed you to come for me – just once." She squeezes her eyes closed, her hand pressed over her mouth, muffling the cries as she breathes deep. In and out. In and out.

"Every time – a thousand times – I'd come for you."

In the end, she hadn't been left to that hell. But it wasn't the brother she'd prayed for that rescued her.

She wanted Robb. But she had needed Jon. She understands this now.

Even when it hurts no less.

Robb releases her hands to reach up and cup her face. "I'm so sorry, Sansa. I'm so sorry you ever had to endure that."

She tries to rein in her breathing, her hand slipping from her mouth, her sniffles growing quieter as she watches him, the warmth of his palms cradling her cheeks.

"I'm sorry I left you there. That wasn't... that wasn't kingly of me." And then he stops, his brow furrowing, a look of regret passing over his features at the word choice. He hangs his head, his hands slipping from her face as he sighs heavily. "That wasn't... good of me," he corrects.

Sansa blinks at him, at the way his shoulders slump – at the terrible, unfathomable weight he carries across them.

It's unbearable to see him like this. To see her big brother so small, so crushed beneath duty, so at odds with love.

And it's unbearable to be the thing that weighs on him so.

Sansa pulls a trembling breath through her lungs, a hand going to wipe at her cheeks. She blinks back the salt-sting of tears. "Robb," she murmurs, reaching for his hands again.

"I've already begun the process of annulling your marriage," he tells her.

Sansa stills, her mouth tipping open, her hands trembling as they grip his.

Robb finally meets her gaze, his thumb arching over the taut skin of her knuckles. "Jon is right. You're not a Lannister bride. You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell. And after my unborn child, you're the heir to the North."

Her lip quakes, the breath tight in her chest. She thinks of Bran and Rickon. She thinks of their poor, mangled bodies. She thinks of never again smelling their hair or hearing their laughs or singing them to sleep.

And she knows he's thinking of them, too. She knows it's the loss of them that brings him to her door.

(No more scars, she'd promised herself once, and perhaps, it's the kind of promise Robb needs as well.)

He clutches her hands in his, his jaw tightening. "I won't forget it again," he tells her.

She wants to believe him.

She wants it dearly.

So, she believes.

* * *

"You spoke to Robb," Jon says quietly at her side, walking her to her chambers after she begged away from dinner with a headache, and Robb had asked him to escort her back, before returning to his conversation with Edmure.

Sansa keeps her arm linked with Jon's, orange light flickering over her face as they pass the torches in their sconces along the wall.

"Yes," she answers, not expanding further.

They each stay quiet past that, their steps echoing along the stone as they walk.

Jon looks at her beside him. "He was distressed about what you told him. About your time in King's Landing."

"I'm sure he was." There's a tenderness to her voice now, where once there was resentment.

Jon frowns at her, stopping them not far from her door. "Sansa, look at me."

She does, and it makes his chest ache.

He reaches up to cup her cheek. "What is it?" he asks her gently.

She pulls her lip between her teeth, a furrow to her brow. She glances down the hall to make sure no one is witness, and then she tugs him after her into her chambers, closing the door behind them. She turns to face him fully now, taking his hands in hers. "My marriage to Tyrion is to be annulled."

Jon lets out a short breath at the man's mention, a curl to his lip. "As it should be."

"Yes, but..."

Jon blinks at her. "You don't want to remain married to him." He meant it to come out as a question, considering her hesitance on the subject, but he knows her well enough now to know it shouldn't even be a question.

"Of course, I don't," she answers him on a sigh. "That's not what worries me."

Jon unlinks his hands to grasp at her arms instead, rubbing up and down slowly, comfortingly. "Then what is it?"

"I'll be... eligible again – to cement any other alliance through marriage."

Jon's eyes narrow on her, his nostrils flaring. "I won't let it happen."

Sansa purses her lips. "It doesn't work like that, Jon. You won't have a say."

"Robb won't let it happen," he tries to reassure her, his hands sliding down her arms to settle along her hips now, keeping her anchored to him. "Not after we lost Bran and Rickon." The words make his jaw ache, the names of their siblings lodging in his throat like tar. He clears his throat, shakes away the grief.

(Bury it deep. Put it away. Be useful, be present.)

"Not after... after everything you endured in King's Landing. He won't do that. I promise you."

Sansa's mouth presses into a thin line, her eyes shifting between his. "I hope you're right."

"I am," he assures her, leaning in to press a swift kiss along her lips. "You won't ever be a pawn in someone's game again, I swear." His fingers curl around her hips – steady and sure.

She blinks up at him, her eyes roving his face in quiet contemplation.

He opens his mouth to question her but then she links her arms around his neck, pressing her chest to his. "I don't think I could ever be anyone's again," she whispers at his mouth. "Anyone's but yours," she tells him.

Jon sucks a breath through his lips, his chest rising and falling steadily, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "Sansa," he begins, before he clears his throat, licking his lips. "I should go."

It isn't half as firm as he means it to sound.

Her nails scrape the nape of his neck, slinking into his hair, and it drags his attention back to her gaze. Her eyes are dark in the candlelight, a sheen of wetness over them. "Could you do it? Could you let another man take me to wife?" There's a thread of desperation in her voice that scares him.

Jon braces his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling in the scarce space between them. He slips a hand up her back, bracing against her spine as he holds her closer. "You know I can't," he murmurs at her mouth, the closeness of her making him light-headed.

She lets out a ragged breath against him, her eyes slipping shut, her arms tightening around his neck. "Could you let another man hold me like this? Touch me? Kiss me?" Her voice breaks, her chest heaving now, the threat of tears lining her words. "Could you – "

He doesn't let her finish the question, because his answer would be the same regardless.

Jon kisses her hard, almost angrily, pressing into her so forcefully that she arches back beneath his hands, bending to his need. He opens her mouth with a fervent tongue, tasting her sigh with his own answering groan, his hands bracing her to his chest, keeping her fixed to him, unrelenting.

Ever since that night in his chamber, when she'd approached him after the news of Bran and Rickon – ever since she offered that ridiculous apology, ever since he'd silenced her needless guilt with his desperate mouth –

His desire for her has grown nearly unmanageable.

She's all that occupies his thoughts. When he wakes and when he lays his head to sleep. When he meets with Robb's war council, and when he trains in the yard, and when he breaks his fast with his unwitting family.

When he takes himself in hand – urgently and nightly.

She's all he thinks about these days. Her fine-boned hands, and her perfect, pink mouth, and the sweep of her hair over her neck, and the dip of her collar bones, and the fine arch of her wrist, and her lingering stares, and the open neck of her dress, and her smiles and her touches and her breathy sighs, the shape of her waist beneath his hands, and her chest heaving against his, and the way she arches into him so sweetly, the way she curls her hands into his hair, the way she sucks on his tongue when he kisses her, and the scent of her, the taste, the taste, the taste –

He's nearly delirious in his want.

Jon breaks from her, panting, one hand still digging into her hip, the other braced between her shoulder blades, the material of her dress bunched in his fist as he holds her to him. "The thought alone," he growls out, nipping at her lips – that heady desire flooding him, sending him reeling. "The thought alone drives me mad," he finishes tightly, taking her mouth again, reveling in the low moan that carries up her throat.

Sansa sighs breathlessly against his mouth when they break apart, her hands tightening in his hair. "I'm scared," she murmurs at his lips, eyes still wet, surging forward to kiss him again.

Jon groans at her urgency, his hand sliding over her shoulder to brace at her neck, his thumb pressed to the underside of her jaw, his breath flooding her mouth as she whimpers beneath him.

"Sansa," he bites out when he gasps for air.

She grabs at his hand still fixed to her hip, drags it up to her chest, presses his palm over her breast, curling his fingers beneath hers in the collar of her dress.

Jon bucks against her instinctively, the breath raking from him, his pants hot against her mouth. He palms at her breast immediately, never even questioning the motion, his growing hardness digging into her thigh as he walks her back, until she hits the bed and falls over, taking him with her.

"Jon," she moans out, hands raking over his back, drawing him into her, before wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and dragging his mouth back to hers.

Jon braces his weight above her, his hips digging into hers, his hand gripping her breast almost painfully, his other dug into her hair, his elbow planted along the bed to steady him. He tugs at her dress, dragging the material over her breast impatiently, groaning into her mouth as he rolls his hips into hers, unable to stop himself, unable to contain the heat spreading through his gut.

Sansa drags a knee up along his side, her skirts pulling uncomfortably along her thigh.

Jon breaks from her, dragging his hand from her hair to bunch along the skirts at her thigh instead, rucking them up as he buries his face in the crook of her shoulder, his lips planting along her pale throat. "Gods, Sansa, you feel so good," he groans out, his growl lost in her hair.

Sansa grips at his head, fingers tangled in his curls. "I want it to be you," she gasps at his ear.

Jon stills, blinking away the haze of desire beneath a singular moment of clarity.

He closes his eyes at her words, his chest heaving against hers, his hand gripping at her thigh hard enough to leave bruises, but he won't go further, won't drag her skirts up higher, won't snake his hand up to her smallclothes and tear them away, won't sink his fingers into her wet, waiting cunt like he longs to, like he's aching to.

"Sansa," he warns her, his teeth at her throat, his other hand still firm at her breast, fingers still curved over the collar of her dress, dragged partially down her chest, her laces taut at the seams.

His knuckles are white beneath the force of his struggling willpower.

"I need it to be you," she whines at his ear.

Jon pulls back just enough to look at her, his face pained. "Sansa, I – I can't..." The realization of what he's only moments away from doing to her hits him like a gale of wind from atop the Wall.

And yet he doesn't pull his touch away, doesn't relinquish his hold of her.

She blinks the wetness back from her eyes, her fingers curling tighter along the back of his neck. "Jon, I won't go to anyone else. I can't. Not after – " She stops, swallows tightly. Her eyes shift back and forth between his. "I can't."

Jon drops his forehead to hers, a ragged sigh leaving him. He drags his hands from her breast and thigh, cradling her face instead, elbows keeping him braced above her on the bed. "I know," he murmurs in frustration, his eyes slipping closed at her pained sob.

It was easy, at the start. Easy to pretend that their secret kisses and hidden glances were a game. It was easy to pretend it could never end.

But it isn't easy anymore.

Not when he wants what he wants. Not when he knows there is no stopping it, even when he knows it's wrong.

He's not ever going to fall out of love with Sansa Stark, he knows this now.

And that's the rub. That's the salt of it.

He's just a bastard boy in love with his sister.

And such a tale never ended in anything but blood and heartache.

Jon brushes a thumb across her soft cheek, his mouth a trembling line. "Sansa, listen to me. What we're doing – "

A sharp knock sounds at the door.

Sansa's eyes go wide and Jon nearly throws himself from her, stumbling away from the bed on a sharp intake of breath.

Sansa rises to her elbows, mouth parted in surprise.

"Sansa, it's me," her mother says from the other side of the door.

The panic rises in Jon's throat, and he looks around the room quickly, bounding as quietly as he can behind her armoire, pressing his back up against the wood as Sansa pushes from the bed, smoothing down her skirts and her hair, clearing her throat.

"Just a moment, Mother," she calls out, voice wavering somewhat.

Jon curses beneath his breath, glancing around the armoire one last time to catch Sansa's identically frantic eyes, before he turns away, closing his eyes on a tight inhale, the breath halted in his chest.

He hears the door unlatch a moment later, but no footsteps carrying into the room.

"Yes, Mother?" Sansa asks, clearly keeping her from entering by staying in the threshold.

"I came to check on you. Has your headache worsened?"

Jon works his jaw, adjusting his breeches as gently and quietly as he can over his still-throbbing erection, wincing slightly at the discomfort.

"I'll be fine with rest, not to worry," Sansa placates her mother.

A moment of silence passes, before Catelyn's voice comes from the door again, a lance of worry threading through her words. "You're flushed, dear girl. Are you unwell? Should I call the maester?"

Jon bites his lip, eyes turned skyward, watching the flickering shadows from the candlelight cast about the ceiling. His heart hammers in his chest.

"No, no, don't trouble yourself, Mother." Sansa's voice is just a touch breathless, just enough to have Jon's stomach sinking.

"Sansa, you're clearly – "

"It's just a chill. Nothing a good night's rest won't fix, I promise," Sansa assures her, voice tight. "In fact, I should finish readying for bed. Goodnight, Mother."

The slight creak of the door sounds before it stops abruptly, and Jon imagines Lady Catelyn's hand on the door, halting it, that familiar frown gracing her features.

"You're certain?"

Jon's stomach twists at the concern in her tone, remembering that this is a woman who just lost her two youngest boys.

The grief is still ripe in her voice.

It makes the bile rise at the back of Jon's throat, knowing how he'd been dishonoring her sweet, highborn daughter only moments ago, and in her own childhood home, no less. How he'd been touching her like no brother had a right to touch their sister. How he craved the feel of her still, even now.

The guilt is dizzying, enough to calm any remaining desire in him.

Sansa's voice is softer this time, a gentleness to it that tells Jon she hears the grief in Lady Stark's voice just as loudly. "I'm certain. But thank you for checking on me, Mother."

"Alright, then," Catelyn answers reluctantly, a sigh at the end of her words.

Jon imagines the brush of her hand against her daughter's cheek – the same cheek he'd held in his own sinful touch.

Gods, if she only knew how he's already shamed her daughter, how near he'd been to shaming her further –

She'd kill him where he stood.

Jon bunches his hands into fists, his head braced back against the wood of the armoire, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth in his taut silence.

"Come to me anytime you need."

"I will, Mother."

"Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

The door shuts with a hollow clang.

Jon breathes in the silence that follows, his chest rising and falling steadily. His hands flex, fists bunching and unbunching at his sides. His lungs ache.

"Jon?" The whisper is tentative as it leaves her.

Jon scrubs his hands over his face.

What are they doing? What are they doing?

"Jon."

He steps from around the armoire, a shadow falling over his face as he meets her gaze.

She stands in the middle of the room, her fingers worrying themselves. She opens her mouth, closes it. "I..."

Jon sighs, his jaw tightening.

That bile – it stains the back of his tongue.

Sansa looks to the floor.

His own shame keeps him rooted, his feet heavy where they stand.

"You should wait a while... before you go," she says tentatively. "To be sure."

Jon closes his eyes, a heavy breath leaving him. "Aye."

When he opens his eyes, she's looking at him again, but she keeps her distance – keeps this distance between them.

He stays planted where he stands. She stays with her hands wringing themselves before her.

He looks at her.

She looks at him.

No, there is no falling out of love with Sansa Stark.

And that's the salt of it.

(He is the wound.)

* * *

"Read it again," Catelyn demands in a tight voice.

Robb sighs as he drops the missive from the Freys to the tabletop between them. "Mother..."

"Read it again," she repeats, her voice shaking.

Sansa stands rigid beside her mother, her eyes fixed to the unfurled scroll atop the table. She can feel Jon's gaze upon her.

"Seven hells," Edmure curses, a hand wiping over his mouth as he stalks from the war table, and then stalks back. "Are you actually considering this?" His gaze shifts heatedly to Robb.

Brynden puts a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Calm yourself, Edmure."

"And how am I supposed to calm myself? They demand a marriage between myself and a Frey girl as reparations for Robb's – " Edmure bites his tongue, a sharp glance sent around the table, before he meets the Blackfish's eyes once more. "His indiscretion," he finishes tightly.

Jeyne settles a hand low on her swollen stomach, her gaze flitting quietly to the floor.

"Edmure," Brynden censures in a low voice, squeezing his nephew's shoulder meaningfully.

"And their other demand?" Catelyn bites out, her chest rising with her indignation. "Are we going to simply ignore that?" she asks shrilly.

Sansa's mind goes blank, her breaths coming shallow and short. Everything is static in her mind, her eyes blinking furiously as she tries to process the contents of the letter. Her mouth parts, but no words follow. She closes her mouth tightly, her throat flexing. Her eyes water without her bidding.

Robb looks at her, leaning over to brace his hands along the table. "Sansa."

She blinks up at him.

"Tell them no," Jon says lowly from across the table, his words cutting through the fog in her mind.

Sansa sucks a sharp breath through her teeth.

In the spirit of common goals and renewing our alliance, His Grace, King Robb of House Stark, is asked to grant the marriages of Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun to a Frey daughter of our choosing, and Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell to Lord Perwyn of House Frey.

Sansa starts to shake.

"How do they even know you've written to the High Septon of Sansa's annulment?" Catelyn asks sharply, her eyes shifting around the table to meet every person present.

"Tell them no," Jon growls again, his hands bunching into fists at his sides.

Sansa's chest feels tight.

"And if His Grace rejects another marriage alliance? What then?" Brynden asks gruffly, his hand slipping from Edmure's shoulder.

"No one told him to get a whelp on the girl!" Edmure cries.

"Uncle," Robb bites out, his anger flashing briefly across his eyes, his hand going to Jeyne's elbow at his side. "You will address my queen with the proper respect she deserves."

Catelyn purses her mouth, collecting herself with her hands smoothed over her skirts. "You're not helping, brother," she says tightly.

Edmure bites his tongue, inclining his head in quiet acquiescence, his anxious energy thrumming throughout his body.

Sansa feels sick.

"Why are we even discussing this?" Jon nearly bellows, drawing everyone's attention then. "Tell them no," he demands for the last time.

Robb squares his jaw. "It's not that simple."

Sansa's eyes flutter shut, her lip beginning to tremble.

"Robb, we just got her back," Catelyn begs.

"I know!" Robb huffs, a hand held to the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to send Sansa away either but – "

"Is no one concerned about my marriage?" Edmure interrupts, frazzled at the inattention to his situation, eyes glancing about the room.

"Edmure, please," Catelyn moans, turning a pained look his way.

He silences at his sister's distress, his mouth tipping into a frown.

Brynden crosses his arms as he considers the missive laying innocently atop the table. "Walder Frey is a sorry excuse for a man, and a scheming, self-serving mongrel, but you'll need his family's support if you want to meet the Lannisters south of the Neck, especially since you've sent forces back north to retake Winterfell."

A sound catches in Catelyn's throat at the reminder of the recent loss.

"Then we do it another way," Jon grits out.

"And if there is no other way?" Robb asks sharply, his gaze turned toward Jon. They stare each other down for several moments, before Jeyne rests her hand along Robb's arm and he turns from his half-brother, running a hand through his hair roughly.

Sansa blows a slow, shallow breath through her lips, eyes shifting back open to watch the room. Her gut twists painfully when her eyes fall on Robb.

Brynden shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "We can consider other options, Your Grace, but they'll want an answer soon."

"I'll need to speak with the other lords," Robb says on a defeated sigh.

"This is a family matter," Catelyn says, her voice less firm than she'd begun the meeting with.

"It is not," Robb says surely, a dark look sent her way. His shoulders sag, his frown pinching tight. "It is a Northern matter, and thus requires careful deliberation."

A wave of nausea overtakes Sansa.

Jon steps toward his brother. "Robb, you can't – "

"You're dismissed." He glances around the room, his gaze softening on Sansa when he makes his way to her. "All of you," he says quietly, turning away from her swiftly. Jeyne reaches for his hand then, looking up into his face with reassurance.

Sansa feels the bile rising instantly. She glances to Jon and finds him staring at her, his jaw locked in his ire, his whole bearing stiff and rigid. She can see the whites of his knuckles from across the table.

"Come," Catelyn says, ushering her gently from the room.

She follows her mother's direction mindlessly, her limbs numb.

Sansa finds herself standing in the courtyard after many minutes, her mother's hand on her arm as she speaks in quiet tones to her.

She doesn't recognize the words.

"I need..." Sansa begins, her voice a croak, and she licks her lips, glances over to meet her mother's gaze. "I need some air. Please excuse me." She gathers her skirts in her hands and walks away.

She finds herself at the edge of the riverbank many minutes later, past the gate and past the bridge and past the suffocating air that had lodged in her throat ever since Robb read Walder Frey's letter aloud.

She sucks deep gulps of air into her lungs, eyes raking over the river, blinking against the sun. Her hands bunch in her skirts. Her chin rises, her shoulders pulling taut.

And then she bends over and retches. It empties from her instantly – all the rage and despair and helplessness. Her sick hits the green riverbank and her knees buckle on reflex, her hand going out to a nearby branch to catch herself, a cough raking up her throat, the blood bursting red across her cheeks from the force of it. When she's finished, she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, eyes wet as she grips the tree beside her.

She steadies herself, breathes deep, wipes her hand along her skirt.

I want it to be you, she'd told him.

Tears bead at the corners of her eyes, her breath hitched on a sob.

It doesn't really seem to matter anymore.

* * *

"How can you even consider it? You know what she went through," Jon growls out, cornering Robb when his meeting with the lords is ended.

Robb stops short as he exits the chamber, eyeing Jon. "Have you been waiting here the whole time?"

"Of course," he bites out.

Robb frowns, before pushing past him toward his own chambers. Jon follows without thought.

"Jon, believe me, I'm the last person that wants to put Sansa through another traumatizing marriage," he huffs out, never slowing.

Jon keeps his pace, stalking the corridor alongside him. "Then you should be telling that to the Freys."

"And what would you have me tell the Northern lords, hmm?"

"That our sister is not a bargaining chip," he growls out.

Robb shoots a dark look his way. "Are you saying that's how I'm treating her?"

"Aren't you?"

Robb stops short, turning swiftly to Jon, his nostrils flaring. "I never said I'd agree to the Freys' terms." His voice is clipped, but there's a thunder beneath it that stops Jon in his tracks.

He stares at his brother, his king, trying to will his anger down, but his chest is heaving with it, his throat rife with it.

He is no help to Sansa like this – antagonizing their brother further.

Jon sets his jaw, his gaze flicking low in deference, not meeting Robb's eyes as he steadies his anxious breathing. "Then what are you saying, Your Grace?" he gets out roughly, swallowing back the ire, leaving only civility in his tone.

Robb sighs, taking a moment to consider, and then he rests a hand on Jon's shoulder.

It makes him look up at his brother again.

Robb offers him a shared look of frustration, his brows furrowed over his Tully blue eyes. "I understand your resistance to the idea. But you cannot ask me to refuse their terms if you won't even offer an alternative," he says dismally.

Jon nods, his throat tight. "You're right, of course," he says hoarsely.

It pains him to admit it.

His anger had been instant, thoughtless. His only concern had been Sansa – is Sansa. But this is not how she needs him – raging and demanding and reckless.

He clears his throat, lifting his head to meet Robb's gaze fully. "Have the lords any suggestions?"

Robb's face darkens, his hand dropping from Jon's shoulder. "Most of them don't see any reason not to agree."

"Robb," Jon growls.

"I know, I know," Robb answers swiftly, turning to walk back down the corridor.

Jon follows suit, quiet for many moments, before he asks him, "What do you plan to do?"

"I'll speak with Mother. She may have some ideas."

Jon remembers coming upon Lady Stark only moments before she'd attempted to free Jaime Lannister all those months ago. He remembers how his rescue of Sansa began in the first place.

No, Lady Stark would not give her daughter up for anything. She'd choose treason first.

(And almost did.)

He doesn't know whether to be relieved or not at Robb's going to her for advice. But at least, it means that Robb is searching for a way out.

It will have to be enough.

They stop at Robb's chambers. He gives him a nod of farewell, but Jon grabs for his elbow and stops him, his touch uneasy.

Robb glances down at the hand on his arm, and then back up into Jon's face. "What is it?"

"Why won't you tell Sansa that you're trying to find another way?"

Robb quiets a moment, his mouth tipping into a frown. He looks down the empty corridor, his throat flexing as he swallows. "I don't... I don't want to give her false hope." He looks back at Jon. "If there is no other way."

Jon releases Robb's elbow, a single tight breath filling his lungs. He shakes his head, his voice stricken in his throat. "Robb, we can't –"

"Sansa knows her duty," Robb says surely, his eyes betraying his apprehension. "When push comes to shove..." He clears his throat, blinks away the disquiet. "As the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark, Sansa knows what may be asked of her."

Jon bites his cheek, that simmering rage curling in his gut again. "And a bastard wouldn't understand that, is that it?"

Robb huffs. "I never said that."

"Well, I'll tell you what I do know," Jon grinds out, the words a struggle as he steps toward him, his own distress bubbling up his throat. "I know the sound of her cries, brother, and I know the shape of her scars, and I know what nightmares she suffers from in the night because I was there, Robb. I was fucking there – when she asked if you were the one who sent me, if you were the one who came to her rescue. I was there when she finally broke down, when the weight of King's Landing finally fell from her shoulders and she was free, she was free, Robb, and still – still – more wounded than I'd ever seen her. Because she needed us. She needed her family. And we weren't there. So, I can't –" He stops, his chest heaving with it, his voice breaking as he corrects himself, tries to steady the throbbing between his ribs. "We can't abandon her again."

Robb stares at him, his brow furrowed sharply down, his mouth a thin, tight line. "Jon."

"She – she needs us to put her first this time." He pulls a heavy breath through his lungs.

Robb reaches out and plants both hands along Jon's shoulders. "You know, that as king, I could never simply put her first, Jon," he says painfully.

Jon drops his head, blinking away the wetness at the corners of his eyes. His skull aches from clenching his teeth.

"You know that," Robb murmurs, a squeeze to his shoulders.

"Aye," Jon croaks out, looking back up again.

(The salt of it.)

Helplessness tears at his gut.

"But I will do my best," Robb assures him, though it rings hollow now. "That's all I can promise."

Jon nods wordlessly, working his jaw.

Robb gives him one last squeeze along his shoulder, before turning from him and entering his chambers.

Jon is left to watch the closed door, the following silence blaring in the empty hall.

* * *

Many days pass, and Sansa prays. She eats, and she sleeps, and she takes turns in the garden. She sits and embroiders with her mother. She takes tea with Jeyne.

And she prays.

Robb hasn't spoken to her since the reading of Walder Frey's letter. She knows he is struggling to find an answer that may suit them all. But she's afraid there isn't one.

It's what brings her to the Sept this night, long after everyone is asleep, a robe hastily thrown over her shift in her restlessness. She lights a candle and watches the wax slip down the pillar, her hands folded before her.

And she prays.

But gods, she doesn't even know what for anymore.

"Sansa?"

His voice should be soothing but it's only a wretched reminder now.

Sansa plasters a faint smile along her lips when she turns to meet Jon's gaze over her shoulder.

He closes the door behind him, his face pained as he watches her where she kneels. He makes his way to her slowly.

"I couldn't sleep," she says in answer to his unvoiced question, rising and brushing the dirt from her knees.

"Neither could I," he tells her.

Their stolen kisses have ceased since the letter, and she doesn't precisely know why. Or maybe she does.

She can't seem to bring herself to be anything other than cordial to him these days.

(Anything more and she thinks she might break.)

But oh, how she misses him.

Her traitorous heart yearns for him even now, even when she is trying to teach herself to live without him.

(Even when she is failing.)

"I didn't mean to... to interrupt your prayers," he says finally, a hand going to the back of his neck and rubbing awkwardly.

Sansa looks up into the stone face of the Mother. "It's no matter." She sighs, glancing back down to him. "I don't think they were heard, anyway." She presses a nervous thumb into her opposite palm.

"Oh, Sansa." He steps toward her, his hands lighting upon her arms. "Why have you... why don't you talk to me about it?"

"And what is there to say?"

He swallows tightly, looking away a moment, before turning back. "I just want to – I don't know, to... to comfort you, somehow, but I just – I don't know how."

Sansa softens at his anguish, stepping into him to place her hands upon his chest. "I know."

"Tell me what you want,"

She shakes her head.

"Tell me and I'll do it."

"I know you will, but it's too late."

Jon frowns at her words, his hands tightening over her arms. "Please don't say that."

"I suppose the only thing to save me know is if the High Septon rejects my annulment." She chuckles darkly at the thought. "I can't be bartered for a marriage alliance if I'm still married, can I?"

"Don't say that," he grinds out, leaning toward her, closing the space between them with his lips pressed to her forehead.

That dark chuckle returns, though it's tinged with desperation now – a reckless sorrow. "It's true, though," she murmurs, closing her eyes on a sigh and leaning into him.

"We'll run away," he says against her temple.

She actually laughs this time, pulling back to look at him. "Run away?"

"Aye," he swears, eyes fervent on hers. He releases her arms to cup her face instead. "Just like you said we should, the morning before we made it to Riverrun. You knew it then. You told me then. That this would happen. And I – I didn't think – " He stops, swallowing thickly. He squares his jaw, his thumbs running tenderly over her cheeks. He sighs, and it seems to take all of him, as he hangs his head, words choked back. "Sansa, I didn't..."

Her lungs ache on the sob she's bottling up, her hands going around his wrists as he holds her. Tears prick the corners of her eyes.

She thinks back to their journey here – riding across green fields in his arms, the warmth of him beside her as they slept, splashing in the river as they fished. She thinks of peace and safety and joy. She thinks of things she only knows from songs. Things she used to dream of and hadn't even known how close they were.

But then she thinks of her mother's embrace, and Robb's tired shoulders, and Arya all alone in the wilderness.

She thinks of Edmure and Brynden and the home they've made for her here.

She thinks of Bran and Rickon.

She thinks of her lord father and how she doesn't even remember the last words she shared with him.

Sansa sucks a trembling breath through her lips, hands gripping his wrists needfully. "Do you regret it? Not running away then?" she manages through quaking breaths.

Jon lifts his head to look at her, the answer splashed across his face in ruin.

And oh, how it cuts.

"Aye," he croaks out, a sheen of wetness over his eyes. "I regret it." And then he bares his teeth, his brow furrowing, a wretched groan leaving him as the tears gather in his eyes, and he shakes his head, the remorse plain upon his face. "I truly, truly regret it now."

She smothers the sob along her tongue, releasing his wrists to cup his face now, pressing into him so that their chests are but a whisper apart. "Don't," she tells him, her breath painting his lips.

His eyes flick between hers, confused.

"You did the right thing, by bringing me back."

"Sansa – "

"I needed my family. And they needed me."

Jon's hands drift down to her neck, his chest rising and falling with his shallow breaths, the words lodged in his throat as he watches her.

"You should never regret bringing me back to them," she urges with a confidence that surprises her.

Yes, she would have run away with him. Yes, she would have been free to love him then. But it would be the only freedom she'd know in a life of chains. And she would grow to resent him for it. She would grow to resent herself.

There are no good choices. Only impossible ones.

"I'm sorry," he sobs at her lips.

Her eyes flutter closed, an exhaustion filling her that seems endless and endless and endless. "I'm so tired, Jon," she breathes into him, and then he's kissing her, and she wraps her arms around his neck, and thinks of the candle she lit. She thinks of the lone flame, and the slow burning. She thinks of the afterimage it leaves in the dark, when it's inevitably snuffed.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles against her lips, one hand dug into her hair, the other braced along her back.

She swallows up his sobs, and floods his mouth with her own, her hands grasping and needful and aimless.

Just the feel of him. Just the feel of him is enough in this moment.

Jon presses her back until she hits the wall with a low thud, the jostle breaking their mouths apart momentarily.

"I'm sorry," he pants into her mouth again.

Sansa digs her nails into the nape of his neck. "I know," she gasps along his tongue, trying not to break.

He fumbles for the tie on her robe and she helps him, tearing the material from her shoulders so only her shift remains. His hands are everywhere – rucking up her shift and dragging her mouth back to his by the back of her neck. His teeth sink into her bottom lip and she moans, her hands fisting in the thin material of his tunic, tugging at it impatiently as he grabs for one of her exposed thighs, hefting it up as he braces his hips to hers, the length of him hard and pressed to her center.

Sansa gasps, gripping his shoulders, tearing her mouth from his to press her head back against the stone wall, her lip caught between her teeth. "Jon," she whimpers, rolling her hips to meet his.

He pants into her neck, nipping slightly, laving his tongue over her pulse, his hand dragging her thigh higher up his hip, fingers digging into her flesh as he bucks into her, his breeches and her smallclothes the only thing separating them now.

"I'm sorry," he groans into her neck, over and over.

Sansa sobs at the words, lost to him. So lost she never hears the door as it creaks open.

So lost she doesn't even recognize the gaze she meets across the room when she opens her eyes.

Like looking into a mirror. That Tully blue.

Sansa stills at the sudden realization, eyes blown wide.

The heat of Jon's mouth is still at her throat when she finds her voice.

"Robb," she chokes out, a new anguish blanketing her tongue.

This is the salt of it.

(And they are the wound.)

[peaches2217]

Peach is crying again.

The panic that might normally strike Mario at such a sight is nowhere to be found, because this has been happening a lot lately; she gets misty-eyed over just about anything, a stark contrast to her usual fortitude in the face of great emotion. She's craving cake but realizes she'll have to wait for it to bake before she can actually eat it? Tears. Toadette brings her some tea just as she notices her throat's feeling dry? Tears. Mario uses her name alone instead of one of the plethora of endearments he normally assigns to her? Tears.

This is perfectly normal, Toadessa has assured them both. Her hormones will begin restabilizing as she approaches her second trimester, and until then, Mario has no reason to worry if she's suddenly weepier than usual.

That doesn't mean he likes it, and it certainly doesn't mean he'll just sit back and let it happen. If Peach is going to be inconsolable over every little thing, then she's going to be inconsolable while he attempts to console her anyway.

Right now she's leaned back in her chair in the royal office, making a half-hearted effort to compose herself, sniffling and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief that looks like it's already seen a fair amount of use today. "Mario," she starts, and he already knows she's about to apologize. He doesn't give her the opportunity.

"Hey," he says, crossing the room with wide steps and reaching his hands out to her, "what's wrong? It's alright. Tell me what's wrong."

She adjusts herself so that she's facing him just as he reaches her, and he cups her right cheek in his left palm to look her over. Her face is blotchy and wet, yet her makeup is untouched. He's not sure if it's her magic keeping her cosmetics pristine or if she's just begun using waterproof mascara and eyeliner. Maybe some combination of the two.

Sniffling again, Peach leans into his touch and closes her eyes. "It's so silly," she sighs. "Please don't... y-you would laugh. Don't worry about it."

Mario debates pulling away to take his gloves off, offer her the comfort of his skin against hers, but she looks so relieved to be on the receiving end of his touch that he can't bring himself to do it. He summons his Firebrand into that hand in compensation, so at least he can offer her warmth.

“No.” He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with his free hand, his voice as soothing and sweet as he can possibly muster. “Tesoro mio, no, your pain is my pain. I would never laugh at you."

Sniffle. Peach opens her eyes to fix him with a grateful smile, and more tears slip out as she does so. He wishes now more than ever that his leather gloves were made of a more absorbent material. "I..." Another deep sigh. "I started thinking, and then I couldn't stop thinking... and I wondered if you would..."

"Yes," Mario encourages, and now he takes both of her hands into his right hand, squeezing gently. "It's okay. You can tell me."

Sorrow washes over her expression, and Mario steadies himself with a deep breath. He hates seeing her like this. He wants to take all of her pain, all of her sorrow, put it in a bottle and put that bottle into a safe and send it sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

"Would you..." With a shuddering inhale, Peach finally presents her question: "Would you still love me if I were a Wiggler?"

Silence overtakes the room. Mario's so hopelessly baffled that he can't even begin to figure out how he's supposed to feel right now, much less respond.

"...Oh." Fresh tears well up, falling with renewed vigor, and that's enough to snap him out of his stupor.

"No no no," he quickly shushes, wiping what tears he can with his thumb, "I'm sorry! You just— I mean, I wasn't expecting that, but yes, I would still love you!"

“But what if I didn’t recognize you?” And now Peach sounds genuinely distraught, her voice breaking every third or fourth word. “What if I saw you and you tried to speak to me but all I could think about was munching on the tasty shrubbery you were standing next to?"

She's full-on weeping now, and as much as he hates the sight, it's taking all of Mario's willpower not to start laughing. Of all the hypothetical scenarios she might have imagined up wherein he might feel anything but overpowering love for her...

"Peach," he says, and he kisses her soaked cheek, "mia dolce principessa, l'amore della mia vita, that would change nothing! I'll love you to the very end no matter what."

The affirmation combined with the gratuitous usage of endearments wretches a sob from Peach's lips, and she frees her hands from Mario's grasp to pull him into an embrace, taking advantage of the more absorbent fabric of his shirt. He lets her cry, slipping his gloves off and stuffing them in his back pocket before returning her embrace.

"I'd love you too," Peach chokes out, her nails digging into the thick denim of his overalls. "If you were a Wiggler, I'd still love you just as much!"

Mario finally lets himself laugh, carding his fingers through her hair. "I know. I know you would."

~~~

That night, reclined on the couch with her head in Mario's lap, Peach cries for an entirely different reason.

"Why did you play along?" she groans, her voice pitched in embarrassment. "You should have been honest with me!"

"I was honest with you," he reasons.

"No you weren't! You didn't once tell me how stupid I sounded!"

"No," Mario corrects, "I told you nothing but the truth, amata. I would still love you if you were a Wiggler."

Peach buries her face in her hands and groans again, and Mario wipes at the tears that escape anyway with a tissue, shushing her softly.

[angelasscribbles]

Solace

Fandom: Heaven’s Secret

Pairings: Adi x MC

Word Count: 1,647

Rating: NSFW

Warnings for this chapter: Lemons 🍋🍋🍋

A/N: So I rewrote the one and only sex scene RC gave us for these two because I thought there was a lot of untapped emotion there.

My other stuff: Master List.

Image Credit: Romance Club official Instagram.

Adi had stopped talking. I didn’t want to press him, but I wasn’t leaving him alone, so I studied the unused ballroom I had followed him to.

The window we stood in front of was magnificent, blue, green, and purple stained glass stretching from floor to ceiling and sparkling in the early afternoon sun. Ivy grew through the cracks of the crumbling brick surrounding the window, giving the entire room an abandoned feel.

Tables and chairs were stacked along the far wall, but the vast majority of the room was empty and even our hushed voices seemed to reverberate in the silence.

“How do you deal with grief on earth?” His voice was laced with so much pain it rendered me speechless for a moment. My body and heart were frozen by the anguish in his tone.

When I didn’t answer, he elaborated. “People die so often there….”

Like my mother.

Like me.

The image of my father’s grief-stricken face swam before my eyes.

What did I know about healing? I was still raw and ragged from the loss of my own mortal life. And despite the fact that she had died when I was very young, I was not over my mother’s death. Although, with time, I had learned to live with it.

I gave him the best answer I had. “There’s nothing to do but give it time.”

“Time to do what? To go crazy?” He covered his face with one hand and turned away, hiding the tears that slipped unbidden from his eyes, streaking his cheeks, giving proof of his sorrow and heartbreak.

I had no words of comfort to offer. I knew from experience that no matter how well-meaning, words were meaningless, offering little solace against the wretched misery of loss.

“Adi…” I stepped up behind him and wrapped my arms around him. I pressed my body tightly against his trying to convey with physical touch all the love and grief in my heart. For Sammy, but also for him.

For my sweet, sarcastic, adventure-loving Adi. My heart broke for him. The one left behind. The one forced to pick up the pieces and go on living somehow. There is nothing that prepares you for a loss of that magnitude. No road map that tells you where to go, no playbook that tells you what to do, no guide that tells you what you’re going to feel or how to overcome it.

He was drowning in hopelessness, and I was desperate to pull him back. To pull myself back.

Because once I opened the door that grief lived behind, it all came pouring out. I may have started crying because of Sammy, but as the sobs tore through my body, I was suddenly grieving every loss I’d ever had, every bit of pain I had been shoving down deep inside came crashing through the wall I tried so desperately to keep in place. Growing up without my mother, being ripped away from my father in the prime of my life, losing the purest soul I’d met here, watching Adi sink into desolation and plunge toward despair.

He spun abruptly in my arms, so we were facing each other. He buried his head in the side of my neck as sobs wracked his body. He was crying. I was crying. We clung to each other as if our lives depended on it.

Pain, anguish, and inconsolable grief raged through us both. And yet we did console each other. Our bodies pressed together gave some slight comfort. The warmth of his body, the firmness of his embrace, the life struggling within him, called to the life struggling within me.

He was so close. His body pressed into mine, his breath on my neck, his fingers digging into my back, all gave rise to a different, but just as primal, emotion.

One moment we were crying in each other’s arms, and then suddenly we were kissing. His lips crashed against mine. Our tears mingled together. All the pain and anguish transmuted into something hotter as passion flared into existence.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” With several deep shuddering breaths, he pulled away and wiped at the wetness coating his cheeks.

I stood rooted to the spot. “Adi?”

He lifted his eyes to mine; bare inches separated us. I could feel his energy pulsing between us. The mood in the room had shifted.

He lunged forward, grabbing me around the waist and yanking me back to him. His mouth was on me again, fervent kisses trailing down my jawline and dancing across my neck. His hands pulled frantically at my clothes.

I responded in kind, letting the fire of ardor temporarily burn away the endless aching agony of grief.

My clothes lay in a heap on the floor. I was naked before him. He pulled back long enough to gasp out, “Are you sure?”

I nodded my consent, my head too clouded with an overwhelming assault of conflicting emotions to speak.

He spun me around so my back was to him and spread my arms above my head, forcing me to rest them against the stained glass.

And I let him. I let him because I understood this wasn’t about love or even sex. It was about finding a way back from all that pain, finding a way to beat back the grief through the most basic affirmation of life.

He entered me roughly. I rested my cheek against the sun-heated glass and let my mind go blank to everything but the prurient primordial sensations that were cascading through my body.

His hand covered mine, fingers twining as he slammed into me again and again.

His body moved against mine, his energy wrapped around me, and deep, guttural sounds issued from the back of his throat, all conspiring to push me ever closer to the edge of the precipice.

I struggled to keep quiet as my naked body pressed against the smooth glass of the window, its warmth in sharp contrast to the cold bite of the ambient air surrounding us.

I failed. A high-pitched whine spiraled out of me as he pounded ruthlessly into me.

“Quiet.” his hot breath in my ear only sent me hurtling faster toward the edge.

Ignoring his directive, I threw my head back and lost myself completely in the fire that was throbbing through my body and the heat that was coiling tightly in my center.

As my whine built in both volume and pitch, his hand covered my mouth and I bit down on it, stifling my screams. I crashed over the edge and fell into the abyss, my mind blissfully unaware of everything but the pleasure pulsing through me.

He slammed into me once more, pinning my body tightly between his own and the stained glass as he exploded inside me. His sweat covered me as we slid slowly toward the ground, still pressed together.

He pulled out and sat next to me, his back thumping into the window as he gasped for air. We sat side by side, not talking but sneaking sidelong glances at each other as our breathing gradually returned to normal.

I caught his eye and gave him a small smile. He smiled back, then frowned and shook his head. “I….I’m sorry…”

“Why are you sorry?” I studied him, watching the guilt play across his face.

He didn’t meet my eyes as he stammered out, “I…it won’t happen again.”

Was the guilt because he felt he had betrayed Sammy or because he thought he had been too rough with me? Perhaps both.

I reached for his hand, entwining our fingers again. “It’s okay, Adi. It was the grief talking. It doesn’t have to mean more than that.”

It had been rough, a brutal expression of his overwhelming loss. He had needed an outlet, and I had been happy to provide it. I had borne the brunt of his pain and rage, and I would bear it again if that’s what he needed.

He finally met my eyes, rewarding me with a grateful smile, and gave my hand a squeeze. “We should…ah…we should get dressed.”

“Yep.” I agreed.

He stood and offered me his hand, pulling me to my feet. We sorted our clothes and hurriedly dressed as if we’d only just then realized that anyone could walk in and catch us.

And what had we done that was so wrong? Since when was love ever wrong? Adi and I might not have a romantic love, but the deep friendship I felt for him was love, nonetheless.

I felt anger bubble up inside me at the reminder that even though this was the afterlife, somehow my body and my heart were still being controlled by those in power. It was my body. Didn’t I have a right to do what I wanted with it? And after all, no one controls who they fall in love with, do they?  

Like Sammy and Adi. By what right did the council decree that their love for each other had been wrong?

When I first arrived here, I wanted to be an angel. It seemed like a no-brainer. Angels were the good guys. So simple.

But it wasn’t simple. And the longer I was here, the less convinced I was that was the case. Not that the demons were paragons of virtue by any means, but at least they allowed themselves to feel emotions, and that made them seem much more human to me. Those very emotions were why the angels looked down on the demons.

If feeling things made you a demon, then I was beginning to think I might be one.

I followed Adi back out into the main building, sensing his energy. It was a little stronger, a little brighter than it had been before, and nothing in the universe would convince me that was a bad thing.

[bladeweaver-if]

I feel that this a tumble classic question great author but…

RO’s and family reaction to MC dying in battle or to protect them from a fatal blow?

I'll be answering this assuming every character has a good relationship with MC! I'll also have a little bit of text for a romance option.

Callen - He'd feel an immense amount of grief and sorrow - a member of his family has been killed. He'd be inconsolable and blaming himself heavily for the death, especially if it'd been to protect him. He would rather die than have that happen. It would take him a long time to process such a thing happening.

Sonia - Similarly to Callen, though her grief would manifest as rage. She'd certainly attempt to avenge MC's death first and foremost, blaming herself for not being better at protecting them, especially if they'd died for her. It isn't likely she'd ever recover from such a thing happening.

Sam - Distraught and afraid - his best friend/lover is gone, just like that. He wouldn't know what to do with himself. It would be something impossible for him to ever completely recover from. Any dreams he might've had with an MC he's romancing are no longer possible and a lifelong friend is just not there anymore.

Caitlin - She'd do her best to grieve properly, trying to remember MC as best she could. She's experienced a fair deal of loss in her life, she's no stranger to it. The loss of somebody so close to her, especially if they'd died protecting her, would hit particularly hard. Dark, vengeful thoughts would eventually surface.

Lucas - Immediate vengefulness and a quiet rage that would stay with him for a long, long time. Lucas is fiercely loyal to those he's close with and this would be a deep blow to him, being relatively unfamiliar with the death of a loved one. He'd do whatever possible to avenge MC's death, if such a thing is possible. After processing the grief, he'd be quiet and contemplative regarding them, the hurt still clear in his eyes. He would never forget MC, but would try to do better in their name.

Talia - She would practically shut down, reverting to what she knows best: tricks and schemes. Avenging MC's death (down to the minutiae of who might've even given the order) would be number one priority and if that wasn't possible, she'd spiral into old vices and essentially self-destruct at the loss of somebody so close. She had once believed she wouldn't let herself feel such pain again.

[rexs-meep-morps]

here is my unfinished frankenstein fic in the perspective of ernest frankenstein. i hope you enjoy.

Dearest Lillian,

Three months have passed since your departure to Munich. Your presence in my life was like a rounding rock, and without you I float aimlessly in the void. I miss you dearly, and I hope you know that. Your cheerful countenance would give me great strength in this time of sorrow. Which leads me to my next subject. My dear brother William was murdered. My father suspects that our friend Justine has committed this evil deed, but I am not wholly convinced. This fills me with incalculable grief, to have my sweet young brother taken away from us, without any life lived. Now I miss his little annoyances that used to drive me crazy. I am thinking of you always, even if I don't have time to write.

Your friend, 

Ernest Frankenstein

My dearest Lillian, 

It has been weeks since I last wrote to you, and for that I am truly sorry. A lot has happened; the trial and execution of Justine, the funeral of William, and my brother victor’s visit. Elizabeth is inconsolable, she still blames herself for William's death. And now Victor and Elizabeth are set to be married in March, which I find quite odd considering we all see each other as siblings. I would invite you to the wedding, but I know you are intolerably busy with your studies. How are those going? My sadness grows deeper each day, and is further worsened by your absence. I feel as if I am submerged in the fires of hell, a wretched being never to escape. It is not your duty to console me, you are simply just the only person I can confide in. I am sorry.

Your friend,

 Ernest

Dear Lillian,

 Again, I am truly sorry I haven't written to you in some time. I have been plunged into a deep depression where even the thought of walking is an exhausting labor. As I'm sure you have heard, my father and sister have passed. I am left in this empty, ghostly house with no one to comfort me. I watched Elizabeth’s murder right in front of me, and I will never forget her last words nor the twisted countenance of the perpetrator. In the midst of the supposedly joyus wedding, Victor left to chase the culprit, for whom he seemed to recognize. I have decided I need to get away from this house, from the town of Geneva entirely. I cannot be haunted by the ghosts of my family any longer, at least in presence. And so, I will travel to meet you in Munich. I hope this is alright with you, but I suppose by the time you receive this letter, I will have already departed. I hope you understand this is really my only option, as you are really my only kin left. My journey is set to last two weeks, so I hope to meet you by the 25th of may. Thank you Lillian.

Your friend, 

Ernest

[wordspinning]

Chapter 52

“Ellie, darlin’,” Tommy soothes her, eyes dark and full of sorrow. “Listen to me.” He brings his uninjured hand up to cradle her cheek, and searches her face seriously. “I don’t know where you got the idea that you’re the sole arbiter of my decisions. I love you to death, darlin’, but there were a whole lot more factors that went into that trip than just you, alright?”

Ellie can’t summon the acknowledgement he’s asking for in response, the knot of dread still cinched tight. He forces a thin smile, the kind that looks like it hurts. “Ellie,” he tries again, brow furrowed resolutely. “I woulda been out there one way or another regardless of whatever stunt you did or didn’t pull. Joel and Maria both asked me to come back, I said no, that was my choice. I don’t wanna see you putting it on yourself, you hear me?”

“Why didn’t you— come back?” she asks, quickly approaching an inconsolable level of heartache over this conversation, knowing that there’s no chance he’ll hear her apology, if he even gives her a chance to get it out.

He measures a deep breath, studying her for a moment. “A lotta reasons, Ellie, and they weren’t all good ones. I was angry, and scared, and I felt like I had to be the one to get things done, got tired of sittin’ around, and I’m sorry—“

She shakes her head, clenching her jaw against the next wave of bitter tears. She knows him better than that, knows that for every messed-up reason why he was out there, there were ten valid ones, but she can’t help but believe this is still, somehow, all her fault. “Stop apologizing, it’s my turn,” she summons a weak attempt at levity, hoping to alleviate his worry, and wraps her arms around him, resting her forehead at his shoulder. 

“And I don’t wanna hear it,” he remonstrates her quietly, returning her embrace.

“I’m sorry,” she says anyway.

“Hush.”

He holds her for a long minute, until the tears are coming a little slower, swallowed by the soft collar of his flannel. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady and gentle, resolved. 

“Darlin’, what we had down there— I helped build it, and I want it back. For you, for Gabe and Maria and myself and Joel and everyone else. I was doing what I thought was right. Don’t take on more responsibility than is yours to carry, alright?”

She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to do that, not when his love for her, for all of them, is so utterly terrifying in its potential. But there’s a seriousness in his voice that tells her he’s really asking something from her here, expecting her assent, and she knows she has to try to let this go, for him. She heaves a breath all the way down into the base of her lungs and pulls away momentarily to meet his gaze.

“Okay,” she manages, heartsick over the look in his eyes, worn and weary and carrying the shadows of pain endured for too long. “I just— I’m sorry you got hurt. I didn’t— I don’t want it to happen again.” 

“It’s alright, sweetheart.” His voice tightens just a little, the corner of his mouth twitching in a wounded smile, and they both fall back into a gentle embrace. 

“It isn’t,” she protests weakly.

“It will be,” he murmurs, and Ellie tries to believe him.

“Feel better, okay?” Her voice is smaller than she meant for it to be, tinged with desperation and heavy with grief. She feels the tension in his shoulders give all at once, and his next breath is a little shaky in his lungs. 

“I will,” he says.

She takes it as a promise. 

[star--nymph]

midnight, skin, pain, and mistake for our beloved eury?

Of course my love!! One Eury ramble coming up!

oc asks: not-so-nice edition

midnight: What keeps your OC up at night? Do they have nightmares? Fears? Anxieties? What do they do in the small hours of the morning when they should be sleeping?

Eurydice has odd sleeping habits. Prior to the Inquisition, she had never slept alone or on an actual bed--she used to sharing a fur pelt on the ground or in her aravels, snuggled next to one of her siblings. Between the distrust of her surroundings and a new environment where she was expected to sleep in a cold bed alone, she didn't sleep much. She slept fretfully, got up early, stayed awake for days, and would only rest in places where she could easily curl into a ball and hide. At first, her favorite places to rest were the stables with her mounts or on the rafters of the towers in Skyhold. Later, when she learned to trust, people could find her resting near Bull, Sera, or Vivienne. She only really started trusting bed when she became involved with Cullen. Funny because when she's with loved one, she tends to sleep deeper and becomes difficult to wake up. It's hard to get her out of her nest blankets once she's deep in there. As for what keeps her up at night, there is plenty. I mention the distrust during the early days of the Inquisition, but I didn't mention Eurydice being wary of entering the Fade through her dreams. I've mentioned this before but Eurydice has a personal rage demon that has followed her from childhood; it meets her in her dreams and tries to 'comfort' her. For the most part, she is able to avoid its temptations, but there are nights where it drags out her insecurities and trauma--sometimes conjuring memories of her father--and she wakes up in a panic. Its best to avoid the Fade when it acts up, which means she doesn't rest. But will she admit to any of that? No of course not, she simply didn't feel like resting any more. There are other things to do, like work. Later on all this gets exuberated by the addition of the voices from the Well of Sorrows. At that stage, she would enter into a near delusional state and be inconsolable. What she does when no one is awake is usually explore Skyhold--or, if she's in a fit of hysteria, it would be more akin to haunting the fortress. She walks among the towers and battlements, into the depths of the palace, finding new secrets. If she has the energy, she'll stable up a mount and ride out of Skyhold. Maybe work in the guard or in her workshop decoding artifacts she's found. Anything, really, to avoid being still and hearing something from deep inside her that might be frightfully true.

mistake: What's the worst mistake your OC ever made? What led to them making it? Have they been able to fix it? How have they moved on?

Eurydice has made plenty of mistakes but I don't think she often dwells on them more than she has to. She's a present thinking person, so if she does something wrong, she tends to just accept it is what it is and move on. If there was perhaps any mistakes she holds against herself, it's the ones that her father's has condemned her for. All the little things of being wrong, being heartless and cold, 'deliberately' disrespecting him, being unable to emote properly or act happy or look at him, for being empty and stupid, and a mistake--those are what she wishes to fix. Anything to make him forgive her and call her 'his jewel' again. But Eurydice can't fix any of that because she doesn't know how to. Even when she mimics her sister, when she tries to play the part of the good, beautiful child for him, she seems to fall short. So why try? She'll move on one day, when she's far from him, but those 'mistakes' are what haunt her even when she's in Skyhold. After all, if her father could see her as the empty doll she was, then one day all those who claim to love her will see it, too. One day, if she doesn't fix this mistake, they'll hate her as he does.

pain: What's the worst pain your OC has ever felt? Do they have a high pain tolerance?

I'd say when Eurydice turned her arm to ice and snapped it off so she could throw it at Solas, but I don't think so. I think when Samson carved his sword into her face and took out her right eye, that was worse because there was more of a psychological. Fact was, the arm needed to come off because it was killing her, so removing it and living without it was easier. But losing her eye and having her face permanently scarred? That broke her. So much of Eurydice's self worth has been tied to her beauty--all her life all she ever heard was 'at least she's beautiful'. Even if there was something 'wrong' with her head, it was her beauty that made her worth it. Samson desecrated her face as he had desecrated her people's temple, and neither could be return to what they once were. Imagine waking up to the screams of your ancestors in your ears, a dull pain where your eye, and when you look into a mirror, all you see is mutilation. In one short day, Eurydice had lost her religion, a piece of her culture, her eye, and her self worth. It took her weeks to recover and more to learn to live without her right eye, and even longer to live with the voices and accept her new reality. And all that time, she cast out all she loved and would have let herself waste away. That is true pain. Eurydice's pain tolerance is pretty high but I wonder if it's because she dissociates from it. There are times where she has been injured and she simply doesn't realize it until hours later, and even then she'll push on. At least physically, she doesn't seem to notice. Other pains, like auditory or when her hair is yanked, she'll feel right away and they're both heightened--if they overwhelm her, she might be pushed into a meltdown. Other times, however, she has been known to ripe out her hair when she's in stressed state and doesn't notice. So. Perhaps its all very touch and go?

skin: How comfortable is your OC in their skin? Do they grapple with anything that lives inside them—a beast, a curse, a failure, a monster? How do they face the smallest, weakest, most horrible version of themself? Are they able to acknowledge it at all?

Eurydice doesn't grapple with anything inside her: she grapples with nothing inside her. Not a beating heart or a brain. She picks at her skin on her chest and wonder if she beats it hard enough, it'll crack and all she'll find is a black hole. All her life, she's at best a beautiful doll--one that didn't have the ability to make her own decisions. At worst, she's this hollow thing meant to be puppeteered by those around her. And she's tricking everyone into thinking she's a real person with real feelings and attachments. One day, what if, they see that crack insider her, they watch it crumble, and they'll look inside her body and find nothing? Will they be disgusted? Or will it confirm what they always assumed about her? Eurydice doesn't face any of this, not head on. She runs, far into the forest, into the swamps and bogs and ruins, inside a cave, hiding behind elven remnants, and telling herself its better that way. She is not meant for this world; she'd rather watch from a distance and let it all burn. Don't look too closely or touch her. She doesn't want you to see what's not under her skin.

[wallflowergirl2006]

Wiltedflowers(Creepypasta OC)

TW: Heavy Gore, Decapitation, and Flowers..

Characters and Ages: (For clarification)

Juliet Anderson: 18 (Senior in High School)

Eleanor Anderson: 22 (Collage Student)

(Juliet’s POV)

It was a warm autumn night.. My friends and I used to come to this forest a lot. It was named Wildgrove Woods. It was a very peaceful forest. Until some rando came into the forest one night and in the morning he was found dead in a ditch. At first people thought it was a wild animal that got him but the bite marks on the man were not human and there were flowers coming out of his mouth and eye sockets. I overheard the police talking to the man's wife and apparently the flowers that were on the man’s body were his wife's favorite flowers. I thought nothing of it at first but after hearing that. It made my skin crawl. The forest was closed off and the police put warning signs but that obviously didn’t stop reckless and foolish teenagers because a week later a group of teenagers were found dead in the forest and they all had flowers growing out of them.

Some from partners and some from family members but the attacks on these teenagers were so disturbing. From what I’ve heard some were mangled, some had dislocated bones, and one of them was decapitated. Everyone was advised to stay away from the forest. My older sister Eleanor had stayed over for a week before heading back to college. I was always sad when she had to leave but my parents and I said our goodbye. Everything was fine until my mother got a call in the morning. She started crying half way through the call. When she hung up she looked heartbroken and dazed. My father tried to comfort her but she was inconsolable. My father told me to wait in the living room for him. I frowned but obeyed and went to the living room. I could hear the wailing of distress from the room that my parents were in. Minutes passed and my father finally came out and sat down next to me. My father had a look of sorrow on his face.

My father informed me that my sister was no longer with us. I was flabbergasted and confused. I asked my father what had happened. He told me that Eleanor had gotten into a car crash. Apparently a drunk driver had crashed into her but the scary part was that the police didn’t find my sister’s body. I asked my dad where my sister’s car was located. He told me that it was a few miles away from the forest. I thought about checking out the forest but my father saw right through me and turned that idea down. I was slightly upset about this but I decided not to push it. I went to my room and called my friend Jacob. I told him what happened and that I would be going to the forest. I told him not to tell anyone and that if anything happened to me. I told him to say that he tried to stop but I was too stubborn. Jacob tried to talk me out of it but I made up my mind already. I ended the call and grabbed an empty backpack and filled it with weapons and supplies.

♰˚☽˚｡⋆Timeskip ♰˚☽˚｡⋆

I stood at the entrance of the woods and I took a deep breath and headed inside. I was walking around the place and it was mostly quiet. It was more of an eerie quiet than a peaceful quiet. I roamed the place for a while but I didn’t find any traces of my sister. I started to think that was a waste of time but I couldn’t help but feel like I was being watched. I continued looking around until I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped in fright and turned around to see a policewoman. She told me her name was Officer Rebecca and asked me what I was doing here and if I knew this was a dangerous place. I told her the truth and she looked at me like I was crazy but she then had a look of sympathy. She told me that if anything popped up about my sister she let me know. I sighed sadly feeling disappointed but just as we were about to leave there was a low growling noise. Officer Rebecca and I turned around to see a tall lanky black entity that had sharp nails, flowers on its body both fresh and wilted and green goo dripping down its mouth. The flowers were scattered all over its torso, eyes and waist; it also had pointed ears and a long thick tail.

Officer Rebecca and I were staring at the entity for a good minute until it spoke in a raspy and demonic voice. “Ah, I knew there were humans in my forest..” It spoke. “What are you?” Officer Rebecca questioned the creature as she pulled out her gun. “Ah, quick to pull out your weapons? You must know that I am a threat, correct.” The entity said as it crossed its arms over its chest. “I’m am Azru..” “I roam this forest looking for prey to feast upon and once I am done with said prey I leave flowers of their loved ones as a sign.” Azru paused.. “I haven’t come up with what the sign would mean yet.. It’s a work in progress.” Officer Rebecca then glared at Azru. “So you’ve been the thing that's been killing everyone that comes into this forest.” “Yes, I have but I have a deal to offer.” Azru said as it smiled at us. I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach. “What’s your deal..?” I asked Azru cautiously. “I want you in exchange for your sister.” Azru said in a sinister tone.

“There’s no way that’s happening!” Officer Rebecca shouted at Azru. “The decision is not up to you, it is up to the child.” Azru growled at Officer Rebecca. “How do I know you're not tricking me.” I questioned Azru. “You don’t.. Sometimes life throws difficult choices sweetpea.” Azru said in a taunting voice. I scowled at them. “Alright, I’ll come with you.” I told Azru. Officer Rebecca frowned at my choice. “Kiddo, you don’t have to do that. We can’t lose another person.” Officer Rebecca tried to reason with me. “I understand your concern, Officer but this is my choice.” I said to her, “Tell my parents that I love them.” I said as I walked over to Azru. Azru smiled and pulled me close to themself. A weird pollen started coming from Azru and I felt my eyes start to close and the world went dark.

(Nobody’s POV)

Azru picked up Juliet and smiled wickedly at Officer Rebecca. “Well, I’ll keep up my end of the bargain. Azru started to gag and then something came out of his mouth. It was a corpse. Eleanor’s corpse.. Eleanor’s body was horrid to look at flowers were covering her eyes, her arms looked like they had been ripped off and flowers were growing out of where her arms would be, her hair looked disheveled, and black goo was dripping out of her eye sockets and her mouth. Officer Rebecca looked horrified at the state of Eleanor’s body. “This wasn’t part of the deal!” Officer Rebecca shouted at Azru. “I never stated what condition the girl would be in..” Azru said with a malicious tone. Azru then started running at a very fast pace. Officer Rebecca tried to keep up with him but he was too fast. “Come back here!” She shouted at Azru. Hearing her call him only made him go fast. Officer Rebecca started to get tired and couldn’t keep up with Azru.

Azru made sure that nobody was following him and made sure to cover up his tracks. Azru ran at inhumane speed until he reached his cabin. He opened the door and headed inside. He walked over to a couch and laid Juliet down on it making sure that she was comfortable. He walked over to the door and locked it making sure that Juliet couldn’t escape through the front door. He then started locking all the entrances and windows making sure she couldn’t escape from him once he made sure everything was secured and locked. He went over to Juliet and rested his head on her thighs.

(Juliet’s POV)

As I regained consciousness I woke up in a cabin? I looked and observed my surroundings; it looked like everything was locked so I had no chance of escaping. I felt a weight on my thighs. I looked down and saw Azru sleeping on my thighs. This freaked me out so much. Why was this entity sleeping on me? Why did he bring me here? Why was any of this happening? My thoughts were interrupted when I heard Azru start to stir in his sleep. I panicked as he started to wake up. My mind was racing with different scenarios of what would happen to me. “Juliet, you're awake.. I thought I’d never see you again.” Azru said in a terrified voice. Something told me that this wasn’t Azru. “Who are you? You’re not Azru..” I questioned the voice. “It’s me Eleanor!” The voice told me as it got off of me. I noticed that the flowers were replaced with different ones. Arzu had purple balloon flowers, pink snapdragon flowers, and blue irises but now the flowers were different. The flowers were my sister’s favorite flowers. Which were pink azaleas, yellow marigolds, and red carnations. “Really?” “Okay, so what’s one of our childhood memories?” I interrogated the voice. “Back when we were really little we used to make these magic potions with flowers, bark, grass and hose water. When you were in 10th grade, you told me that someone told you were related to Juliet Capulet from Shakespeare so you asked me to deal with her and you have a dragon with sunflowers tattoo just above your ass.” The voice told me. “Okay, but how do you know about the tattoo?” I asked her. “You were wearing a bikini that time we went to the beach with our friends.” Eleanor said in disbelief.

I felt my face heat up in embarrassment. “So, how are you here? I thought you were dead?” I asked with confusion. “This entity consumes souls to sustain itself but it take can’t any soul specifically. The soul needs to have the right amount of darkness and light for him to sustain himself.” Eleanor explained to me. “Okay, so I’m assuming you did some good and bad things.” I asked her. “Yeah, I might have sent that girl to the hospital.” Eleanor sheepishly admitted to me. “What the hell?! That’s why she avoided me?!” I said in shock. Eleanor nodded sheepishly. “Please don’t leave me.. I was so scared when he took me.” Eleanor pleaded to me. She sounded terrified. “I miss you, I miss mom and dad, I miss my friends, I miss my boyfriend Adam.” Eleanor said as she started to tremble while tears started to run down her face. I felt bad for Eleanor. It must suck being stuck with a dark entity and possibly having to watch him kill and eat people. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been so lonely and Azru.. He’s just very creepy and a bit weird.” Eleanor apologized to me. “No, don’t apologize.. I’m not going to leave. I can see you're very frightened by all of this.” I told her as I walked over and took one of Azru’s clawed hands and held it with mine. “I missed you as well. I’m just glad you’re kinda okay.” I smiled at Eleanor. “Thank you.. I’ll make sure Azru won’t harm you.” Eleanor promised me. I nodded at her. “Can we just sit down and talk now?” Eleanor asked me. “Of course” I smiled at her once more. Eleanor smiled back. We walked over to the couch and that’s when I realized this is a really bittersweet conclusion.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

(If you want to use anything from this story just send in a ask or message me) [Don't Claim or Repost this as yours >:C ]

[bubblegumlefty]

I'll have to talk about the aftermath of Roman VS Kevin tomorrow, cause I'm just too inconsolable right now. Like, the Shield callback, the emotional abuse, the way Jey and Sami both turned on Roman at once? It all hurts so good. Like, let's be real, we all knew either Sami or Jey was gonna turn on Roman at some point. It was only a matter of time. But I don't think we really expected it to go down the way it did. And that, folks, is how you tell a good wrestling storyline, by digging deep under the skin and crushing your feelings into a mushy pulp. 💔

Now if you all will excuse me, I gotta go clean my face, drown my sorrows in ice cream and try to get a good night's sleep. Goodnight, everyone. And Happy Royal Rumble. ❤️

[phenomanemone]

o11

“It's not working.” Sage whispers, alone. She kneels on a stage, the spotlight overwhelming without her companion there to lessen the load.

She sees Hunter in her peripheral vision and she understands. She's not alone after all— she's just without Chai.

Something in her chest threatens to tug loose. He was supposed to be here. She is right to feel frustration, but the panic is blindsiding.

“You promised,” she whimpers, wrapping her arms around herself. She's no longer Sage.

Another arm wraps around her as Chai drops onto his knees, staring in awe.

“Hello,” he breathes, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Sorry, you're lovely. You wouldn't recognise yourself. We spoke last night.”

She feels so comforted by his embrace that she could melt, but his words tie together a sense of linearity that startles her.

“Shh, don't say anything. Don't think too hard about it, either. All that comes with time.”

“I can't do this,” she sobs. “It's too much. There's so much.”

“I know, Honey,” Chai cooes, pulling her into a proper hug and rubbing her back tenderly. “Try not to think about it. Just breathe, okay? Can you focus on me?”

She draws a steady breath, letting his warmth chase away the dread accompanied with acknowledging oneself for the first time. Chai rocked her, and she instinctively mimicked his deep breathing pattern.

She sags against him, her mind slowing back down to something more manageable. She's definitely fuzzy around the edges, and she's shrunk quite substantially.

She was just a small child being comforted by her big brother. 

“I'm sorry I was late,” he says, letting go of her. Instead, he takes one of her hands into both of his. “I have been fighting with one of the others. I was not late on purpose to make you change. I want you to know that.”

She pulls away from his grasp, awkward. She toddles over to a fireplace and sits in front of it, allowing the heat to warm her instead.

“I know you probably acknowledged that it was a possibility and decided that it didn't change anything, but it's important for you to know I'm not doing anything with any ulterior motives.”

She'd done exactly that. He didn't need to know.

She'd heard what some of the others had gossiped about. A way to soothe one of the inconsolable parts. It was just…

“I know you guys like to think I have all the answers. I appreciate all the work you've done to curb back your attention, but that was never the problem.” Chai says, and he looks sorrowful. “I just needed to be your equal. You may find comfort in me, but that doesn't mean you're any lesser. This is not a power dynamic, okay?”

She blinks away tears as she stares at the fire. She pulls a stuffed bear into her lap. She'd never said those things out loud.

“You're not the only one who can take a peek when we sync up.” 

Chai grins at this, and he anticipates the teddy launched at his head.

“Relax,” he laughs. “I only get a feeling for you guys as a collective, not individual. You're still wrapped in secrecy.”

This brought her a sense of relief, and her little legs wobble.

“You're getting smaller and smaller,” Chai muses, picking her up and bouncing her on his knee. “I've never seen any of you this small. Hopefully this is a good thing, and I haven't broken you by being pushy.”

She gurgles affectionately, reaching for his cheek. Then, as if ashamed of letting go so deeply, she starts to doubt his words. It's almost as if it was reflexive to the proverbial bucket of water she felt crashing over her when she realised how relaxed she was. To ground herself, she digs up her anxieties.

Chai winces, sensing her doubt, but he doesn't call her out on it. He presses her to his shoulder and pats her back to soothe her.

She falls asleep.

[unhingedselfships]

It was by sheer chance she'd overheard Kadokura grumbling about the man's death.

Apparently, he'd been being held for someone else.

And was, at least somewhat, important.

He could smooth it over, but it would be tricky.

That just wouldn't do.

She'd been hanging around in the following days, not so much as to irritate, but enough to be aware.

And when he'd told her he had an important meeting that day, she'd smiled, promised to stay out of the way, and could she please please please stay? His kitchen was better kitted then her's.

With a put upon sigh and more than slight irritation, he'd agreed. Barely. As long as she stayed. There.

Which, of course she didn't.

The staff side eyed her, but didn't try to directly interfere. They had no specific orders, and weren't sure how they should handle it.

(they'd get very clear "orders of operation" after this)

She'd hovered outside the door, waiting, and when the other man's voice became raised, agitated, she made her move.

Slipping in, loud enough to be noticed, quiet enough to seem tentative, she began her act.

Kadokura's eyes widened, and the other man turned in his seat to look at her, squinting.

The confusion turned to agitation and she knew he was about to snap at her so she acted quickly.

"My deepest apologies, sir, I-"

She played the part of nervous damsel well.

"I did not mean to listen in, but I was passing by and couldn't help but overhear."

"Lady Dojima-" Kadokura began, tone stern, and his guest’s brows raised in interest.

"I'm sorry Kadokura-san, please! Let me speak! I do not wish to hide behind a lie!"

He tensed, unsure exactly what she thought she was doing, and was ready to get up and remove her physically.

"Now, now, Kadokura-san, let the girl speak. I'm curious what Lady Dojima thinks she can tell me."

She took a fortifying breath, a slight hitch toward the end, and continued.

"The man, in the basement, it wasn't Kadokura-san's fault."

Suddenly the guest looked even more interested, and Kadokura yet further vexed.

"You see I- Something happened, a little while ago. I- I'm sorry- I don't wish to discuss the details it's… difficult. And personal."

Sorrow, hurt, shame, danced across her features as she valiantly fought back tears.

"I never learned his name, but I'll never forget his face. I caught a glimpse of him by chance and-"

She took a deep breath, mustering her strength.

"I had to know. So I slipped down into the basement when Kadokura-san was otherwise occupied. Grabbing the key was easy, I've always had a knack for sleight of hand tricks."

Lies. More of them. That was ok. He seemed to be buying it.

"My suspicions were right and it was… or at least, I truly thought it was, the man I remembered."

She played at uncertainty. Wavering. A fragile, pathetic, woman.

"I guess. I guess I just snapped. Before I knew it, he was dead."

The tears finally fell, tracing delicate tracks down soft cheeks.

"Kadokura-san found me down there, inconsolable, and promised to cover for me. I owe him so much."

She wrapped her arms around herself, the picture of sorrow and shame.

"But I- it doesn't feel right, that he should get in trouble for something I did. It wasn't his fault." 

She met the man's eyes, pleading and guilty.

"Please don't blame him. He was only trying to protect me."

A deep bow, deeper than perhaps warranted. Deferential.

"I swear I'll make it up to you. I don't know who he was or how he was important. What issues I may have caused. But ultimately those issues are my fault. I beg you, let me make it up to you." 

The man seemed markedly more amused than when she'd interrupted, and Kadokura seemed decidedly less so.

Internally she winced.

She was so getting yelled at later.

"Well now, Lady Dojima, this certainly has caused us more than a few problems."

She dipped her head, contrite.

"But I'm sure we can find an accord," he continued.

Her head shot up, and she looked back at him, wide eyed, grateful and hopeful.

"I suppose we can let Kadokura-san off the hook for this one. We'll be in touch."

"Oh! Thank you, I promise, I'll make this right!"

"I'm sure you will."

The man rose, "I suppose I don't have any further reason to be here. I'll see you another time, Kadokura-san." 

He squeezed the petite woman's shoulder as he passed.

Once the door had quietly shut behind him, she deflated. Moving to flop into the seat he'd vacated.

"Holy shit that was exhausting."

She was met with silence.

Finally daring to look up, to meet Kenshi's eyes, she flinched at his expression.

Ah shit.

"What. The fuck. Was that."

Here we go.

[darkestspring]

It’s been a while since I spammed you so here’s some angst bc I’m on my period and sad. Sweet wife goes into labour three months before she was supposed to, and Maegor and Visenya are not in the castle. By the time Maegor rushes in the room, he’s faced with his wife’s maids in tears as she weeps on the floor, cradling a baby much too small, much too silent. As soon as he’s by her side, wrapping his arm around her, he sees their baby, a tiny boy who’s covered in scales, with what he thinks are wings sticking from his back. It finally hits him that their baby is dead, he feels his own eyes starting to water as he holds them both close.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been there, crying on the floor, mourning for the child they never got to meet. Only when Visenya gently rubs his shoulder, he realises it must’ve been hours. He didn’t even hear her come in. While he starts to compose himself, his poor darling is inconsolable. Maegor thinks the sight of his beloved wife, in her bloody shift, weeping over their baby, will be burned into his mind forever. He vows to never leave her side again. He can never let her go through this pain alone. Somehow, they get up, Visenya helping them all the way, preparing the babe for a Valyrian funeral. He helps his wife bathe, both of them deathly silent, as if no words can come out. The sight of his usually happy and cheery wife, now struggling to keep herself from falling apart in front of their children, breaks him in a way he never knew was possible. And their children, oh their poor children, still too young to understand death and why their mother was weeping and why Balerion was roaring with a sorrow they’ve never heard from a dragon before and why their father, who they didn’t think was even able to cry, had a few tears on his cheeks. With his arm around his wife, who could barely stand on her own, he took in a shaky breath, before a stern “Dracarys”, squeezing his wife’s shoulder, and then fully embracing her. Even Visenya was moved to tears, as she held onto her grandchildren protectively.

That night Maegor helps her undress, rubbing her arms gently to soothe her.

“I just feel so much sadness that I’m just numb. This doesn’t feel real, it’s like a bad dream that I know I cannot wake up from.” her soft voice now hoarse from all the crying. “And what do we say to the children? Maegor, would they understand? They’re still so young, I- I’m not sure what to say.” she sighs and falls into his warm embrace.

“Mother has heard of this happening before, a dragon birth, but they’re extremely rare, so most believe it to be legend. It runs in the lines of dragon lords, my love, it’s- it’s my fault.” his voice almost cracks. “I should’ve never left your side, not even for an hour, I’m so sorry you had to go through this all alone. I wish I could take all the pain from you, to go through it so you wouldn’t have to. I’m so sorry.” he whispers, holding her even closer in a tight embrace.

“How could you have known Maegor? We’ve had six healthy children that all came a bit late, you couldn’t have known this time the babe would come early. I wouldn’t have thought it either. I don’t blame you for performing your duties in the kingdom, or for this. Not for a second.” she leans back to look at him, placing her small hands on his face. “I do wish you were next to me, but you were there as soon as you could, when I needed you most.” she said softly, wiping the tears he did not notice he was shedding, before placing a kiss on his lips.

They stay like that for a while, in each other’s embrace, exhausted from the terrible day. It’s her voice that breaks the silence.

“I think we should talk to them together. Tomorrow?” she asks, earning a nod.

“Of course, my love.” he says, placing a kiss on her temple.

She let out a deep sigh full of sorrow.

“I’ve always known we had to have the difficult conversations with them, but I never thought… not this soon… not like this… not their brother…” she felt her husband’s strong arms pull her into his comforting embrace, rubbing the back of her head. “Our baby Maegor… our poor baby… I- I didn’t even hear him cry, or feel him move…” she felt hot tears starting to escape her eyes, and she let them. “It was unlike the others, it was like I was on fire from the inside, like he was clawing to come out of me, but- but when he did… he wasn’t moving Maegor. He was so still. He was too quiet!” she couldn’t restrain her sobs.

Maegor could only hold her. He wished with all his heart to take the pain away from her, but it was impossible. The grief they were feeling couldn’t be suppressed, or stopped. They had to go through this together. Through all the pain. Just the thought that she had to go through it without him there next to her, to hold her, to comfort her, filled him with a rage he never felt before. He wanted to scream, to fight, to tear whoever caused this hurt to his love apart. But how do you kill a curse that ran through his veins? One that he gave to her to bear? One that took his son away?

At some point they fell asleep, still in each other’s arms, clinging onto one another for dear life. Maegor opened his eyes when he felt the sun graze his face. He could see his wife was already awake, an absent minded expression in her eyes, while she looked up at the ceiling, but mostly at nothing. They had another long day ahead of them, but as long as they had each other, they could face it. Together. 🍼

why would you make me cry like this? im trying to eat my cake in peace!!!!

[shorkbrian]

Infuriated

Prelude - ok.

Y’all are so horny for Levi Sir and I get it he’s hot lol. I am trying to get to everyone’s asks I promise!!! Also it’s up to you why Levi is mad lol

Prompts - 

Pairing - Levi Ackerman X Reader

Warnings - NSFW, dubcon, noncon, choking, mentions of snuff, emotionally compromised Levi, overstim.

Music - https://open.spotify.com/track/2f2hbFjim051DVx0o8o4rU?si=5waL376sSRSqjN2j8G0Y8w

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

He comes home in a bad mood.

He shuts the door quietly, and it’s clear he’s beyond pissed. Past the point of yelling, of slamming the door and causing you to flinch with the indicator of his foul mood. It’s not you he’s mad at, but it might as well be. He finds himself wanting to break something, but not dishes or glass, just you. 

Wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze till your breath rattles in your chest.

Levi finds you in the living room, standing by the hallway with wide eyes, shrinking against the wall. You thought you could avoid getting his anger taken out on you if he didn’t catch you while you were lounging on the bed. Hoping the man wouldn’t strip you bare and crush your soul like he had so many times before.

He’s so enraged that he can’t even think of the event that provoked him to such a state in the first place.

“Come here.” He stops in his tracks when he sees you, hands flicking to his tie so he can unknot it, loosen it from his neck. It’s not often he gets this angry, warm and burning, filled with emotions that he doesn’t know how to process, doesn’t even really want to.

“Come here.” Levi repeats himself, eyes burning when you still don’t move, as you begin to shake. You’re afraid of him again, good.

You had gotten past that, at least to the point where you could hide your fear of the man. Tamp it down beneath submission and pleasure, because doing what he says meant getting fair treatment.

But you aren’t doing what he says. You’re cowering against the wall, and Levi’s furious. You’re meant to follow his every order, know what he wants you to do before he even has to say, and yet you’re ignoring him as if you had the luxury of making that decision.

His shoes click across the tile as he strides towards you, already unbuckling his pants with sharp movements. When he reaches you, your frightened eyes pleading, the rise and fall of your chest quickening. Levi bets if he checked, your pulse would be fluttering, fast, like a scared little bird.

Your head snaps to the side when his hand connects with it, the sharp sound echoing throughout his home. 

“Take off your pants.” Clothes are a luxury he’s been allowing, but this blatant disobedience when he’s already fuming will result in punishment. 

Trembling hands fly to your pants, and Levi almost wants to laugh at the expression in your face as you turn it back, cheek reddening immediately. You should’ve came when he called you.

He doesn’t bother to take his slacks off all the way, barely pushing them down to his thighs before taking his cock in hand. He’s not even hard, but he needs to fuck something, focus on a different emotion than the fury settled deep in his bones. The satisfaction of how easily you break under his hands, the pleasure of filling you, stretching you past your limit, the way you draw him in like that’s where he belongs, even though it’s obvious you want to be anywhere but with him.

The hand on his cock is too dry, too rough, but that doesn’t matter. Levi’s able to pump himself to hardness as you fumble with your pants, almost falling as you slip them off.

With a quick movement, he’s slamming you hard against the wall, breath punching out of you, head hitting the wall and dazing you.

Levi spits in his hand, takes it between your legs and rubs his saliva where it’s needed. There’s no way you’re wet, no way you’re ready to take him. But if there’s a little blood, there’ll be a little blood. Levi can clean it off your thighs later.

It hurts when he starts pushing inside, the head of his cock breaching your hole far too fast. The crushing realization that he isn’t going to actually prep you is evident across your face, obvious by the panicked little whine that falls from your lips.

“Shut up.” He can’t stop himself from snapping at you, irritated at the noise. 

He’s focused on filling you, the too-tight squeeze around his length and the overwhelming heat of your body where he’s pressed against you. At least you know better than to try and fight him, hands only clutching his shoulders, not trying to push him away, just trying to hold on.

What he would do if you struggled now, Levi doesn’t know. It’s possible he might break something important, push too hard, forget his own strength as he throttles the life out of you.

That reminds him.

The hand not guiding his cock into you rises to your throat, grasps the smooth column tightly, tight enough to feel the ridges of your esophagus, spongey and delicate. If he squeezes a bit harder, Levi wonders if it would collapse, crumbling beneath his fingers like tissue paper.

But your loss would make him inconsolable, so he reigns in his wrathful curiosity, his impulsive side that only sees the sun when he’s furious.

He's fully seated now, pressing deep into your sensitive walls. You’re shaking, trying to hold in your tears, your pitiful noises, your desire to beg him for mercy. There’s no slick feel, other than the slight ease from his saliva, so Levi knows you haven’t torn. 

That eases his mind a bit as he slowly retreats from your hole, intent on making this quicker than it should be. He needs to fuck, hard and fast and maybe just a bit painful. There’s no explainable reason as to why, and Levi isn’t interested in trying to analyze himself at the moment.

So he draws out, pushes back in immediately, doesn’t mind your choked, hiccuped gasp. You’ll adjust soon enough; even as he pushes back in, you’ve started to get wet, and there’s no stink of iron in the air, so it’s your body trying to make this easier for you.

Levi figures it’s good that at least one of you was actually concerned about that.

As the slide becomes easier and easier, his pace picks up accordingly, until he’s swinging his hips in a punishing rhythm. He can’t stop himself from giving a rough press onto your throat, relishing the way your body jerks, already breathless and panicked, now denied air and already missing it.

He’s getting close, which is surprising. Levi thought it might be difficult to reach release, reasoned that he was too focused on the rage filling his veins and weighing him down to lose himself in your body.

But he should’ve know, you always have an effect on him.

Your cunt starts clenching around him, and Levi’s head shoots up from where he’d been watching the steady hammering of his cock into you, glares at your face now.

“Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare.” His tone is clipped, and he’s mad all over again. He doesn’t even know why.

It’s not fair that you’re enjoying this while he’s still simmering, struggling to calm himself. It’s not like he doesn’t want you to find pleasure, but the least you could fucking do is have some decency for once and not cum before he does.

You clench your teeth, grimacing as you try to listen, do your best to obey. He’s trained you well.

But not well enough.

With a pitiful cry, you squeeze tight enough to make Levi groan as he refuses to stop moving his hips. Velvety walls spasm around his length with a vengeance, your nails digging into his shoulders as you lose yourself to the sensation.

Levi’s infuriated.

“You’re not allowed to cum.” He hisses, and your eyes are filled with sorrow, with regret and remorse, with emotions Levi has never bothered to learn the names of.

He slows down, slams into you hard enough that his tip kisses your cervix, makes you lurch in pain that lances through the afterthroes of your orgasm. 

Your throat is abandoned for now, his hand joining his other in painfully clutching your hips, fingers dimpling up your flesh, sinking into the pillowy skin so he can pull you down onto his cock the same moment he thrusts up.

It’s hurting now, your face contorting on each deep thrust. Levi doesn’t care, you were selfish enough to take your pleasure before him, when he so obviously was trying to soothe himself.

He’s starting to get a cramp from how hard and slow he’s driving up into you, but he’s crawling closer and closer, so he ignores the twinge for now.

And then he’s there, bursting from the inside out, uncaring of trying to avoid filling your womb with his seed.

It feels good, good enough to talk him down from the edge of hurting you, of destroying, of raging and bruising and damaging.

Levi’s left panting as he finishes, as his abs clench and unclench while he shoots his sticky finish into your tight hole. You’re still grabbing at his shoulders, eyes squeezed shut at the foreign sensation; Levi usually dons a condom, or at least pulls out. Rarely does he lose himself to do what he just did.

He’s calmer now, feels less like a pacing tiger that's been provoked and prodded until it attacks.

But he finds himself irritated at you, at your audacity.

The man knows he’s being irrational, and that he’s emotional right now, prone to lashing out and striking at anything that dares to defy him. You hadn’t done anything particularly wrong except exist in the same space as a thoroughly pissed-off Levi, and he recognizes that.

But he still wants to see you punished.

So you find yourself on the bed, stripped of your clothes. The only thing you’re wearing is a leather collar, attached to cuffs on your wrists by a thick metal ring. The contraption keeps your hands up by your face, unable to do anything but clench into little fists. It’s almost cute.

Theres a spreader bar cuffed to your ankles, and a vibrator in Levi’s hand. He had cleaned himself as soon as he pulled free of your warmth, not bothering to stop the cum that escaped from the unconscious clench of your hole.

Levi had taken a moment to change out of his work clothes, calm himself further and evaluate everything with a clearer mind. Now dressed in nothing but loose sweats, he felt more at ease, cooler both physically and mentally.

The vibe was flicked on, pressed to your mound at the same time Levi wiggled a finger inside of you, feeling his cum still warmed by your body. It was a weird sensation, but you were wet, and he was focused on the task at hand.

Making eye contact with you, Levi leveled you with a stern look.

“You aren’t allowed to cum.”

Four minutes later, when you crested the edge despite an obvious struggle against it, Levi clenched his jaw, removing the vibe and his finger from rubbing at your walls.

When your eyes opened, Levi met them with a glare.

“You aren’t allowed to cum.”

The vibe was flicked back on, a setting higher this time. Levi shoved two fingers inside of you, and you whimpered in distress. You’d beg if you knew it would sway him, but Levi had forced you enough times for you to know that he followed his own desires.

You were just supposed to lay there and take it.