#if she has to suffer you do too ash

[the-cryptographer]

Am only an hour into ME and can already see why Ashley so hated. Aggro issues xenophobia woman with an annoying voice? Basically on the fandom kill-list for life. Fortunately or unfortunately I'm going to have to choose between her and slightly passive aggressive nice 🙂 guy, and since it's me choosing between someone who brings all the explosive interpersonal issues to the game and someone who brings very few, haha- I think we all know who's going to end up dead.

[entitled-fangirl]

Nesting.

Cregan Stark x pregnant!reader

Summary: the reader has nesting habits while carrying their child. It's worrying Cregan to no end.

Masterlist

A/n: based on an incredible ask! He's so girl-dad-coded. Sorry, but I said the thing and I'm not taking it back. Girl dad.

.......................................................

Cregan stepped into their chamber and paused. "My love, what are you doing?"

His seven month pregnant wife looked over her shoulder. "Tidying."

She was currently standing on her small vanity bench, now pulled over to the bookshelf where she had been wiping at the dust on the highest shelf.

His hands came up, ready to catch her at a moment's notice as his body moved closer. "Why, sweet girl? Why not rest?"

She sighed to herself. "The birth is nearing. I need to be prepared."

"Love, dust on a six foot bookshelf is not something the babe will be checking." He placed a firm hand on her lower back. "Why don't you come down from there?"

Though she didn't want to, fighting him was utterly useless. "I don't know if I-"

He had already grabbed her, keeping her in a bridal carry as he moved to the bed. The slight groan from her made him pause. "Your back hurting you again?"

"Never stops," she muttered with a hand over her forehead, "It's like your child enjoys his mother's suffering."

"His? You think a boy?" 

"It has to be," she whined. "It needs to be. I don't think I can take this many more times." When his face fell, a light smirk came over hers. "I can only clean the shelves so many times."

He scoffed in amusement. "You little minx." Usually a teasing comment like that would result in the two under the covers, but during this stage, it only made him more cautious of every move.

He set her down softly on the bed, taking extra care to hold her lower back.

She let out another groan at the movement but the ache subsided for a moment. 

"Sit tight. I'll have someone fetch something to eat." And he stepped out of the room.

It was only a minute. A moment even. But still, when he returned, she was sitting in front of the fire, leaned back on her heels.

"What are you doing?" His voice echoes sharply.

Her hands flinched back as if she'd touched the fire itself, her body turning as much as possible to him. Her eyes were watery. "You're angry," she whispered.

The burly man forced himself to take a breath. "I'm not."

"No, you are."

"Fine. I am. But love, what is this?" He bent down to her level and grabbed her wrists, showcasing the ash across her palms.

"It was… it was so filthy across the front here. I've been staring at it for days. I just need to finish-"

"-With your bare hands? With these pretty little hands you intend to wipe ashes from a burning fireplace?"

"Just the front-"

"-And now I've got to wash all of this off you, don't I?" It sounded condescending, like scolding a child, but the light twinkle in his eyes proved that he enjoyed caring for her even when it exhausted his efforts.

"I was only trying to to help."

Her watery eyes were causing his heart to ache with a slight devastation. "I know, I know. But you're too close to the flames for my liking. Our little pup will melt."

A silent sob wracked through her at the mere thought of harm to their unborn child. Harm that was her fault. 

"Oh, sweet girl. I didn't- I- oh, gods," he tucked an arm around her. "None of that. Let's wash you up."

"But the ash-"

"-When you get into bed, I'll handle the ash. Alright?" He asked quietly with a hopeful look in his eyes.

Her eyes searched his for a way to truly know he meant what he was saying. To wake in the morning to the sight of ash still in place was unbearable at the moment. "Alright."

"Alright," he confirmed with a relieved smile. "Alright. Let's get you up, yes?"

She nodded as he he helped her up and sit on their sofa. He held her hands palm up and gave her a stern look. "Stay here." 

He moved to the small water basin by their beside and dipped a cloth in it, soaking it completely before moving back to her. 

He cradled each hand gently as he wiped at the ash on her hands, taking care to wipe as much as he could. "Ash is dangerous, my love. I want you to tell me next time you want it cleaned."

"I thought I could do it quickly," she explained.

"Just promise me you'll tell me what you want done rather than doing it yourself. I don't want you to overexert yourself."

She heaved a defeated sigh. "Alright."

He kissed her forehead. "Thank you. We'll wash you and get you to bed."

…

A week had passed in which Cregan had constantly ushered her to their bed, the nearest seat, and even having her sit in his large seat during petitions as he stood next to her.

But today he had yet to see her, and he began to miss her. 

The moment the petitions ended, he excused himself to his solar, where he knew she'd be cuddled up with one of her few books.

He was right. The door opened, and he grinned at the sight of his wife with his cloak wrapped around her, reading away at the book he was sure she'd read at least seven times now. "Enjoying yourself?"

Her head shot up. "I didn't expect to see you for another few hours."

"I finished early. You know I can't stay away for too long."

She set her book away as he entered the room. 

He kissed her softly and rubbed his thumb across her cheek. "What did you do with your day, pretty girl?"

She fidgeting with her hands. "I read quite a bit. That's all."

His brows twitched. "That's all? Just reading?" He knew better.

"Just that."

He ran his tongue across his front teeth. "If I go into our chambers, I won't find anything different than it was this morning?"

Her eyes widened. "Don't-"

"See? I know you too well." He leaned down and kissed her again. "You can tell me now, or I can go see for myself."

"No, stay here," she said in an urgent manner. "Stay with me. I've missed you," she tried to cover.

He pretended to give into her, letting her pull him down by the grip she had on his doublet. He kissed her cheek then pulled away quickly. "I'll be back."

"No, wait."

Cregan was already gone, moving swiftly to the bedroom and tossing the door open. Laid across their bed was an abundance of furs. Every cloak they owned but the ones they currently wore. Every fur blanket made for them was thrown on the bed. It all seemed messily done, but he knew better.

Not long after, the sound of his wife's footsteps came to his ears and he turned to meet her. "You've been quite busy."

"I'm only preparing, Cregan!" She whined. Her arms wrapped around his torso, her stomach keeping her from being fully against him. "It'll be any day now."

"You beautifully stubborn girl," he said with a shaking head in mock frustration. "You promised you'd tell me when you needed something."

"This is hardly a change. It was easy, I assure you."

"Love, I can't sleep like that. I burn like a furnace in the night anyway. This won't do any better."

"But the babe-"

He took her by the biceps, tugging her away from him. "The babe will be fine. The North is cold, but Winterfell is warm and comforting. Now please. Let me remove some of this from our bed."

Her eyes darted through the doorway to the bed and back up and him a few times in contemplation. "Fine."

"You sit over there," he pointed at their sofa. "And I'll do this."

She waddled over to the sofa, sitting down with a slight distain. 

Cregan began to throw cloaks and furs over his shoulders, inspecting each one in light amusement and annoyance. He threw looks to his wife occasionally when she would say, "Not that one." Or "Keep that one." He had managed to get most of them off the bed before he gave in. "You'll keep these three. Understand?"

She nodded. "And if I get cold?"

He sighed. "You have a warm husband. He won't let the chill touch you or the girl."

He took his leave, pausing with a smile when he caught her soft "girl?". But he left anyway, returning the furs where they belonged. 

…

Cregan was indeed right again, for she laid in bed in a small puddle of sweat. The heat was great in their shared bed, and her husband was right to correct her previous thought.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" the great lord muttered, his voice riddled with sleep. His eyes were closed peacefully, but even with no sight, he knew when his wife was troubled.

"Just-" Cregan's hand rubbed at her bump gently, urging her to continue. "A girl?"

He let out huff, pulling himself from sleep. "I know it's a girl."

"It's not," she urged. "It's not. It's a boy."

He peeked his eyes open. "I don't care what it is. But I know it's a girl."

She let out a disappointed sound and pushed his arm away, beginning to push herself up to sit.

"No. You need to sleep."

"I have to change things now. I'm not ready for a girl," she explained with a hurried tone. 

Before she could even move off the bed, Cregan had reached out and grabbed her, pulling her back to him and gently forcing her to lay back down. "There's nothing to change," he urged with his eyes locked on hers. "You've done everything right. The babe is loved and cared for, and the rest will fall into place. Yes?" When she didn't answer, he kissed her softly and tried again. "Yes?"

That was what she needed to hear. "Yes." She rubbed a hand over her shoulders in an attempt to soothe an ache. "Yes. You're right. He'll be fine."

"She'll be fine," he teased.

She sent an icy glare, making him close his mouth and lay back down.

"We'll just focus on today, alright? And today, you need sleep." When she had cuddled up to his side, he relaxed, knowing he had his entire world in his arms. "Just focus on today."

...................................................................

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[gallusrostromegalus]

A Miracle In The Night

Sometimes, you get an idea for a lightly fucked up short story. TW: Death, mild gore, Plot Twist :)

---

She travels through the night And listens

Some might call her home dark and cold and akin to the lowest levels of hell, But their heaven burns her eyes and skin and her very breath To her, The Endless Night is Paradise

The whole world was like this once, in the very beginning The Divine Darkness which contains the potential for every tragedy and miracle and everything in between, and she is blessed  to travel through the gardens of creation.

The Night created everything, even God, who lives in the burning world and blesses the sinless beings of the night with the very force of life.

But not even Paradise is free of suffering.

It should be this way, of course- nothing would ever happen otherwise. Everything that happens is a miracle. It’s just a question of who the Miracle is for.

There will be a Miracle tonight. She can feel it- the tension is electric across her skin, gut tightening, every sense on edge.

Starvation leads to such peculiar sensitivity.

She’s on the verge of death-  It should be this way, otherwise nothing could be alive. But she’s closer to the edge than usual.

It’s been so long since she felt the Burning Love of God within her. The delicious taste of good fortune in the night Chasing ecstasy with a racing heart and feeling her body fly The heat in her belly, seeping out through her until it filled her with the Divine Warmth of God’s Love.

It’s been so, so long since she’s eaten.

It’s been uneasy- the breathing of the world has been unsteady of late- too early and too late, out of time like it has become ill and all things suffer for it. There is nothing to partake of in her usual hunting grounds, so she has traveled far, far from home, into a brighter and hotter part of the night.

Here, the protective wall between her and the burning world exists only in scattered fragments, and strange and monstrous things traverse the thin veil between their worlds.

Here, the eternal night has been invaded by noxious, screaming beasts from the burning world above.  They race with their bodies straddling the barrier between their worlds, far faster than anything has the right to fly, howling with a deafening voice that can be heard for hundreds of miles.

It’s a problem because she cannot hear the songs of her prey.

Everything sings, if one will listen. The high, chiming pings of the smallest stars flashing with bioluminescence around her. The long, low songs of the fire-breathers, who hunt here in the abyss for one of her oldest brothers, but return to the barrier and briefly cross it to breathe before they return. Even the earth sings- the moan and crack of her body as she shifts her weight, the almost invisible inhale and exhale of her seasons. She even builds great musical instruments of ash and smoke and an even hotter burning than the world above, singing the tale of the first days of creation in honor of the endless night.

But the behemoths do not sing.

They scream and scream and scream and their piss reeks of vile poison and overexertion. Almost like the way an injured animal can put on a miraculous turn of speed to escape pursuit. What might be pursuing such behemoths is an awful but intriguing consideration. Perhaps the behemoths are the little darting beings of the burning world, and the thing they flee the equivalent of herself. She’s seen it before, when the moon is high and she travels up to the barrier, and the little dancing bodies leap across the barrier to avoid her.

To that end, she can only wish her counterpart good hunting- both in the sympathy between one apex predator and another, and the hope that maybe it will get better at catching the behemoths before they come into her world.

Still, Where there is disturbance, There is also opportunity.

There are rumors from those that live closer to the barrier that the behemoths piss poison but shit out bounties- the wastes of these things are food direct from the burning world, where God lives, and that waste is full of The Divine Warmth of Life. The direct waste is devoured by the smallest and fastest things first, but when they are clustered at their feast, they are easier for the larger beings to partake in, and so too larger things than they until even her most beautiful borderland sister with the belly pale as the moon is now as round as it, fat with the blessing of pups.

So she has ventured as close as she dares to the world of her sisters in hopes of finding the rumored prey so full of the Burning Love of God.

She needs it. She can’t live without it.

A Miracle will happen tonight.

Whether for her or the crawling lives of the deepest night remains to be seen.

She follows the terrible screaming song of the behemoth in silence and prays for a miracle. She does not sing praise when she prays. She preys when she prays.

The highest reverence to The Divine Night is to Listen. To travel in silence, and take in all the songs of The Night.

So she makes herself silent and listens and listens and listens to the screaming song, hoping that somewhere in the noise, she can hear the soft voice of God.

This time God answers with a voice like thunder.

It really is like being too close to a lightning strike, the way the noise viscerally passes through her and lights up every nerve, teeth gritting and body thrashing as she feels the voice of God the same way she feels the body of a lover against her own.

The scream of the behemoth changes. It sputters, then pitches wildly, low visceral injury and high keening pain, like the fire-breathers when they try to hunt the largest of her brothers and become prey themselves.

Oh, what a beautiful song to something like her.

She aches, weak and tired, but hope and joy surge through her and she forces herself to move at speed, even for all the energy it takes, because perhaps the miracle is for her tonight- 

She flies as fast as she can towards the dying behemoth, as does every brother and sister and ancestor and descendant, all as desperate to feast upon God’s Love as she- all of them race forward but then up, and up and up up to where the Behemoth is sinking into their world- It has run upon a fragment of the protective barrier hard enough to tear it's side and break it's back. There is the terrible acrid scent of it’s noxious  piss and if she were not on the verge of starvation it might be enough to put her off the feast.  

But she flies on and up- even weak with hunger she is one of the largest and fastest of her family when she needs to be, so she is the first to smell other strange things from the behemoth- burning flavors that sting her nose and mouth, as well as sweet things that confuse intrigue, and-

Oh. Oh, GOD!

It’s blood but nothing like any blood she’s tasted before- it’s actually HOT in the night, burning with the warmth of the other world even this far from it’s origin, rich and fatty and metallic like the flesh of a fallen fire-breather but even more so.  She spreads her wings and sways her hips and spine to fly as fast as she can, the way a lover pursues her- full of nothing but adoration and a desire to make their bodies as one.

Then in a beam of moonlight, she sees the first of the bodies from the burning world.

The frenzy at the behemoth is a feast for the ages, from the exultant chorus above, and the fact that even with every member of her family for a hundred miles around at the feast, there are so many bodies to feast upon that a body is falling past the festivities to her, uneaten and whole.

What a strange and beautiful body it is.

She pauses, circling it even as her mouth and gut ache for it, studying the being from the burning world.

It’s hot, hotter than any body she’s ever felt before, even though it is very definitely dead, as unsuited to breathe the night as she is to breathe fire. Its wings are long and twist strangely, like the tentacles of her brothers that are hunted by the fire-breathers. It’s awkwardly shaped, like the crawling five-winged creatures of the mud, but not quite.  There is an almost unsettling familiarity to its symmetry.

The fire-breathers say they used to live in the burning world, but returned to the night, and that all the beasts of the burning world had too once come from the night. It had sounded absurd, but looking upon the form of this being now, she wondered.

Well. Only the one thing to do, really.

Gently, she approaches the being, opens her mouth to embrace it, and welcomes it home to the night.

There is no love like the love the predator feels for its prey.  It is reverence made flesh- O holy being, oh virtue to pursue and make one’s own.It is the flesh made reverent- Please, little being of the burning world, let her love you as she loves her own children, the weight of your body deep within her own. 

There is no gratitude like the gratitude a predator feels for its prey. She owes you her life tonight, little being of the burning world. She lives from the mercy of your body alone. It is already a kindness she can never repay to live by your generosity, but oh, you made it so sweet-  Your blood intoxicates her senses, your body thrillingly warm- as agonizing as the fire of the burning world is to breathe in, it’s just as wonderful to swallow.

You are so sweet, so sweet, she will remember this favor forever.

There is no miracle like the divine connection between predator and prey. Oh child of the burning world, you who brings the Warmth of God into The Endless Night, You burning being of God’s Love. She is blessed by you, messenger of God.  Through you she receives the miracle of life.

Welcome, little burning being Welcome home to the night from whence you came Welcome inside her deepest self, and receive her hospitality.

She swallows the little burning being up with adoration, feeling it settle within her. Relief, ecstasy and satisfaction swirl but are interrupted by the appearance of another body. And another And another And another

The Behemoth itself falls, it’s body still curiously dynamic even torn in half- one end dives for the bottom of the night with somewhat alarming speed, where the other glides along to the depths on an angled path, the distant motion still visible with the bioluminescence it stirs up along it’s path. It is massive beyond anything she's seen before, more like a piece of geography than a living organism.

And all along its wake, hundreds of bodies spill forth from inside.

What a strange miracle this is. But she’s not one to refuse God’s Love. And if the beings of the burning world travel in huge schools with their behemoth, the peculiar notion that the little being within her might be lonely occurs to her. …Wow, she’s REALLY drunk.

Still, she eats three more of the burning beings before her guts are almost bursting with fullness, a bizarre sensation she’d only heard about from those who had been fortunate enough to feast on the fallen body of a fire-breather and had to leave the excess to the crawling beings of the bottom. So too, does she watch more bodies descend deep into the night as she returns to her world of darkness and song, the behemoth’s terrible screams now silent with rest, and the choir of the night rejoicing in this miracle.

---

Two miles above the revelry of God’s Favorite Greenland Shark, the survivors of the Titanic prayed into the endless night for a miracle, unaware it had already been granted.

[nuadha-airgeadlamh]

godhood and the nature of the world

For me some of the most interesting dialogue delivered in the DLC comes from Ymir when you ask him about the nature of the world:

"I fear that you have borne witness to the whole of it. The conceits – the hypocrisy – of the world built upon the Erdtree. The follies of men. Their bitter suffering. Is there no hope for redemption? The answer, sadly, is clear. There never was any hope. They were each of them defective. Unhinged, from the start. Marika herself. And the fingers that guided her. And this is what troubles me. No matter our efforts, if the roots are rotten, …then we have little recourse."

Immediately upon hearing this dialogue I thought of the item description for the Mending Rune of Perfect Order:

"The current imperfection of the Golden Order, or instability of ideology, can be blamed upon the fickleness of the gods no better than men. That is the fly in the ointment."

I think Ymir and Goldmask are essentially stating the same fundamental ideas here, and that these ideas hit upon a key theme of the entire game: human beings should not become gods.

Marika's traumatic origins are laid bare at the Bonny and Shaman Villages. The extermination of her people through such disturbing means no doubt left her horribly scarred. The spirit in the Whipping Hut spells out how the Potentates treated the Shaman:

"For pity's sake, your place is in the jar. Nigh-sainthood itself awaits your within. For shamans like you, this is your lot. Life were you accorded for this alone."

And the Minor Erdtree incantation demonstrates her bereavement:

Marika bathed the village of her home in gold, knowing full well that there was no one to heal.

We know, too, from Ymir that the Fingers were just as broken as Marika, the children of an abandoned mother.

"Do you recall what I said? That Marika, and the fingers that guided her, were unsound from the start. Well, the truth lies deeper still. It is their mother who is damaged and unhinged. The fingers are but unripe children. Victims in their own right. We all need a mother, do we not? A new mother, a true mother, who will not give birth to further malady."

And the Staff of the Great Beyond gives us further context behind this:

The Mother received signs from the Greater Will from the beyond of the microcosm. Despite being broken and abandoned, she kept waiting for another message to come.

Marika's ascension to godhood placed a traumatized person in a position of ultimate power. Yes, the Hornsent did terrible, unspeakable things to the Shaman people and employed a truly brutal inquisition, but there is no excuse for what Marika did to them through her Crusade. There is no excuse for what she did to the Hornsent, or to the Fire Giants, or to any of the victims of the Golden Order's colonizing mission. The game makes this abundantly clear. Did Hornsent's wife and child deserve to die by Messmer's flames? Does the Hornsent Grandam deserve to remain alone and abandoned, her home crumbling around her? What about the Dried Bouquet, a talisman you find in Belurat:

A quaint bouquet of dried flowers, offered to a small grave.

Raises attack power when a spirit you have summoned dies.

The sorrow that flows from the untimely demise of a loved one is a tenderness shared by all, regardless of birthplace.

The game even draws parallels between the Hornsent Inquisition and the Golden Order's torture methods in the description of the Ash of War: Golden Crux on the Greatsword of Damnation:

Leap up and skewer foe from overhead. If successful, the weapon's barbs unfold to excruciate from within; else, additional input releases barbs in the area. There is something of the Golden Order in the sight of those fixed upon this crux.

After dark, does Limgrave not fill with the screams of the crucified? There is no perfect society— there is no society whose crimes warrant absolute extermination. By giving her the capacity for limitless violence, godhood has made Marika into the perpetrator of some of the greatest crimes in the Lands Between.

We see this effect happening in real time through Miquella's story. While his ideology may initially seem admirable — redemption for those oppressed by the Golden Order, redemption for the Hornsent — on his road to godhood, he abandons everything that matters. The path to godhood is an inherently dehumanizing process and requires of Miquella for him to cast aside everything that makes him him.

Ymir says about Miquella that:

"Ever-young Miquella saw things for what they were. He knew that his bloodline was tainted. His roots mired in madness. A tragedy if ever there was one. That he would feel compelled to renounce everything. When the blame…lay squarely with the mother."

What I believe Ymir is articulating here is that Miquella seeks to atone for his mother's crimes and remove the corrupt order by usurping her position as god, even though he personally is not to blame for these deeds. Hornsent states similar ideas:

"Miquella has said as much himself – he wishes now to throw it all away. He says the act – though undoubtedly painful – will sear clean the Erdtree’s wanton sin. The truth of his claim can be found at each cross. Tis evidence enough to earn my belief."

"Uphold his covenant Miquella shall, and in godhood redeem our rueful clan. Then Marika, and vilest Erdtree both, will at last be from divinity wrench’d."

But in order to replace Marika, Miquella must also commit terrible crimes: he abandons his other half, he beguiles even those who would oppose him into being his very own blind followers. He charmed Mohg and violated his corpse, and Radahn's consent in this whole matter is dubious. In trying to make up for Marika's atrocities by becoming god of a new, kinder age, Miquella leaves behind a whole host of his own sins.

I believe that "the conceits – the hypocrisy – of the world built upon the Erdtree" and "the fickleness of the gods no better than men" are addressing this same idea. Miquella and Marika are no more special or inherently better than anyone else; they become fickle gods and establish hypocritical orders because no human being is perfect enough to wield absolute power with an even hand. Even Ymir himself falls prey to this thinking: he believes he can be a better mother than the ones before him, but he is just as broken as he rightfully points out they were.

This theme goes hand-in-hand with the story's emphasis on the Tarnished as the new inheritors of the Lands Between. From the very beginning, it establishes that it is the Tarnished who are chosen to succeed Radagon as Elden Lord, not the demigods. The intro cinematic announces this:

"Arise now, ye Tarnished. Ye dead, who yet live. The call of long-lost grace speaks to us all. Hoarah Loux, chieftan of the badlands. The ever-brilliant Goldmask. Fia, the Deathbed Companion. The loathsome Dung Eater. And Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-knowing. And one other. Whom grace would again bless. A Tarnished of no renown. Cross the fog, to the Lands Between. To stand before the Elden Ring. And become the Elden Lord."

Enia translates for the Fingers that the Greater Will itself has abandoned the demigods:

"The Greater Will has long renounced the demigods. Tarnished, show no mercy. Have their heads. Take all they have left."

We the "Tarnished of no renown" enter the story at a major crossroads. The time of fickle Marika and her warring demigods is over: by the time we defeat Radagon and the Elden Beast, she is only an empty husk. We are ushering in a new age in which gods are no longer the primary overlords of the Lands Between, in which the power is vested in ordinary people.

I think the array of endings offered up to us further demonstrates this point. Every unique ending, save one, is based around the ideology of a Tarnished, whether it be Goldmask, Fia, Dungeater, or you as the Lord of Frenzied Flame. The only ending themed around a demigod is Ranni's. I've seen people complain before about how you can't side with the demigods and bring about the worlds they envision —Mohg's Age of Blood, Miquella's Age of Compassion, Rykard's destruction of the very gods themselves— but I think this goes against the primary themes of Elden Ring's story. The time of Marika and her demigods is over: now rises the age of the Tarnished. This is why Ranni succeeds where her siblings fail: she wants no power for herself because she, too, recognizes that nothing good can come of a human becoming a god. She explains as much:

"_Mine will be an order not of gold, but the stars and moon of the chill night. I would keep them far from the earth beneath our feet. As it is now, life, and souls, and order are bound tightly together, but I would have them at great remove. And have the certainties of sight, emotion, faith, and touch… All become impossibilities."

Ranni does not wish to become the god of the Greater Will and the worshipped figurehead of the Golden Order. She wishes to set herself apart so that she cannot interfere in the affairs of the Lands Between, unlike Marika and her regime. Ranni's ending reinforces the agency of the Tarnished, while Mohg and Miquella and Rykard's endings still focus around themselves.

Godhood is a dehumanizing force that turns individuals into the most corrupt versions of themselves; the main story sees us supplanting the old, rotten order of the gods as an exiled nobody.

And I think there's no better summation of these themes than Ansbach's dying words:

"Righteous Tarnished. Become our new lord. A lord not for gods, but for men."

[perlelune]

Oxytocin | Coriolanus Snow | i.

One act of kindness from a peacekeeper may be your salvation or your doom. Possibly both.

Warnings: NON-CON, Blackmail, District 8 Reader, Stalking, Kidnapping

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Bitterness burns in your gut as you watch the yellowed pages of one of your favorite books curl and blacken amidst the weak flames of the hearth.

You want to cry. You really do. But it wasn’t the first and it won’t be the last. The winters of District 8 are infamously harsh and long.

You wouldn’t have survived it. So you stare with dry eyes and an empty chest as your childhood memorabilia turns to ash.

A wheezy cough tears through your melancholy. Panic rips through you as you get up and whirl. You dash to a small bed across the room and hunker down near your cousin.

You hold her hand, despising how tiny and feeble it feels in yours. 

It wasn’t always like this. She used to drag you around the cabin, eager to play, her high-pitched laugh bouncing off its molded walls.

Tears you managed to quell before now rush to your eyes.

You cup her face. Sickness has drained the color from it.

“You’re gonna get better, I swear.”

She gives a weary smile, but it’s interrupted by another fit of wet coughs that makes her entire frail frame shake. Your stomach plummets at the sight. Even you struggle to believe the words that crossed your own lips.

Everyday your younger cousin seems worse off than the one before it. Her medicine has long since run out. So has the food. Your modest wages from working in the factory won’t come for another fortnight. And there are little to no wares left to trade in the rickety wooden cabin. 

Nothing except you. 

The mere thought sends a shudder through you.

Though the virtue of some lowly district 8’s guttersnipe isn’t worth much, you bet you could easily find a buyer. A warm body is as good as any after all. Besides, you haven’t missed the lascivious glares wandering your way sometimes when you hasten through the streets of the city at night. 

You shake your head.

No.

While your virtue isn’t worth much in this awful world, you will hold on to it for as long as you can. Some modicum of dignity. Maybe it’s too much to ask for someone like you, too…greedy. But it’s the one thing you get in this life. Your one gift. You belong to yourself and no one else.

“Hungry…” your cousin whispers between pained exhales. The orange glow from the chimney outlines the sickly grayness of her skin and the sweat dotting her forehead.

You squeeze her hand, rubbing her fingers against yours. Maybe some of your warmth will seep into her. You can only hope.

“I know, Tilly… but there isn’t any food left anymore.”

At the mention of food, your shriveled up stomach reminds you of its unfortunate existence. Hunger twists your insides, vicious and relentless. As always.

Determination sparks inside you, tiny embers shifting into a furnace of iron hot will.

You rise to your feet. 

Tilly will not die. You will not die.

You plant a soft kiss on her forehead. Her eyes flutter closed as she drifts away, her glassy gaze finding the cracks and webs scattered across the ceiling.

She seems to look at nothing at all. It worries you. Tilly’s all you have left, the rest of your family having succumbed to disease, failed uprisings or some accident at the factory.

“I promise to bring food, and something to cure your cold.”

A cold. 

Another lie. For her or for you… who knows this time. Deep inside, you’re aware no common cold lasts this long or is this nasty. 

But you cling to the lie. Because you need it. Because without it you have nothing. 

Nothing to wake up for, nothing to go work another unending, grueling day at the textile factory, nothing to suffer another day in the hell that District 8 is. 

A few minutes later, you’re at the door. 

Outside, the winter winds swaddle you in their cool embrace. White clouds surround you as you unleash a deep breath. Through the thin soles of your shoes, you can feel the icy stones with each step. You slither through the narrow alleys, hood low on your brow as you ponder the plan you hatched less than an hour ago. 

It’s beyond stupid. You could get thrown in jail if caught. Or worse. 

But what else is there to do? 

You’re past the age to sign up for tesserae, and you’d never subject your cousin to the disturbing possibility of being chosen in the next reaping just to fill your stomach. 

You finally reach the grand marketplace. It’s crowded with folks, like every morning. You remain hidden by a brick wall, a strategic spot where shadows engulf you, where you can survey the place as you wish. The perfect way to begin enacting your stupid plan. 

Anticipation has your fingertips twitching against the stones.

You note how easy it’d be to mingle with the crowd, how some of the merchants don’t keep a perpetual eye on their wares.

And most importantly, you note the lack of peacekeepers. You squint, seeking a glimpse of the terrifying blue uniforms. Disbelief flutters through you at the realization none of them is here.

Such a chance never presents itself…yet it’s prancing right before you today. 

As your eyes land on a luscious spread of colorful fruits sitting on a stand a few feet away, your mouth waters.

How easy it would be.

When’s the last time you ate anything solid? You can hardly recall.

Slow, ginger steps drag you right before the stand. Busy chatting with a customer, the merchant doesn’t see you. 

Hope blooms inside you. This is your shot. You just need to be quick, so quick he won’t even notice before you’re long gone.

Your tremulous hand creeps out of your coat. The uproarious drumming of your heart fills your ears, louder as your fingers get closer to the tantalizing skin of the fruit.

Just a few inches. 

“What are you doing, little bird?” 

Startled, you release a sharp breath. Long, pale fingers cinch around your wrist, causing you to drop the fruit. It hits the wet cobblestones with a soft thud, sending your hopes crashing down alongside it.

You whirl to the stranger beside you.

“You little thieving whore…”

Numb with fear and shock, the merchant’s irate curses dwindle to a faint echo. 

The stranger’s towering frame forces you to lift your gaze to the sky, and you are met with eyes bluer than its expanse. 

Lost in his unsettling stare, you take entirely too long to notice his uniform. The gear is unmistakable. You have threaded your fair share of the fabric over the years, sewn hundreds of uniforms just like the one before you.

A peacekeeper. 

A wave of snow ripples through your back. 

Your entire body turns to stone in his grip, your eyes as wide as plates.

This is exactly what you feared would happen. And now it has.

As stormy irises take you in, you see your miserable life melt in a smoldering sea of blue.

Run.

It’s the only thought in your head as you jerk your hand away from his fingers.

Your body leaps into action, adrenaline pumping through your veins. White puffs of your short breaths flow around you as you dive into the nearest dark alley, hoping to disappear through a drain hole and lose your pursuer. 

But you don’t get far. 

Only a few minutes into your panicked race, the hard sole of a boot connects with the back of your knee. A shriek of pain tears from your throat as you tumble to the floor. 

Wincing, you lift your head.

The tall, lanky figure of the peacekeeper looms over you. Your chest seizes. He holds up the bright red fruit you tried to steal in his right hand. Sunlight limns his frame, threading silver in his white hair, making him appear almost angelic.

How deceptive when he is your doom.

If it weren't for him, you’re convinced you’d have gotten away with it. 

“Hey, I think you forgot this,” he deadpans.

Your brows knit at his casual tone. You wonder if he’s toying with you.

“Please, I… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Mirth illuminates his cerulean gaze as he scoffs, “So you meant to pay?”

Unsure what to respond, you choke on your words.

“I…”

Silence expands, its oppressive weight clogging your airways. 

You could lie, or try to. But he saw you, stopped you. He knows exactly what you attempted to do.

So instead of stating your case, you bolt to your feet. Ignoring the needles pricking at your knee where he kicked you, you attempt to flee again.

This time it’s barely seconds before he catches you.

He picks you up and slams you against the wall with frightening ease. Fighting him would be for naught. There is no strength left in you. Still, you try.

The pitiful attempts to claw at his bicep leave the peacekeeper unfazed.

His deathly grip on your neck doesn’t relent.

“Where do you think you’re going, birdie?”

“Please, my cousin needs me.”

He studies you and your stomach sinks at how empty his eyes are. An errant tear makes a slow descent down your cheek.

He plucks it, the soft pad of his finger tracing the salty trail.

“Stop crying. I’m not like them. You can trust me.”

“You’re a peacekeeper,” you retaliate, forehead creased in confusion. Peacekeepers exist to enact the Capitol’s will by any means necessary. Their name couldn’t be more misleading, as peace is rarely how they go about solving an issue. 

The blond’s cheek flares ever-so-slightly.

To your utter shock, his hold on your neck slackens.

You gulp a wide lungful of air, rubbing your throat where he held so tight. It’s sore. You wouldn’t be surprised if it were to bruise the next day. 

“My name’s Coriolanus. What’s yours?”

While he backs away, he’s still crowding your space in a way you don’t like. 

Stubborn lips remaining sealed, you glare at him. He steps away from you.

“You don’t want to say?” The corner of his plump lips twists upwards. “I’ll keep calling you bird then, since you keep trying to fly away from me.”

You gasp when he suddenly tosses the crimson fruit in your hands.

“Eat.”

His steely inflection is more order than suggestion. You scowl down at the fruit. Every cell in your body longs to take a bite of it…but you don’t.

“What?” you reply dumbly.

It has to be some kind of trap. Is the apple even safe to eat? Maybe this peacekeeper is the sadistic type and he wants to watch you wither in agony for his sick pleasure.

Still, the longer you peer at the luscious, colorful flesh of the fruit, the more your stomach growls, begging you to just take a bite even if it means running headlong towards your possible death.

Coriolanus heaves out a deep sigh.

“I can tell from the way you were eying that apple earlier that it’s been a long time, right?” he guesses, all too accurately for your liking.

His gaze holds yours.

“I know what it’s like to be hungry, sweet bird…” You go statue-still as he bends over to whisper in your ear, “So hungry, you’d do anything for it to stop.”

The faint scent of roses tickles your nose. You smelt it once before, on a lavish dress you spent hours sewing meant for one of the fancy ladies at the Capitol. You recall shoving the tiniest piece of the silk in your pocket and smelling it every chance you got. But the nice scent quickly faded.

Yet that same scent, that crisp, delicate, slightly dizzying aroma…It clings to the boy in front of you.

You glower at him.

“How would you even know? You’re one of them.”

His jaw ticks as his eyes flicker.

“Eat,” he insists, this time more firmly.

Your insides wrench. You could fight him on it, again. But you have an inkling that this boy, this Coriolanus, usually gets his way.

So you bite into the apple. 

The sweet juice that coats your tongue and chin afterwards is heaven. The savors explode in your mouth. You could weep. It’s been an eternity since you ate something this fresh and delicious.

But once you realize his curious stare is on you, you stop eating and hastily wipe your mouth and chin. 

“See? Isn’t it better?” he inquires smugly.

You don’t tell him how good it felt, especially after so long. Days, maybe weeks. You don’t know anymore. Every day tends to blend into the other here.

Instead, heated words pour out of you.

“Why are you helping me?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

You don’t like his cryptic demeanor. Nor his nice smell. Nor his striking eyes. Nor his sharp, handsome features.

Everything about Coriolanus seems so out of place in District 8.

After a few minutes of silence, he nods and walks away.

“See you around, sweet bird.”

A shiver travels along your spine.

You wish for the opposite, to never ever see him again. And though the words never escape the confine of your lips, it’s as if he could hear the unspoken venom sizzling the tip of your tongue.

Coriolanus smiles at you as he leaves.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Impossible Things

Prompt Day 2: Fireplace | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Temporary Canon Character Death | Tags: Post S4, Resurrection, Fix-It, Platonic Stobin, Pre-Steddie, The Party

Steve lights his fourth fire in three days. Stokes it, trying to get it really going, hotter, quicker.

"It's not even cold, dingus," Robin complains, and she's not wrong. If he's gonna have a fire burning all the goddamn time, he might have to run the air conditioning, year-round.

But he feels crazy. He keeps seeing things in the fireplace. Things that don't feel real, or right. Or maybe they feel too real and right. Maybe this house is haunted. A fire ghost? Is that a thing?

Robin sits next to him, and he watches the flames dance, making familiar shapes, faces. Impossible things. 

"Dingus, are you listening to me?"

He wasn't. Not at all.

"No, sorry."

"What are you gawking at?" Robin asks.

"A ghost," Steve says.

"A what?" Robin laughs, turning her head to see if he's kidding. He's not. Not really.

"A fire ghost?"

She cackles, but he's serious.

"Do you not see that?" Steve asks, because maybe he is crazy. But the flames in this fireplace take shapes, he's sure of it.

Robin watches the fire as intently as Steve is, then she says, "Holy shit."

The air is sucked out of his lungs.

"You see him?" Steve asks. 

"Eddie? Hell yes, I see him," she says, getting down on her hands and knees in front of the fire.

Steve follows. 

The fire dances, crackles and pops, flames flaring up. Embers floating. As if it knows they know, now.

"Eddie!" she shouts, "Are you haunting Steve's fireplace?"

There's no answer, but that doesn't stop Robin. Her wheels are already turning.

"How'd he get in there? How do we get him out of there? Is he a phoenix? Is he gonna rise from the ashes? We should call Dustin!" Robin rattles off, quicker and quicker by the thought.

Dustin is exasperated when he arrives, having flown halfway across the country. 

Steve's tired, eyes heavy. He's kept the fire burning, scared that Eddie might disappear if he lets it go out. That hasn't happened before, but he feels like now that they've acknowledged what they're seeing, that maybe they've interrupted, changed, the magic. 

Or whatever this is.

Maybe it's not Eddie at all.

"Are you sure you two aren't suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning? You did have the chimney inspected and cleaned before using this old thing, right?"

Well, no. Steve didn't. He didn't even know that was a thing. Whoops.

But he has CO detectors, and they aren't screaming at them, so it's probably not that.

"Just look, Henderson," Steve says, and Dustin squats between them. He doesn't react, and Steve is concerned that maybe they have somehow built up this shared delusion. 

"Oh shit," Henderson finally says, and Steve sags. 

"See? I told you, you little asshole. Eddie's in the fireplace."

"Well, excuse me for thinking that sounded crazy, Steve," Dustin snaps back, immediately rushing towards the phone. Calls are made. The weirdness has resurfaced in a totally unexpected way, and it's time to get the band back together.

It'd be helpful if Eddie could talk to them, but that doesn't seem to be an option. If he could run his mouth, Steve's certain he would be, incessantly.

They try witchcraft. Not that any of them especially believe in witchcraft, but they bought books, and are trying to spell him out of the fire.

It doesn't work. Nothing happens, nothing changes.

El lost her powers in the final showdown, and hasn't ever regained them. She stares at Eddie, face so close Steve's worried she's gonna lose her eyebrows, but she can't communicate or change things for him.

"Munson, Munson, Munson!" Mike yells, and they all look at him. He shrugs, "What? I thought he might be like Beetlejuice."

They all sigh. 

"We could burn something. Of his. See if that frees him," Joyce says, and they all turn to look at her. 

"What do we even have of his? It's been a decade?" Dustin questions. 

And they all look at each other. Steve has something, but there's no fucking way he's throwing it into a fire.

"Steve, you still have the battle vest, right?" Robin questions, and Steve wants to kill her. 

"We're not burning that on a hunch. What if that's what's tying him here, huh? Then what?"

Dustin runs up the stairs, and Steve gives chase. 

"We can try one pin, right?" Dustin argues, unbuttoning the Accept button from the vest, and Steve can concede to that. He's sure it's not gonna change shit.

"Fine," he snaps, but yanks the vest back into his own hands. 

Dustin stands in front of the fireplace, "Here goes nothing."

He tosses it in, and the fire flares so hot, Steve shields his face, pretty scared they may burn his house down.

But it settles, and Eddie is clearer. Like his image has been sharpened.

"That worked, right?" Dustin says. 

And they all kind of look at each other, like, yeah. It worked. 

Steve hands over the W.A.S.P pin.

After, Eddie looks even more solid.

"He's getting corporeal!" Dustin says.

"He's being punished?" Steve asks, brows furrowed.

"Jesus Christ," Dustin says, and well, excuse him. "Just do it, Steve."

Steve wants to bring the vest to his face, wants to hug it close, say goodbye, but feels too fucking weird about it with all these eyes on him. 

Instead, he squats down.

"This better fucking work, Eddie," he whispers, laying the denim on the logs, and the immediate flaming knocks him back onto his ass, but he hasn't been burned. 

It's a raging inferno in there, somehow contained, and they wait, frozen. 

Finally, Eddie steps out of the fireplace, looking exactly as he did the day he died, ten years ago.

Still sassy.

"Jesus H. Christ, do you know how many things I've haunted of yours, Harrington?"

"Uh…"

"The toaster. The mirror. That stray cat."

"I told you that cat was special!" Steve screams at Robin, "And you said no!"

The bickering, the blame, starts. But Eddie's here.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! 🔥

Notes: If there's one truth in Stranger Things, it's that Joyce Byers is never wrong and they should always listen to her.

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Birthday!!! some zuko and lu ten please?

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

They dock at Kyoshi Island and it's clear they've just suffered an attack by the Fire Nation - burnt buildings and everything covered in ash and more people than you'd expect with bandages wrapped around them. They're almost immediately swarmed by women in face paint and Sokka reaches for his boomerang, worried about their reaction to someone as clearly Fire Nation as Lee.

But Lee shouts, "Ami!" and a women jumps into his arms, clinging to him as the others press close and call out greetings.

Sokka feels himself relaxing. Not just because they're not attacking them, but he feels some of his suspicion towards Lee loosening as well. If people so recently the victims of the Fire Nation are at ease around Lee, maybe he's really not secretly a spy for them, or whatever.

Ami pulls back and sniffs. "They went inland and they took Suki and Kiho and they probably already," she stops, biting her lip.

Lee shakes his head. Sokka says, "They took them as hostages to keep your compliance. Dead hostages aren't much leverage."

His home and people were destroyed by the Fire Nation and they've been working to save the Southerners still stranded in their home and managing to avoid the Fire Nation. He's familiar with their tactics.

He has all their attention now. Lee places a hand on Ami's shoulder and says, "Sokka's right. We're going to get them back."

"How?" she demands. "They've camped out-"

"By the volcano," he says, an edge to his voice that makes Sokka uneasy. "I know. Don't worry, we'll sneak in." He pauses. "Well, Sokka will sneak in. I'm planning to just walk right up."

This has not been part of the plan they'd discussed. "Really? How do you think that's going to go? They'll just take you hostage too!"

Lee raises an eyebrow, holding out his hands and flame bursts from his palm. Several of the warriors lean back, but Ami stays exactly where she is. "You kept the armor from the soldiers you'd killed, right?"

"Yes," Ami says, grinning.

"No," Sokka objects, even though he knows it will work, for exactly the same reason he's been so wary of Lee and his father.

Regardless of their loyalties, they're still Fire Nation.

Still fire benders.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part viii)

a/n: today on a special angst-fluff episode, war is here. Claere faces off with Sylas and Cregan is pissed as fuck.

"The North remembers," they said, but in the face of dragonfire, memories of ash smouldered in secret.

The saying haunted Cregan Stark’s mind as he stared up at the approaching stone walls of Winterfell, each one steeped in history, in blood, in the scars of northern pride. The wildlings had brought ruin here before, flames that had charred whole villages and left deep wounds in the land and its people.

Now, with Sylas the Grim’s ruthless host threatening their borders, the North knew what it faced—a familiar terror comes to life in a new skin. And yet, this time, that terror was woven with something the North found even harder to bear: Claere. Their frustration with her burned as deep as their fear of Sylas. She was a tempest, one with a dragon’s shadow, and the tempest had now come home.

The ride back from Castle Cerwyn had been tense, Cregan keeping his jaw clenched as Claere remained distant, her silence like a wall. Her eyes held that distant, unreadable look he recognized all too well—the look that told him she was utterly unreachable elsewhere. And when the raven had come, when they’d learned the wildlings had already torn through Queensgate and were now barreling toward Winterfell, Claere’s decision was swift and absolute. She had urged her dragon, Luna, and flown on ahead, faster than any horse could travel, her need for solitude all too clear.

Back home, Winterfell was in turmoil. Word of Sylas’s raiders had spread quickly, stirring panic and outrage among the smallfolk and the highborn alike. Fear clung to the stone walls, and every murmur seemed to echo with the name of the wildling king who rode south of the Wall, the one who dared invoke a queen’s name—a southern majesty who bore a northern title, one that Winterfell was not wholly at ease with. But Cregan had no time for doubt or hesitation. His vassals, his bannermen—they would follow his lead or face his wrath.

In the great hall, the mood was dark and simmering, like a storm straining at its bounds. It has been this way ever since Claere had stepped foot into his home.

Lord Bolton, face sharp as a flint, crossed his arms and let his displeasure be known. “We’re to fight her war now, are we, my lord? Our sons and daughters—our lives spent to drive back the blood she’s drawn? What loyalty do we owe to a Targaryen?”

Cregan’s eyes darkened, his fists tight by his side, but he remained composed. “Our loyalty is to the North. This enemy does not care who reigns here; only Winterfell falls. And you will address Lady Stark with respect.”

Lord Ryswell, his brow heavy with disdain, shook his head. “But it is the White Dread's wings that drew their eye. This Sylas did not come for Winterfell—he came for her. Let her face him with her beast; let her burn them herself. Must we spill our blood to clean up her folly?”

Cregan’s hands trembled, his patience thinning like a frayed cord.

“If you would run when danger calls at our gates, then perhaps you belong south of the Neck, Lord Ryswell,” he spat, stepping toward him with a fury that made the air crackle. “Do not forget who leads here. You’re bound by the oath to fight for the North, and if you turn your back on that now, I will have your head before the wildlings can take it.”

Ryswell tensed, glancing around as other lords shifted uncomfortably. But he did not back down. “This is your queen’s doing, Lord Stark. She must carry the burden she’s brought upon us, and not cower behind our banners while Winterfell suffers.”

With a flash of uncontained rage, Cregan seized Ryswell by the collar, his grip vice-tight, fingers digging into the thick fabric as he hauled the lord off balance. The impact against the stone wall was brutal, echoing in the quiet tension of the hall, and Ryswell’s startled breath hitched, his eyes widening.

Cregan leaned in, his face mere inches from Ryswell’s, voice low and simmering with menace as he hissed, “If you question my wife's allegiance to the North, then you best prepare to prove yours. She has done more for my people than your risen banners.”

Lord Bolton dared to govern order over the Stark court. "My lord, please—"

“Let me make one thing clear." His voice reverberated louder. "I will fight for her, and the North will fight for her—whether you bend or break.”

He released Ryswell, who stumbled back with a dark glare, but Cregan paid no more heed. He swept his gaze over the others, a steely finality in his eyes.

“We stand together, or our realm falls.”

Unbeknownst to them, Claere lingered in the archway of the hall, a palm against the cool stone as if bracing herself against a tidal wave. She had known the risks, known the delicate line she walked when she ventured past the Wall. And yet, in the depths of her mind, she had believed the danger would end there—with her. That it would be her own fate to face, her choice to defend, and her consequence to bear. She had never thought it would ripple out, consuming not only Winterfell but every corner of the North in the threat of savage war. Now, with Sylas the Grim bearing down on them, the cost was spreading like poison through a wound, infecting all she held dear, casting a shadow over the very halls that had given her sanctuary.

The impact of her actions goaded her, as though Winterfell itself whispered its disappointment. She felt her stomach churn as Cregan's voice rang out, his fury cracking against stone and iron like thunder, defiant, desperate to protect her.

“And I will not allow any man here to see that happen.”

But she could feel the resentment in the lords' voices, their scorn a silent sentence upon her. Their words seemed to cut deeper than any northern frost, digging into her heart until the shame became unbearable.

Without a word, she turned away from the door, her footsteps echoing hollowly as she walked into the dim solitude of the hall.

Claere moved through the towering gates of Winterfell as if stepping out from a world she could no longer right. The northern wind tore at her cloak, pulling stray strands of silver hair across her face, but her gaze was steady, her jaw set with silent resolve.

Just beyond the walls, Luna lay blanketed in a thin dusting of fresh snow, her pearly scales glinting beneath as she shook herself free, the icy fragments scattering around her like stardust. Claere approached, running her hand along the dragon’s warm, rumbling hide, fingers tracing the edges of Luna's scales.

"Eman naejot addemmagon se odre," she said to herself and her dragon. I have to pay the price. Only me.

Luna’s golden eyes narrowed as if the dragon understood more than the simple cadence of her words, the fire at the heart of those depths a spark of both promise and warning. The dragon let out a low, vibrating hum, pressing her enormous head down toward Claere in something almost like tenderness. Claere, hands splayed on Luna’s snout, whispered into the space between them, her voice scarcely above a breath.

“Iksan zūgagon, Luna," she admitted in a whisper. "Kessa ao dohaeragon nyke?” I am scared, Luna. Will you help me?

The response was a fierce snort of smoke as if Luna were granting her blessing and all her reassurance. It was not enough.

Dutifully, Claere climbed the ropes of the saddle and mounted her steed, her knees pressing tight against Luna’s warm scales, and then, with a shout that cut the still air—“Soves, Luna!”—they took to the skies. Fly, Luna!

The winds sliced against her, battering her with an unyielding chill as they soared. She had forgone her riding leathers in the haste of her choice, the coarse wind whipping at her skirts and cloak, cutting against her skin. But the discomfort was a faraway thing and such was the spontaneity of dragonblood. She flew fast, intent, her mind ablaze with thoughts of everything she had left behind and what lay ahead. Her vision sharpened as she scanned the frozen lands below, hunting for signs of the enemy’s encampment.

And finally, there—sprawling like some savage scar against the land—a camp of tattered tents and ash-dusted fires spread in defiance of the snow.

The wildlings’ camp was a raw display of grit and disorder, tents lashed together with hide and bone, rings of fire smouldering where warriors gathered in restless clusters. The sight of her shadow looming overhead sent them into frantic motion; men and women darted for weapons, cries ringing out as they readied for the worst. But Claere had no intention of launching fire or fury from above. She descended steadily, bringing Luna’s menacing form to the ground with a long, deafening roar that sent nearby men staggering.

Two wildlings rushed forward, their faces painted in streaks of ash, axes drawn, arrows already nocked in their bows. They moved with lethal purpose, but Claere was unfazed, her gaze like tempered steel.

“I must speak to the one who calls himself Sylas the Grim,” she called, her voice emphatic, tenacious.

She could feel the wild energy of Luna at her back, a silent reminder of the fire she could unleash with a mere command. Her heart hammered in the pause, yet her expression held no threat, no violence. Instead, her intentions were more profound—steeped in duty and sacrifice, fueled by a desperate love that outweighed all her fears. She was not here to rain death but to offer herself to the one who wanted her, the one who had torn peace from her hands.

“Tell him the Dragon Queen in the North is here.”

X

Claere stepped into the dim tent, the heavy fabric rustling behind her as it closed, sealing her within a space that reeked of sweat, smoke, and damp fur. Her eyes adjusted to the flickering torchlight, revealing a figure looming at the centre—a man so solid and coarse that he seemed an extension of the savage north itself.

Sylas the Grim. He was far taller than Cregan, broad-shouldered and massive, his age betrayed by streaks of grey in his wild mane of red hair. He wore pelts and leathers, smeared with the earth and blood of countless battles and raids, and every inch of him seemed sharpened by a life spent enduring the elements and taking what he desired.

Two guards, as fierce as hounds, lingered on either side of him, but with a single dismissive flick of his wrist, they shuffled out.

"I want her to myself," he said to them.

Sylas’s mouth twisted into a grin that split his face into his bushy beard, yellowed teeth gleaming. His eyes traced her form with a gluttonous curiosity like she were some rare prey he’d finally snared after a long, arduous hunt. Claere moved further into the tent, her posture poised, her gaze inscrutable, her calm an unsettling contrast to the predatory air he exuded.

She dipped into a curtsey, uncertain how a man like this might wish to be addressed. “My lord, allow me a proper introduction. I am Claere Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

He let out a bark of laughter, coarse and unrestrained. “My lord? Am I your lord? I'll be King Sylas soon enough.” His eyes roamed over her, lingering at her shoulders, then her face, savouring every inch. “You’re too little for a queen. Just a baby. How old are you?”

A faint chill settled into her voice. “Six and ten, my lord. My mother is still the queen.”

Sylas’s smile widened, a feral gleam lighting his eyes. “And you will be someday. You're already a woman.”

The words hung between them, fraught with the ominous weight of his intent. Claere’s pulse quickened beneath her skin, but she remained as marble, knowing his hunger for power, for something beyond the life he’d known, radiated from every gesture. Her dragon, her birthright, the North—these were the spoils he craved. He leaned forward, his massive figure closing in, an aura of raw ferocity emanating.

Sylas's lips twisted into a grin that dripped with satisfaction as he stepped closer, his broad frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light around them. He folded his arms, leaning back with a smug, wolfish glint in his eye.

“Did you fly all this way for me?”

“I did, my lord.” Her voice was measured, smooth—a tempered blade he hadn’t yet managed to dull.

“Oh, I like it when you call me that,” he mused, his eyes glinting with perverse pleasure. “Makes me feel like a god.” He let the words roll over her, savouring each one, circling her like a predator with fresh meat. “So,” he continued, his voice lilting with mock surprise, “you’ve come to beg for mercy, then? The little queen, down on her knees? Not to kill the Stark boy?”

Claere lifted her chin, her expression as serene and cold as winter’s first frost. “You wanted me,” she said, her words quiet, unyielding. “Now you have me.”

A ripple of something feral passed through him, his grin widening into a leer, his pride feeding on her defiance.

“I don't plan on letting go. Now tell me, does the North know it bends to me through you?” His gaze roamed over her, possessive, as if she were no more than a prize he had finally claimed. “I wonder, does the wolf know that his doe strayed into the wild?”

“If you require words,” she replied, “then speak them plainly. But do not think to bait me.”

Sylas let out a bark of laughter, filling the tent with his raw, unrestrained mirth.

“Words, little queen?” he sneered. “No, I’ve got no need for words. Only the strength to take what’s mine.” He took another step toward her, his gaze alight with victory, his looming presence attempting to smother the quiet resolve in her eyes.

"Winterfell,” he paused, his gaze hardening, “the Iron Throne. And with you by my side, the North will rule the South.”

She saw it now, the intent beneath his words, as clear as day: he wanted her claim, her blood, her dragon—and through her, dominion over the entire realm. He sought the legitimacy of her claim, so unlike the Free Folk who lived outside the law. She felt the desire in his gaze sharpen, like a wolf that had tasted blood. Claere remained unbowed, every inch of her regal bearing intact, meeting his eyes with a steady defiance that amused him.

“You're a pretty girl. None are like you past the Wall—shiny things are rare in the white woods,” he mused, lifting a calloused hand to touch the edge of her lip with his thumb. His skin was rough, the gesture slow and deliberate, a feigned intimacy that carried a threat.

“I've heard about your kind. Nasty cunts, you lot. Kings with dragons for cocks. Queens that piss fire. Brother-fuckers. What were you doing out there in the snow, hm?”

His thumb lingered, the weight of it pressing against her lip, but her eyes were deadened, as though she were looking through him rather than at him. His proximity, his words—none of it shook her. She saw him for what he was, a man intent on conquest, and she would not give him the pleasure of rattling her.

“Only what’s trivial to your eyes, my lord,” she answered with measured calm, her gaze unwavering.

“Aye, maybe so,” he grunted, though the words fell bitterly from his mouth. His gaze hardened, refusing to be bested by her poise. “But you were still stupid enough to catch my eye.” His words held the bitterness of a hunter who’d finally cornered the game he’d long sought.

In truth, Sylas had spotted her months before, that slip of silver moving through the snow, a ravishing figure set apart from the northern world. He saw his chance then—a dragon rider alone, his path to dominance over more than just a scattered wildling host. He could claim the North through her, and if fate allowed, the world beyond it.

Finally, he moved his hand away and stood back, his grin widening. “But why’d you come to me? These are my lands now. You could’ve burned all my men from up there with that dragon and saved yourself the trouble.”

Claere gave a small, almost careless smile, the tilt of her head catching the dim candlelight in the tent. “You wanted me, didn’t you?” she replied, her voice smooth, level.

Sylas let out a scoff, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Came for a good fuck with a king?”

Claere blinked. “I've got that settled, my lord.”

“Ooh. No, no, that’s not it. I see it in those weird fuckin' eyes.” He bent to her eye level, the smell of woodsmoke and something sharper coming off him in waves.

“You came to kill me,” he said.

“Hmm.” Claere’s lips curved slightly, her smile a barely there promise, tinged with dark certainty. “Fortunately for you, it isn't my hands that bring your death.”

The smile faded from his face, leaving a flare of anger there, a crack in his façade. His eyes narrowed, and before she could move, his hand shot out and twisted in her thick braids, pulling her head back roughly, his face inches from hers. Claere stubbornly smothered a cry of pain in her throat.

“You think that wolf of yours is going to protect you, huh?”

Claere only sighed, her calm as impervious as ever, even as her hair tugged sharply. Her eyes, blank as winter’s endless fields, never left his face, every ounce of his threat barely a breeze against her. And just as he opened his mouth to press further, a shadow passed over the tent, the sound of heavy breathing growing closer—a thunderous exhale, deep as the earth.

“I was born with a guardian.” Claere countered softly. “My dragon is here. The wolf is a blessing.”

Sylas’s fingers twitched against her scalp, but his grip was weaker now, a flicker of doubt creeping into his predatory stare as Luna’s shadow shifted just beyond the tent walls, her breath a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the earth beneath them.

Claere’s eyes glinted with quiet defiance as she met his gaze, her lips barely moving as she murmured, “I could say the word.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Let her burn us both here, finish this battle before it ever begins. But my husband waits for me—and he’s ready to repay in kind.”

Sylas’s face twisted, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You think I'm scared of that boy? I killed his Night's Watch commander. I killed all those crows. I rode through the Wall for you, little queen, I don't care if he's shitting bricks when I put my axe in his head.”

“Strange,” she replied smoothly, “that you would bring all these men to capture a single girl before you march on King's Landing.” Her gaze drifted over him, cool and measuring. “Or is that all you can manage, my lord? Three thousand strong, and not a one with the grit to face the boy who stands in your way?���

He sneered, tightening his grip on her hair, another now closed around her neck, yet something in his posture had faltered, his shoulders stiffening. “I don’t need to fight him to take what’s mine.”

“Then why not march to Winterfell yourself?” Her smile was taunting, almost pitying, like a spark dancing in the shadows. “Do you fear he’ll be waiting for you at the gates? Do you fear he'll cleave your head before you can cross him?”

Sylas’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes blazing with something close to fury.

"I've seen Cregan Stark fight," she went on. "He doesn’t tire, doesn’t yield. Your three thousand could be thirty thousand, and it would make no difference. You cannot break him, he is winter itself."

His grip on her hair tightened. “Careful, girl. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

“But I am,” Claere replied, unruffled, leaning in until her voice was a whisper only he could hear. “You know it as well as I do. Your strength lies in numbers, yet here you are—grappling with a girl and a shadow.” She leaned back, bored now. “Go home, Sylas, if you value the lives of your men. They didn’t come here to die for your pride.”

Sylas’s sneer softened, a slight uncertainty that only strengthened her resolve. He might have come to conquer, but at that moment, it was clear who held the true power in the tent.

A sudden blink released him of hesitation. His fingers roughly released Claere’s hair with a grudging smirk, as though her words had somehow shifted the game in his mind. He let her step back, looking her up and down as if appraising a newfound bounty. A flicker of excitement gleamed in his eyes—a dark eagerness that reeked of arrogance.

“Go on, then,” Sylas drawled, waving her away with a lazy flick of his hand. “Run back to your wolf and tell him I’m coming. No more raiding, no more warnings. I'll take his head his doe and the entire North at Winterfell’s gates myself.”

Claere held his gaze as she stepped back, unruffled, allowing a cool smile to curve her lips. She brushed her hands down her silver curls, arranging them around her shoulders patiently.

“Tell him yourself. I’m certain he’d love to hear it from you. My husband loves a good fight, you see.”

Sylas laughed, a booming, feral sound. “Oh, I will. I’ll bring him to his knees, make him watch while I put a prince in your belly. You’ll forget that Stark soon enough, little queen, or he'll just go deaf from hearing you scream.”

His smile was wide, boastful, but behind it lingered the faintest hint of unease—a silent recognition of the words she’d left with him, like whispers of ice drifting through the heat of his fury.

“Primitive talk from a primitive man. You’d better bring all of your legions, then,” she replied, her voice soft, but her words as pointed as any blade. “You’ll need them.”

“Little silver-haired bitch,” Sylas indistinctly growled under his breath, as if speaking aloud would bring forth the White Dread's fiery ire.

And with that, she politely inclined her head and turned, stepping out into the icy winds with her chin held high, leaving Sylas in the shadow of her dragon’s looming presence, casting him in darkness.

X

Cregan sat hunched over a sprawling table strewn with hastily drawn maps, half-finished sketches of battle formations, and advice from every corner of his bannermen. Some had urged caution, wary of the wildlings’ numbers and the risk to their forces. Others, bold and battle-worn, advocated for a bold strike north, encouraging him to meet Sylas with all the fire and fury of Winterfell’s strength. Yet for all their words, Cregan found himself constantly drifting back to one thought—to ride north alone, with Ice at his back, and hack down the wildling scourge himself.

The capriciousness of his decision kept him so absorbed he didn’t hear the door open or her soft steps on the stone floor. It wasn’t until she brushed past him, a warm hand resting on his shoulder, that he looked up, startled. All the exhaustion in his eyes fled, a reaction to whenever she graced him with her presence. He sat up straighter, eager to have her close.

Claere. She wore a faint smile, so casual, so beautiful, like she hadn’t spent the last days keeping to herself, hiding in plain sight, avoiding him like winter's fever. Before he could speak, she leaned in and kissed the arc of his cheek.

"Husband," she greeted quietly.

He stilled, pleasantly confused, but found himself responding instinctively, returning her kiss with a soft press of his lips to her temple. She stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back, violet eyes inspecting his plans, her experience an unspoken mystery. A hurricane in the guise of a summer breeze.

Then, he noticed it—a faint, unfamiliar scent. His brow furrowed as he sniffed the air again.

“What is that?”

She held his gaze, placid as ever. “Dragon. I was riding Luna,” she answered, her tone simple, almost childlike. Her eyes sparkled with innocent mischief, but the smell lingered, feral and sharp, more like wild meat than dragon flight.

He looked closer, and that’s when he saw it—a sickly green, darkening bruise hidden under the veil of her silver hair, two thumb-sized marks pressed just below her hairline. He stood up, anxiety overwhelming in a second, reaching toward her, but she sidestepped him smoothly, her gaze sliding to the floor.

“I fell,” she murmured, her voice light as air.

He let out an incredulous laugh, reaching for her chin to tilt her face toward him. “Here I thought you despised lies.”

Claere’s cool, unflinching gaze remained fixed on the floor for a long, unbearable second before she lifted it, unbothered by his anxieties.

"I flew to the wildling camps on the undern. To meet with Sylas the Grim.”

For a heartbeat, there was only stunned silence.

Cregan's hand dropped from her chin, falling to his side as if struck. Finally, when her situation registered, the words came, heated and fierce.

“You what?” Cregan’s voice was low, simmering. He rubbed at his eyes, sighing out, before he pointed to her bruise. "He did that then?"

She nodded. "I pushed him too far. My mistake."

“Are you mad?" he hissed.

She swallowed hard, stroking at the numbing bruise on her neck, and said nothing.

He flouted her concerning remark. "I defended you to my council—to men who would sooner see you gone than risk their lives for you! I’ve called all my banners, raised every able sword in the North—for you—and you thought it wise to stake your life before that wildling scum?”

He looked at her, half-expecting her to flinch under his fury. But she only watched him back, observant, enduring as stone, her lips pressed thin. Her calm only ignited him further.

“I spent hours preparing our defences, convincing them to stand with you, while you—” he clenched his fists—“while you went and met with the very man who could've struck you down with his bare hands. Alone!”

The crack came swift and sharp—a fire flaring to life behind her violet gaze, a flash of defiance as fierce as the flame inside her.

“I don't care, Cregan. I wanted to do the same for you.” she snapped, her silver tongue lashing. “I want to defend you. To protect you, before Sylas. For you.”

A tremor silenced the room. It was the rarest thing, her rage—rare, and somehow more daunting than his. It stole his breath and wiped the words clean off his tongue.

Cregan stared, thunderstruck, a storm gathering behind his eyes. Her words seemed to settle into him only slowly, like a wound too deep to notice at first. Claere’s fingers twitched at her sides, her lips pressed tightly together as if she were struggling to hold back her own words. She looked away, jaw set with a resolve that didn’t quite hide the tension beneath.

He exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Claere…” he began, voice rough with something caught between anger and hurt, “Do you even realize how careless this was, love?”

Her words came out painful. "It's all my fault."

His expression shifted, his initial anger tempered by an ache in his gaze as her admission, bare and raw, settled over the room like the aftermath of a storm.

“It’s my fault,” she echoed, her voice breaking just a little. She didn’t look at him, didn’t dare meet his eyes as the shame tightened in her throat. “I did this. They are right.”

Cregan felt his own frustration melt, a tide pulling away to reveal the harshness of his own words. He moved closer, his arms reaching out but stopping short, hovering as if afraid she’d slip through his fingers.

"Sweetling. Claere," he said, his voice a mere plea. "There's no use in laying blame, especially on you. You know I would raze half these men myself before I let them tear you down."

She shook her head, her hands clenching at her sides. “I've been an impediment for too long. We both know it. I expected things would change with time. Yet I'm playing at something I never will be...” She trailed off, and a heavy silence settled between them, her own helplessness almost unbearable.

Like hell, he would let her forget her worth for a piece of piss.

He reached for her, fingertips tracing the edge of her cheek before coming to rest under her chin, tilting her face toward him with evident resolve.

“The North will fight, but not out of fear or obligation. Because of you,” he declared to her, his voice rough with feeling. “You are of Winterfell now, Claere. And for that, we will fight.”

For a moment, her gaze flickered with uncertainty, her lips pressed tight, yet he held her there in his arms, grounding her with his assurance.

Gently, he brought her into a kiss, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness that spoke of comfort and promise alike. His hands cradled her face, his fingers threading softly through her hair as if each touch could smooth away the weight she carried. The kiss was slow, unhurried, he tasted the salt of her worry and the steel of her will, sensing the guardedness that lingered beneath her quietude. Yet his touch was firm, anchoring, a proof that there was nowhere safer, no one more ready to bear her burdens with her.

When he drew back, he lingered close, his forehead resting gently against hers, his eyes flashed with something like awe, and a low chuckle escaped him.

“You must tell me, how in the gods’ names did you manage to meet Sylas and walk away with but a bruise?”

Claere shrugged with quiet, unassuming grace, her gaze sliding past him as though recalling an idle, inconsequential memory. “I spoke with him, that’s all. Said what needed saying.”

He continued to prod. “That is all?”

“Yes. I simply suggested that if he truly wanted our kingdom, then why he hadn’t contested the King in the North himself instead of raiding innocent villages .” Her eyes met his with a calm intensity. “It seemed only fair.”

He let out a surprised laugh, brows lifting, “Fair? You took his mind off his prize and sent him marching for my gates, thinking he had something to prove?”

She simply pursed her lips, cool and composed, as if she hadn’t, with a few words, diverted the entire course of Sylas’s plan. “A bit of truth and a bit of pride can go a long way with a man like him. I thought you’d understand that.”

Her eyes flashed, calm yet watchful, and beneath her delicate, almost passive demeanour, there was a quiet ferocity that struck him. She had always worn her strength in the subtlest of ways, but in this moment, he saw her for what she truly was—a fierce, unyielding force wrapped in silks and cool smiles.

The words hit their mark—a subtle, artful dig, he had somehow overlooked.

“Why would I understand that?” Cregan’s voice was thick with mock offence, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Claere only arched a brow, sidestepping him with an elegance that was more of a dare than a retreat. “Oh, you’ve always had a certain… charm,” she replied, her tone deceptively light. “Men like you, like him—always so confident of their own strength. Pride blinds.”

“Pride blinds, is it? Huh, c'mere, girl. You dare speak to your lord that way?” he challenged, feigning a warning as he lunged forward, catching her around the waist. He lifted her clean off the floor with a mischievous groan, her soft laughter lilting as he spun her in a playful circle.

“Cregan!” Her laughter slipped out in breaths, both startled and, at last, easy, though her hands settled in half-protest against his shoulders. When he set her down, her cheeks were lightly flushed, her smile lingering. It was as if some sense of normality, away from the chaos, had come back into their lives.

“Guess it’s true then,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. He urged a line of kisses from her ear to her throat, nuzzling his nose into the soft arch of her neck.

She slid her hands up to his neck, scraping her fingers lightly into the hair at his nape. "And you’re just stubborn enough to prove it.”

“I thought I’d married a princess with a pet dragon,” he teased, nuzzling into the soft curve of her neck, “but it seems I’ve got myself a queen with the cunning of a shadowcat.”

She raised a brow, almost daring him to press further. “And does that surprise you, my lord?”

His laughter boomed out, genuine and unrestrained, as he spun her again in a wide circle. "Not one damned bit."

X

Cregan stood tense in the night, sleep far from him, his silhouette sharp against the faint light filtering in from the slivered moon. The night air was thick with chilling doom, yet inside their chamber, Claere lay curled in quiet repose, her face softened by the kind of peacefulness that had eluded her during the day. It was almost bizarre, the way she could sleep so soundly amid the tension that hung over Winterfell. But perhaps, he thought, this chaos was the very place where she found her solace.

His gaze wandered to the heavy shadows beyond the walls, tracing the dark line of the woods against the horizon. The forests seemed to breathe with a life of their own, brimming with anticipation. He felt it ploughing on his chest, a premonition building like a slow storm.

Then it came—the steady, unmistakable drumming of many hooves and, seconds later, the crackling glow of fiery beacons lighting the night. The panic was quick, the sentries efficient, but somehow, Cregan had known. It was as though he’d been waiting for it all along.

He reached for Ice, his grip steady on the ancient sword’s hilt, and started toward the door. His stride displayed his finality, purposeful toward the death that came for him.

Sylas was here sooner than he’d expected, but in a way, the sooner, the better.

The crunch of hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor, and a guard approached, his face pale under the torchlight. “Lord Stark! Sylas the Grim… he’s come alone, my lord. Just rode up and called for you. What are your orders?”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed. The arrogance—or the conviction—it took to ride unguarded to Winterfell’s gates spoke of Sylas’s brutality and audacity, a message he knew all too well from his Free Folk brothers.

But then, a thought struck, clear as the northern wind. That meant Claere’s plan had worked—her brilliant, precarious little gamble had actually lured him here.

“Alone,” he murmured, almost to himself, and a fierce grin ghosted across his face. His clever Claere had managed to provoke the beast to come alone, his defences abandoned. Sylas had foolishly fallen for it.

With a calm that belied his steely resolve, Cregan replied to the guard, “Open the gates. If he came for a reckoning, then I’ll meet him myself.”

He felt the chill in his blood turn to iron as he stepped into the night.

X

thank you for reading! I'm so sad to be nearing the end :(

question for my loveliest people: who do you imagine as Sylas the Grim? I imagine someone with the same features (but nowhere as close in character) as Tormund Giantsbane.

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[gremlinmodetweeker]

König AU Writing Masterlist

Masterlist

Konig Dump

Happy Tails:

KorTac decided to rent some space in a small animal adoption cafe to provide an animal therapy program for their agents. König came for the snacks.

Intro [1] [2] [3]

Summoned!CoD AU

Reader, or Summoner, was forced by the military to summon a beast of war to use in battle. Unfortunately, Summoner isn't great at controlling themselves, so they accidentally summoned a being far too powerful for any of you to control.

Intro

None of Your Shit

Ever Watchful

An Ant Among Men Among Gods Among Cosmos

Kiss the Ocean Kiss Yourself (First Kiss)

Accidental Meteor Showers

An Unexpected Appearance of Softness

A Question Best Left Unanswered

Sweets and Sours and Maggots

Circles of Stars in Cosmic Waltzes

Writhe Beneath Me

Silly Games for Silly People

A Step Through Time, A Step Closer

A Different Definition of Ash

In The Heart of My Mother I Laugh

Mistakes Meld Realities Together

Paper Trails Leave Bleeding Hearts

Extras

The Best Song for Summoned!CoD

Nice Kidnapper!König

To live is to suffer. Your existence feels meaningless, and you know that if you dropped off the face of the earth, nobody would remember your name. Your one chance of happiness was speaking to a nice masked man at a bar, but your 'friends' had cut off your time and stolen you away. Little did any of you know, he'd steal you back soon enough.

Intro [1] [2]

First Time Out of the Basement

Flickering Shadows Hide the Light

Cream and Honey and Thorns and Nettles

Ablutions with Acid

Carve the Fat

The Possibility of an Open Window

Do You Miss What You Had? Do You Miss Who I Was?

Long Pig

Read Me To Sleep, Let Me Drift Away

I Entered Daniel's Den and I Saw the Truth Before Me

A/B/O Universe

In a world where military soldiers are forcibly paired up with partners to produce more soldiers, König is paired with an omega O, and has to deal with the new changes in his life.

Intro

My Ever Empty Bed

An Olive Branch Among Thorns

Declivities

Two Can Play At That Game

To Market to Market to Buy a Fat Hog

Aren't You Tired Yet?

I Sit With You And Cry For What Could Have Been

The House is Burning, and Everyone is Laughing and Smiling [1] [2]

Kinktober

Ghostbusters AU:

Who ya gonna call? GHOSTBUSTERS

New Recruit

A Conversation with Those Who Laugh at Death

You're a What Now?

Basement Bros

Infection!AU

You've managed an off-grid farm ever since you parents passed. It's been years, but you've endured the winters and grown to be an incredible homesteader. However, that was before the lights went out, and the barracks north of you went to shit.

Monster Trainer!Cod

Reader, code name Handler, is assigned by higher ups to be the Designated Operator of König, a rowdy and difficult-to-control jotunn/nachtkrappe shifter hybrid with a strange history of 'accidents' with his previous handlers. Your best bet to get by is to speak to others on base, but nobody is forthcoming with information.

Talking Heads Roll On Floors

Headaches Split my Skull, Stop Talking

Mischief and Mayhem

A Knot Undone Spills Forth Endless Possibilities

Break Down Build Up

Phantom of the Opera!AU

Inspired by a glorious ask, a version of Phantom of the Opera where König is our beloved phantom trying to save reader from the horrible fate of being seduced by a lover from the past with a dangerous agenda. König is a twisted man, but it takes a dark soul to recognize another, and so he will do whatever he can (from the shadows) to save his beloved songbird.

The ask the inspired it all

A Man Among Ruins

Lights Go Out I Wake Up

Cannibal King!AU

Taking place in the world of Sons of the Forest, reader is trapped on a remote island. Soon she is kidnapped by a cannibal king. Once by his side, she learns that life in the woods isn't as painful as expected, adn that humanity comes in many forms.

King Cannibal Conquer Quest

Rest Well Reign Strong

Fuck Me Like A Bitch So I May Love You More

Stars Whisper Prophecies into Waiting Wells

Sweet Like Honey Suckles, Bloody Like Venison

Local Executioner!König

Living in a small village leads to a tight-knit community. When you father left to be an adventurer after your mother passed in childbirth, you were taken in by the village baker, your uncle. You always avoided the public executions, but your uncle gets sick and can't go out to market to sell his buns on the very day an execution is slotted. You must go, and there you find a cursed outsider who sparks your interest.

Carve Out a Place for Me to Sing

Hope is in Buns, Life is in Stars, Promises are in Vain (Pt 2)

Behind The Dew You Sing To Me (Pt 2) (Pt 3)

Cat Hybrid!KorTac

Horangi and König are sick and tired of roughing it on the streets. They were born and bred to be soldiers, but the batch of kittens that were meant to be made into KorTac's next greatest soldiers escaped into the city, they had to grow up on the streets. They made their little gang, but Horangi and König always wanted more. One day, reader comes along and finds two sick kittens on the street. Unable to stop herself, she brings them in and nurses them back to health. She immediately regrets her decisions.

Intro

Konig and Horangi Refs

Hunters

Horangi Wink

Horangi's Hoard Art

Meeting the Human Forms (First Time)

Cuddling Konig

Move comic

Food Quality Ask

Get Out of There! Comic

Devourer of Treats Ask

Child Locks Ask

Buzzing Static Burns The Silence Between My Ears (Ask)

Art from This Post

[slytherizz]

Fight or Flight - Sebastian Sallow/F!MC

Summary: Sometimes sleeping dogs don't lie.

Two years after his uncles death and with Anne missing the last remaining Auror who scents deception requests a testimony from the only person witness to what really happened between Sebastian and Solomon in the catacombs that day. In a bid to protect those memories and keep him out of Azkaban their marriage is arranged - A marriage Sebastian is hell bent on putting a stop to.

Word count: 15,000 (remember when I said I’d keep it under 10k)

Tags/Warnings: Arranged Marriage, 18+, Explicit Sexual Content, Smut, Angst, Masturbation, First Time

Link: You can find the complete fic on Ao3.

A/N: Sebastian ‘my wife’ Sallow. To the anon who requested this, I’m sorry it’s so late but it was so much fun to write.

Sebastian is almost certain he’d been on the receiving end of a lethal confundus charm. Either that or he was at present suffering a massive life altering haemorrhage somewhere amongst the sun deceptively warming his cheeks and the familiar groan of the dragon bones anchored above them, as it tilted its great head in greeting when they'd arrived in Hecate's office. Full of mysterious tombs and the lingering scent of smoke. Ash trampled so tightly into the grooves in the floorboards he doubted even the house elves could scour out the smell. 

He’d gotten too comfortable. No. Down right complacent as of late and now his psyche in a riotous act of self-preservation was giving him a blistering slap back into reality. 

Pull yourself together. 

Sebastian dug his nails into the soft flesh of his palm. He hissed at the sharp pain as he broke the skin. Felt the blood prickle hot against his sweat slicked palms as it beaded along the thin superficial wound. Uncomfortable. Stinging. And far, far too real. 

“What-?” he managed to croak around a lump in his throat. Praying to Merlin that if this wasn’t a dream it was some elaborate and albeit cruel practical joke. 

“Spousal Privileges,” Hecat repeated. Matter of fact. Her features were drawn and to his dismay betraying no hint of amusement. 

Sebastian choked violently on his own saliva. A hacked cough, raw against his throat. As if the wind had been knocked out of him by a patient and vindictive phantom.

“What this means is you couldn’t be forced to give a testimony or surrender any memories pertaining to anything to do with Mr Sallow. With his sister still missing, the only people who know what really happened in that catacomb are the two of you. If you can’t be forced to corroborate this theory that has been gaining traction at the Ministry that’s the way it stays,” his professor continued to address the witch beside him, unmoved by the blood draining rapidly from his face. 

Her eyes were fixed intently on Hecat, chin raised as she refused to meet Sebastian’s increasingly panicked eye. He shifted in his seat towards her. Turning rapidly back and forth between her and their professor. 

Waiting. A heartbeat and then more passed. Mounting up until it became a deafening drum in his ears. 

He wanted her to laugh. Let it loose. Burst the dangerous tension mounting with every second this insanity stretched on for. Most pathetically of all - he wanted her to save him. Wanted to watch her face crease with laughter at the absurdity of what Hecat was saying. Cling to some sense of normalcy, her stability by his side whilst the rest of him was spiralling out of control.

She was uncharacteristically still in her chair. As frozen as the statue of the mourning lover in the courtyard. Her fist clenched so tightly in the pleats of her skirt her knuckles blanched. A half finished braid she’d been fiddling with behind her ear hung abandoned. Not a shadow of humour remaining. 

“Why now? It’s been years since…”  she asked, with a more measured tone Sebastian felt the situation did not warrant.

She spared him a glance which did little to put him at ease. If anything the serious crease to her brow set him on a razor's edge. 

Sebastian was unravelling. The thread he’d used to stitch back together a semblance of a life was pulling apart at an alarming rate. And the only two people who had any hope of holding him back together were entertaining this insanity. 

“Some of Miss Sallow’s effects were uncovered at the former Feldcroft residence. It seems no one had tended to the home since your Uncle passed…unexpectedly. My contact at the Ministry informs me that there's only one Auror pushing for those memories. Sergeant Tuttle. Old guard. Worked closely with your uncle when they were both juniors in the department. The rest are happy to let Solomon’s memory remain as it has been for the past two years - the heroic final act protecting his young charges from a horde of uncontrollable inferi,” she paused and Sebastian felt the weight of every word. “Personally I am inclined to agree.”

Hecate’s already thin lips pulled so tight they almost entirely disappeared. Her inscrutable brown eyes peeling back the curtain seeing far beyond the truth to the crux of him. Weighing his mettle. And he wasn’t sure she’d be impressed at what she found. 

Because what he was - was careless. Sebastian supposed he could argue that his distress over losing his sister had made it too painful to return. Knowing Anne was not there, Feldcroft seemed rather pointless. 

But really all he’d been was too eager to turn his back on that hovel that had never been his home. Ivy grew thick over its stones and he hoped one day it would pull it down entirely. No one had touched the wards in over a year. Perhaps when he’d boxed up his feelings and shoved them away in his desperation to move past what he had done, he didn’t consider the possibility that there were others out there who, unlike him, may not want to move on so hastily from Solomon's death. 

Anne certainly hadn’t. 

“With you two being so close, this is the cleanest option-” Hecate continued. 

“I don’t bloody care about clean!” Sebastian broke from his stupor. Fist slamming on the table rattling the spoon from where it rested against his saucer. “Tell me the other options. I don’t care how messy they are. I’ll do them.”

“Perhaps I should rephrase,” Hecat said sharply. “This is your only option. And you’d do well not to leap to such dramatics if you want this to work, Mr Sallow. In particular I’d advise against taking such a tone with me.” 

Sebastian didn’t care. He’d already geared up to argue back against this preposterous idea when the statue of the witch beside him suddenly came to life. As if Pygmalion himself had loved her into life just to spite Sebastian. 

“We’ll do it,” she said firmly. 

Sebastian choked again, head snapping to look at her. “You can’t be serious!” 

She simply glared back at him, as if he wasn’t the only reasonable person left in the room. “I’ve kept you out of Azkaban this long-“

Their professor cleared her throat, having little patience for the squabblings of teenagers that was beginning to unfold in her office. It set Sebastian even more on edge. She’d thrown a bomb into their lives and was now regarding him as some petulant child causing a scene. As if instead while he was scrambling to hold it together she expected him to thank her for it. 

“I’d choose your words more carefully in front of an audience but I admire the passion. If you want this to succeed you’ll have to make them believe this. Believe you. You can’t cast any doubt on the reason for any of it. A young couple, so in love they simply cannot wait to be married.”

***

It was like taking a match to a forest doused in kerosine. How quickly word could spread overnight when students kept such close quarters and they were eager for anything to save them from revision. Whispers billowed up from steeped mugs. Steam laced with secrets curled around their lips. Huddled so tightly together they looked like hydras. Each set of eyes alight with amusement. Teeth bared ready to feast on their speculation. 

From the moment Sebastian had stepped into the Great Hall he’d felt it. The oppressive shift to the atmosphere that usually welcomed him each morning. Clouds dark, heavy with the foreboding rain swirled on the enchanted sky. At least it was fitting.

Instinctively he sought her out. Looked for hers amongst the hundreds of eyes turned towards him. Which he pointedly ignored instead following the remaining half who stole glances towards her. 

Blue. Green. Brown. Shifted between them assessing to see what they might do. 

She was boxed into the middle of the table by Onai and Sweeting with Reyes taking up the spot across from them. A vicious hound guarding her flock ensured even the most brazen little wretch who considered interrupting would think twice - give her wrath a wide berth. 

Reyes to her credit - snarling banshee that she was - looked as deeply horrified by the pathetic silver band on her friend's finger as Sebastian felt it deserved. 

They’d transfigured it hastily from a pair of silver spectacles once they’d stumbled out of Hecat’s office the previous evening. One she kept in an odd tangle of items in her satchel and the rushed magic had already begun to tarnish its appearance. It was a wonder anyone actually believed them with how dull and thoughtless it looked sitting on her hand. 

If her smile wasn’t so tight, or her laugh a little too airy she would be executing Hecat’s ludicrous scheme to perfection. 

Sebastian swallowed around the lump in his throat and sheepishly changed course. Rerouted himself away from the group of witches throwing his bag down on the bench and slumping into a seat at the Slytherin table. Which seemed to delight some of the onlookers. Clearly humiliation was a good seasoning for eggs, he thought as he poured himself a cup of tea from the pot and took out his potions essay in an attempt to look busy enough no one would suspect exactly why he was sitting alone. Or worse, try and talk to him. Not that they would dare when his face looked as thunderous as the sky overhead. It didn't, however, stop him from overhearing their animated gossiping. 

‘Do you think she’s…you know?’ 

‘Obviously! Who in their right mind gets married a month before they leave school? Clearly they’re in a rush before she starts to y’know...’ one girl smirked with an exaggerated flourish over her stomach.

Sebastian shot a glare across to the gaggle of Ravenclaw’s in the year below. Who giggled even more loudly when they caught his eye, one turning pink from the tips of her ears to well past the neckline of her jumper. Sebastian on the other hand felt like someone had doused him in a bucket of water from the lake. 

If Reyes didn’t skin him for the insulting piece of jewellery she certainly would if she suspected he’d gotten her favourite flying partner up the kyte. 

Sebastian tried to focus on his potions essay. List even a single ingredient of ‘Felix Felicis’ which was proving to be impossible when behind him a brazen fourth year proclaimed and loudly he’d caught them sequestered away between the stacks of the restricted section - her body bent over a desk. Sebastian’s grip on the quill tensed as he strained himself to write the differing effects between wyrm and dragon scale on a potion - and not a very vivid description of what he apparently looked like on his knees buried between her thighs. Ink blotted on the parchment. 

Sod Hecat on ‘selling it’. Why did they need to go to such lengths when apparently every gossiping vulture was content to click their beak and do all the work for them? 

Surely Azkaban couldn’t be worse than this? 

Well, that was delusional - but if he overheard one more person comment on if her robes looked bigger he was more than likely going to do something that would get him thrown in Azkaban regardless. 

Sebastian had anticipated suspicion but he still wasn’t prepared for how much it would chafe. 

He knew if they were not at the centre of this farce, the two main players on the stage they would have jovially picked apart their performance too. She would have speculated over their sanity as she picked idly at her cauldron cake. Made some snide comment about being too eager to get his leg over. He’d bet her a galleon they’d see the proof in nine months and she would have snorted, undignified unladylike into her pumpkin juice. 

Being the subject of this speculation however was mortifying. 

Would that be next? Bringing a child into the fucking mess he’d made just to cover his own back? If the thought of dragging her into a marriage him feel ill it paled in comparison to the feeling of crippling dread that conjured. 

But would she want that one day? In a young witch's sacrifice to keep him had she truly considered all the things she was giving up in his stead. Things she may not know she even wanted until the opportunity had already been bartered and sold off for the price of his freedom. What kind of man was he to take the hope of any kind of family from someone who already had none to show for it? Take away the chance for someone to love her. 

Or maybe she never intended to give up on that particular dream. And Sebastian would be expected to play his part - the cuckolded husband. 

Work late until the candles burned down to the wick to give her lover time to retreat. Share her with one; or with many. 

Vow now to never let her go without. 

Even go as far as to raise her children as his own. Glamour their cheeks with foreign freckles he’d wish were inherited. Brand them with the Sallow name with ink on thin parchment but not their blood; their ties to him just as flimsy and performative as hers.

Her easy smile as she lathered honey onto her toast set his teeth on edge. Sebastian felt in that moment like he never really knew her at all. Head pounding Sebastian stuffed his ink pot and notes back into his bag. Abandoned his breakfast in a rush to get out of the stifling hall. Away from the whispers that he knew would also be deafening in her ears. Perhaps even more so.

‘I didn’t even know they were courting. It’s a shame he’s off the market.’

‘Here’s the thing - I don’t think they were. Clearly, he’s marrying her to do the right thing. Now that she’s trapped him with a baby.’

She caught his eye, her eyebrows stitched together in concern but it did not offset the rigid lock of her furious ticking jaw. Teeth set, clamped together as if Hecat had clamped a muzzle on a fucking dragon and then handed her chains to Sebastian. 

Shamefully, he couldn’t bring himself to hold her gaze. Couldn’t even bear to face her in that moment despite knowing he was the reason she had to listen to these lies spread. He should tell her he was sorry. But instead he fled. 

Complete fic can be found on Ao3.

[circeyoru]

Collection of Overlords _ Part 11 = Requested

[Alastor x Soul Owner of All Overlords!Reader]

Part 1 — Part 1.5 — Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5 — Part 6 — Part 7 — Part 8 — Part 9  — Part 10 — Part 11 (here) — Part 12 — Part 13

Like dominos, one thing led to another as predicted

With Alastor motivated to do his absolute to please you, Husk’s hellish training and push to be a worthy Overlord reached its heights. Though, to not cause suspicion to the other residents of the hotel, namely Angel, Husk made appearances here and there just so no one would claim that Alastor was being unreasonable

As for Velvette, she was being mentored by Rosie and Carmilla. It started with just exploring her new title as a ‘Threater Demon’. Her eye in fashion, her want to command, and her presentation skills were strong. Her role in your collection was to project information and messages you want Hell to know about

Because with Hell’s win over Heaven, big changes were bound to come. Not to mention, Trick would be wanting some action on their side and not just to watch their realm fret over yours. You understand the sentiment, after all, you enacted the system for Overlords for that sole purpose in the first place

Now, it was a lucky thing that the Vees actually divided territories before Velvette went solo, because those served as her base of operations and her new home. With Carmilla’s help in construction, Velvette has her own building to call home and workplace. With Rosie’s pointers, Velvette was capable of recruiting talents of worth to her growth

As an Overlord should, Velvette gathered souls to her side through contracts and slowly started to build her own base and support. Just as Alastor was supporting Husk in such a task, albeit it was more complicated since Husk was still under Alastor’s leash at the moment

Her souls comprised of individuals from the fashion and entertainment industries, not too different from her former work associates, so she was able to handle things all on their own. However, there was one thing that she made clear to her people or demons, which is; she was no long part of the Vees and when they sign a contract with her, it’s only to her service

That was something you’re quite proud to hear her say. Even when she is technically starting from rock bottom, she is not using anyone’s name to give herself a boost to start strong and fast, she was using her own. Granted that you allowed Carmilla and Rosie to help, but they were only serving as guidance and giving her advice on what direction to go in. After all that, they took a backseat and watched

To see her rise from the ashes of her own burnt flame was a spectacle and what you have been aiming and doing with your Overlords since the beginning. It was what you have designed when you took initiative to lead a group of overpowered Sinners. They were more than souls doomed to suffer in Hell

In your dark and cruel eyes, they were so much more. While around the majority of the deceased are destined for Hell, their crimes when living define their powers in Hell and their authority in a sense. You being the puppeteer behind your Overlords shows their potential but also their limits because they can never amount to anywhere above Hellborns of great destruction

You have your Overlords their domain of special title. Zestial of Fear, Carmila of War, Rosie of Dismantlement, Zeezi of Violence, Alastor of Domination, and now Velvette has joined their ranks. Velvette of Recreation. So you never let anything destroy or interrupt Velvette’s growth

It’s funny to watch was Vox’s panic over Velvette’s absence and silence. You had given Alastor a power boost to interfere with Vox’s persistent surveillance. The last thing you wanted was for your two new rising stars to have a stalker that will ruin plans and hard work. So now all Vox could do was try to make more public appearances to hypnotize others into staying relevant

Though it wasn’t like you were going to do anything about it. You did, however, receive information from your other Overlords that Vox has been asking around as to where Velvette was. Well, you have to give him credit of being bold enough to ask others where his former associate was at, even though it showed his stupidity

“M’re tea, mine own Liege? (More tea, My Liege?)” Zestial offered with the hovering items. 

“Zestial, this is a redemption lesson.” You politely and indirectly declined his offer.

“Th’re is barely anyone h’re. (There is barely anyone here)” Zestial laughed, still offering you your drink to which you accepted. “And I am listening to the princess’ lesson, m’rely… multitasking. (And I am listening to the princess’ lesson, merely… multitasking.)”

Currently, you were sitting in a lesson of the Princess in her endevours to make her hotel a success. While you admire her dedication, you can hardly see her plans succeeding and that’s what you show her despite knowing of Sir Pentious’ arrival to Heaven

As you were attending her class, it just so happened that Zestial was stopping by for tea with you and joined you when you said you were busy attending Charlie’s little class. Needless to say, Zestial saw no use in such efforts, labelling Charlie’s dream as ‘flight of fantasy’ rather than a goal to strive towards

Zestial taken great offence when Charlie was promoting her aim to him when he first passed through the doors of the hotel, claiming that he never wish or dreams of leaving Hell so long as you permitted him to stay by your side. He saw Charlie’s gracious offer to be good as an insult to him and his devotion to your services, going as far as to see it as a betrayal of your mercy had he paid half a mind to Charlie’s words

It was only because you’d be free after Charlie’s lesson does he stay at the hotel. As for why he was also attending the lesson? It was because it didn’t want to waste a second away from you when he can. Unlike the other Overlords, Zestial was the one to have known you the longest and that has given him some unique privileges 

For example, he could contact you physically or mentally while others have to wait for you to contact them. That was why he suggested for Carmilla to contact you about the matter of the angel’s death instead of waiting for your summons

Another was his authority to stand in as you to a certain degree while you were absent among the gathering of Overlords, that’s why he had that level of say and respect from the others (apart from the Vees, it would seem)

“Hey, Princess!” Vox’s robotic voice boomed through the doors to the room’s doors behind they slammed open unceremoniously to reveal a frantic technology demon. “Princess! I know you’re a good and kind person, er, demon, so I want your help—”

“Help in what?” You questioned but your tone made it sound like a challenge in it of itself.

The moment Vox heard your voice within the room behind him, he froze and like the technology he is, he robotically turned around to meet your eyes. “Ma- I mean… You’re here…” His eyes looked away then back to you and away again, repeating this as though it was a shy schoolgirl with their crush in a love confession. “What a coincident… Haha…”

“Charlie dear.” You got up and Zestial follow suit, indirectly sending a chill down Vox and everyone else’s spine.

“Yes?” Charlie tried her best to keep an unaffected expression, but the way her body trembled and her hands gripped at her sheets of papers till they were all wrinkled up was evident that even she was shaken up.

You smiled back with a small tilt of your head, “I’ll be leaving my leave and bringing Vox along, do continue your lesson on boundaries.”

Zestial followed behind you, “I too shall beest taking mine own leaveth, has’t a pleasant day, princess. (I too will be taking my leave, have a pleasant day, Princess.)”

Vox grudgingly followed along behind the two of you with his head down.

While walking down the halls of the hotel, the mere appearance of Zestial made any demon near you fear for their lives and left with screams and shrieks. Some wondering why such a fearsome character was even in a hotel for redemption and some wondering if such an irredempable demon can be sent to Heaven with Charlie’s help

At those demon’s whispers, Zestial was quick to show why he was still feared even after the emergence of newer and powerful demons that joined the ranks of the Overlord. You reminded indifferent as you continued onwards to your room while Vox held himself back from flinching at Zestial’s more violent and unseen side

Your head turned to the side as you stole a glance at Vox. He was still straightened up, but that was all a facade to hide his fear and anxiety. You internally sighed while Zestial was quick to make work of the disgrace he faced from the shadows and joined her side once more

As clear as day, you recall when there was a time where Alastor spoke praise of Vox and his powers. How he captivated your interest with the potential growth and rise his powers could bring, the thrill you felt when Alastor listed out all the things that he saw Vox could do

The only reservations Alastor had with Vox was his dependence on Alastor as they were sharing a partnership. While Alastor took credit for what he has down, Vox was eager to share his achievements and accomplishments with Alastor’s name, advertising that he was nothing without the help of Alastor who was already an Overlord

Alastor did tell you that Vox wanted and aimed to be an Overlord, but it was to be on the same level as Alastor. As anyone could see, Vox was doing his all to be on Alastor’s equal and to you, that was disappointing. Here Alastor was, recommending Vox to be within your collection when all Vox wanted was to be by Alastor’s side

Oh how you wanted to crush Vox and stuff him into one of your Cages. But you held back, instead, it was more pleasing to see him suffer and rise from the ashes of pain and torture. You gave Alastor a simple suggestion

Break ties with Vox and let him tred his own path

Followed your indirect order Alastor did. Within the minute Alastor broken any and all relationship with Vox, a battle broke out. One where Alastor showcased his power and strength to be leagues above what Vox had in mind

You were perched atop your throne while your other Overlords watched Alastor’s victory and Vox’s defeat within the space you’ve created for them all. The smile you had on you was so wide that your cheeks hurt afterwards when Rosie pointed it out

Then it wasn’t long before Vox seemingly bounced back from his reality check and came back into the spotlight. To your disappointment, Vox used the media in a poor attempt to push Alastor out of power. The little cat and dog fight was entertaining for only a moment’s time as Vox was biting out more and more of Alastor’s time and attention from his rightful duties

The excuse for your intervention only came when Vox claimed to have an Overlord title. Immediately, you brought him into your domain for such a daring claim. Contrary to your expectations, he fell a few feet down, but out of your favouritism for Alastor and trusting in him, you gave Vox a chance. You did need someone to fill in Husk’s place after all

While his offer to share his Overlord status was a unique and intriguing one, his choices were poorer than a human’s foolishness. At the time, there was promise in Velvette, but Valentino was another matter entirely. Still they did work well together, you’ll give them that. So for the first time ever, there was a group of three sharing the title of Overlord

Now that you look back on it, it was a misjudgment on your place. Trusting in Alastor’s words when vouching for Vox was one thing, trusting in Vox’s choice of companionship was another. Still, you see the issue and that somethings could never be changed no matter what

You lost counts on the chances you gave the Vees. If they were any other Overlords in your collection, they’d be long disposed off, but you let them stay out of the goodness of your nonexistent heart

It was a lie

Within your collection, you needed someone at the bottom to be the receiving end of your fury and for someone to be an example to when things don’t go as you please. There needs to be a system of rewards and punishments and who better than the Vees? They have their uses and they wanted to stay. Whether or not they see through your intentions is another story, but you like that they were naive

Before the Vees was Husk who was royally kicked out and still suffering today. Of course he’s aiming to change now with the help of Alastor. Before Husk was a few others not even worthy of your memory. Though the first and successful one? 

Zeezi, your perfect stress toy

It was through her that you realized the need for a bottom rank within your collection. What better to have something dull and trashy to better showcase your most prized ones? Just like now, Vox compared with Alastor. It’s obvious who’s better. The comparison and competition made you ever more pleased with your top favourites

So far, Velvette has been the only one that seeked help to break away from her consequence. You would bet Valentino still sees nothing wrong and would continue as he always had. The question remains… Will Vox change too?

In doing so, put Valentino up for elimination?

You chuckled darkly as you entered your room, taking a seat by the window. “Come on in.”

Vox followed in with a shiver while Zestial closed and locked the doors behind them. The room thrusted into darkness before their surroundings resembled the galaxy appeared before their eyes, something a Sinner can never witness again after their fall. 

“Now,” You smirked, Zestial taking his place by your side and poured you a cup of tea he magically made appear. Your melodious voice played like a record but your words were sharp as knives. “Why did you seek out the dear Princess of Hell?” Vox gulped as much as he wanted to stare at anything by you, he knew it was a death sentence. “Instead of looking for my assistance?”

Note: Been a while since this series was updated. Not sure how many of you still read this. I thought of dropping this series a lot of times because of the writer's block, but here's the next part. I enjoy the asks, ideas, and trivia you guys sent me! What you think would happen now?

Hope you enjoyed this one~

Circe Y. 

My Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist: (those that don't specify to being in all the works' taglist will automatically be assumed to be in whichever series they comment on)

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[moody-alcoholic]

Broken

Summary: Ghoap x Reader, throuple. Slow burn (sorry but not sorry). 3.6k words. Reader is female (she/her), army nurse, non descript physical features, names used: Ashe.

CW: Lot's of guilt, lots of self hate, but lots of fluff, hurt/comfort.

Previous parts - masterlist - next part

Enjoy <3

You don’t remember much after being moved to the medbay. You would have brief moments of consciousness, hear snippets of conversations, people moving you, poking you. Your body hurt even with the amount of drugs being pumped through your system. At first you thought it was all a dream, like you were in one of those coma’s were you’re still aware of what’s going on around you. 

“She needs to be moved to Damascus to continue treatment, they can only do so much here.” It’s Price’s voice you think, low commanding, he sounds sure in everything he’s saying. It sounds like he’s talking to someone only the other person is being too quiet for you to hear.

There is always someone holding your hand. Johnny you think, his hands are soft he massages your palm or strokes your head. There are new voices, people you don’t recognise. You never hear Jack again but you hear his name, people talking about him. You never hear Simon’s voice, maybe he thinks you’re still guilty. 

“You can’t move her without the commanders permission!” An unfamiliar voice calls.

“The same cunt who put her in this position.” It’s Johnny’s voice he sounds mad. 

“There’s a helo 15 minutes out, we’re taking her to Damascus, you can tell major Gray to contact me if he has a problem with it.” Price again. 

“You’re not her commanding officer.” The voice pleads. Are they fighting? You can’t tell, everything’s hazy. Sometimes you open your eyes, you see nothing but blinding lights, blurred vision, it sends shooting pains in your head causing you to groan in pain.

You dream too, dream about being home, it’s not your flat you dream of though it’s Johnny and Simon’s. Sometimes they’re there, sometimes they’re not and everything feels wrong. You dream about laying between them, your head resting on Johnny’s chest as Simon strokes your back. You miss him, miss hearing his voice, his kind voice the one you fell in love with.

Do you still love them? Even after everything they’ve done. They never hurt you. That was always Jack, but they let it happen. They were following orders. They would never hurt you. But they let it happen. You try to justify it in your head, thinking about it causes a pain in your chest like something you have never felt before. Betrayal? Anger? Sadness? 

Johnny never leaves your side, you can always sense him. Sometimes he talks to you, sometimes he just sits there, rubbing your hand, stroking your arm. 

“You really should get some sleep, some proper sleep.” That’s Simon, it’s the first time you’ve heard him in what feels like forever, his voice is kind, low, it’s the voice you remember.

“4 days, we let her suffer.” Johnny says, he sounds tired, his voice filled with guilt. It didn’t feel like 4 days, it felt like longer. 

The nightmare's come next, Jacks voice etched into your brain. Always the same questions. 

“Why did you betray 141?”

“Why do you hate them?”

“Are you pretending to love them?”

“Do they know you’re a traitor?” 

When you dream about Jack reality becomes warped, you remember the doctor, you remember your hands pumping on his lifeless body. New memories come, you in the store room taking out insulin. You imagine his wife, his son, sobbing, you have to stand there and watch them as Jack tells them what happened. You’re in a court room, being court marshalled, striped of your medical licence. You look up in the gallery and see Johnny and Simon, the disgust on their face as the charges are read out. The smacking of the hammer as you’re dragged to a cell to spend the rest of your life.

It’s cold you’re lonely, maybe this was all the horrible reality, you were guilty. Jack said you were guilty, Jack said you betrayed 141, he said Johnny and Simon want nothing to do with you. That makes you sad, you love them, you would never hurt them. You need to apologise to them, beg for their forgiveness, if they will even give it to you. After this nap though, your body feeling heavy, sleepy like you’re being pulled into a black pit, it feels strangely comforting as your mind goes blank. 

——————————  

This time when you come too you know you’re conscious. You can smell antiseptic in the air, you blink your eyes open looking down at your hand, the same hand you know you’ve felt Johnny holding, you’re hooked up to an IV. Your head hurts your vision still a little blurry. You turn your head to the other side of the room.

Gaz is sat in a chair reading a newspaper, he looks tired his head resting on his hand propped up by his elbow on the chair arm. You don’t want to disturb him but you’re confused, you need answers. The fever dreams you’ve been having have blurred your sense of what is real or made up. You’re about to open your mouth when he looks up and sees you. He puts the newspaper down sitting up straight in the chair. 

“Hey, how are you feeling?” You’re just staring at him with your mouth hanging open your head scans the round the room again before you look back at Gaz. 

“My head hurts.” You say, you don’t know what to say. 

“Yeah you’ve been out of it for a while.” He says reaching over for his radio on the side table.

“How long?” You ask.

“2 days, I’ll get Price.” He says. You don’t know if Gaz is aware of the situation with you and Johnny and Simon. Where are they? You want to see them, you want to apologise. You look over at Gaz talking into the radio. 

“Do you need anything?” He asks as your hand moves its way up to your head, the dull throbbing pain is making you dizzy and you lie back on the bed. 

“No, I’m okay,” you say automatically, trying to ignore the thumping. You wait for Price to come you feel more parts of your body aching, you want to reach over and grab your chart from the bottom of the bed but the thought of moving right now is horrible. Gaz sits watching you fiddling with his radio until Price walks in. 

“Nice to see you awake.” He says moving to the side of the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

“Confused.” You say, you’re desperate for answers now. Price nods and smiles.

“You’re in Damascus, you were moved yesterday, turns out your injuries were more serious then we first anticipated. You’ve been out for the past 2 days, we’ve been waiting for you to wake up.” Price explained. 

“Where are Johnny and Simon?” You ask before you can stop yourself looking up at Price’s response. He smiles, his eyes quickly switching to Gaz then back to you. 

“I’ll go get them.” Price says, heading out the room. You look back over at Gaz. 

“I remember you coming in during..” The words catch in your throat, you swallow hard. 

“You were always so kind.” A smile appears on his lips. 

“It wasn’t fair what happened to you.” He says as a matter of fact, you don’t know if you believe him, you’re not sure what you believe right now. 

“Well, thank you anyway.” You say looking away, you fidget with your hands, not knowing what to say. Johnny rushes into the room next, making you jump as you see him. It’s like everything goes in slow motion, you don’t know if he’s going to be mad at you, upset, happy. Then a smile spreads across his face and he steps over to you wrapping his arms round you as he buries his head in your neck. 

“I’m so happy you’re okay lass,” he whispers into your ear, you look over your shoulder for Simon but you can’t see him. You wince as Johnny pulls you tighter and you squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Easy Johnny.” It’s Simon's voice. You open your eyes as Johnny lets you go and goes to sit on the chair beside your bed, he takes your hand in his rubbing your palm with his thumb. You swallow, it’s almost enough to make you start crying, you don’t know why. You look up at Simon, he’s wearing the mask of course he is, you wish you could see him without it. Your eyes switch to Price who is standing at the end of the bed.    

“C’mon Gaz let’s give them some space.” Price says. You look over at Gaz, you guess he has to be aware of the situation with you, Johnny and Simon. He smiles at you as you watch him leave the room, his presence is calming, you like him being around. Simon wait’s until he hears the door close before pulling a chair over next to Johnny. You look at them both not knowing what to say, they don’t seem angry or disappointed, you can’t really tell what Simon is thinking under his mask, but his eyes look softer, kinder then the last time you saw them. 

“What happened?” You ask. Simon explains the situation while Johnny rubs your arm. It took them longer then they expected but eventually they were able to clear your name. The soldier with the twisted ankle you were treating, him and the others were able to vouch for you. The time it’s suspected the doctor was overdosed, you were on the other side of the base. The most damming evidence though was the fact that your card was swiped in the medbay store room then at the loading dock within 3 seconds of each other. 

“What about Jack?” You ask. Johnny squeezes your hand. 

“We don’t have to talk about him right now.” Johnny says. You shake your head.

“I need to know.” You say a little harsher then you want. You think back to the doctor, you want justice. 

“He’s been moved to another base, at the moment they’re still waiting for a more thorough investigation to be done before they do anything, it’s all a waiting game right now.” Simon says his voice level. You feel a tear escape down your cheek, shit. You turn away blinking and using your other hand to wipe it. No tears here, you remind yourself. You look back at them.

“Sorry, I- It must be all the drugs I’m on.” You say, Johnny looks sympathetic. Simon leans forward in his chair his hand on Johnny’s neck.

“You are not allowed to apologise for anything, you are innocent, none of this is your fault. Jack will be punished.” You dip your head at Simon’s words. His hand grips your leg squeezing it.  

“Hey, look at me.” He says, you force your head up to look at him. “He’s not going to get away with this, I promise you.” You see Johnny nodding in agreement squeezing your hand. 

“What about the doctor?” You ask. “Has his body been sent back to his family?” 

“Not yet, they need it for evidence.” Simon says, you nod sniffing.

“He has a kid, a son who’s 4 at the end of the month. A wife Alice, she loves to paint.” You squeeze Johnny’s thumb. 

“Overdose by insulin, it can be reversed, if we knew..” You sigh looking at Johnny. “I just want to get out of this hospital.”   

——————————  

It’s a few hours later when a doctor comes to check you out. You’re taken down for a scan, apparently you took a good enough beating from Jack that your brain started to swell. Although when Johnny explained it to you it to you.

 “Your head was going to explode, I’ve worked on bombs that are less temperamental.” That made you smile as you laid in the CT machine waiting for it to be finished, apparently if all this was clear you were going to be discharged. That’s all you wanted, to get out this hospital, you didn’t know what was going to happen now though. Would you be sent home? Have to finish your tour? Your body was still aching and you felt like you were going to be relying on painkillers for a while.

The thought of a medical discharge made you feel sick, you wanted to be near Simon or Johnny. When you’re taken back to the room Johnny is still there, he has never left your side and you don’t want him to, the thought of being alone makes you panic. Great, being tortured has made you clingy. Simon and Price come in a few minutes later, they insist on waiting with you for the results.

“Who’s my commanding officer now? If Jack’s been moved.” You ask. 

“Me,” Price replies. “With what happened, you’re under our protection.” 

Protection?  

The word spins around in your head what do you need protecting from?

“He came to see me, Jack. The second night on the base.” You look up at Price. 

“He wanted me to spy on you all, gather intel and tell him about you and your unit.” You shake your head looking down. “He threatened, me he knew about the flat in Canary Wharf. It could have ended badly if a random nurse hadn’t heard him.” You look back up Price who moves his eyes to Simon then back to you.

“What did you say?” Johnny asked.

“Told him the truth, that I didn’t know anything about 141 and I wasn’t going to be his spy. Then ordered him a mandatory psych evaluation. He didn’t like that.” You can’t help but smile a little. You watch as Price pats Simon on the shoulder and they both leave the room. You flick your eyes back to Johnny, who’s smiling and squeezes your hand. 

“Johnny.” You say squeezing back. “Please don’t leave me, I-I don’t want to be alone again.” His hand reaches up to your face stroking your cheek. He pulls you in for a kiss, it’s nice feeling his hot mouth on yours. You wrap your hands round his neck as he pulls you closer to him. You sink into the familiar smell and touch feeling Johnny’s fingers run up your back. He breaks away from the kiss but keeps his arms around you. 

“We’re not going anywhere.” He says, his forehead on yours. You know he won’t have a choice if he’s called to work, you too but right now it’s what you need to hear. You break as you hear the door to the room opening. A doctor walks in followed by Simon and Price. 

“Good news.” The doctor says picking up your chart. “There is no more swelling and other then a broken rib physically you’re fine.” 

“Does that mean I can be discharged?” You ask. 

“Unfortunately, you’re still dehydrated and your blood sugar is low, that’s only to be expected with you being out of it for the past 48 hours. Regardless I want to run you through one more round of IV fluids and monitor you over night. Then I will be happy to discharge you in the morning all things going well.” The doctor explains. You nod feeling slightly disappointed but understanding. You lay back in the bed feeling somewhat exhausted already you can see through the high window of the room that the sun is already setting. You thank the doctor and he says he will send some food up for you to try and eat. Price and Simon leave following him and you’re left with Johnny again, not that you mind.

You thought Price or at least Simon would be back soon but instead your food comes first. You don’t really have much of an appetite but if you want to get out of here you know you need to eat something. Johnny’s sat there slicing the mystery meat up while you picked at whatever pasta was being served with it. Typical hospital food, dry and tasteless, Johnny ended up eating most of the meat leaving you with the pasta and veggies when you said you were full after half a plate he continued to feed you spoonfuls of what tasted like bread pudding. By the time you were finished you were tired and desperate to use the bathroom. That’s a good sign at least, your bowels are all still in working order. 

“Let me find a nurse.” Johnny insisted until you grabbed his arm stopping him. 

“I am a nurse just help me to the toilets and I’ll be fine.” You insist. Johnny doesn't argue with you just helps you out of bed and to the bathroom down the hall. As you walk you can feel how stiff and sore your body is, how much pain your rib is giving you. You manage to finish up in the bathroom without assistance but lean up against Johnny the whole way back. When you get back into bed you’re exhausted. Johnny takes his seat again by the bed as you pull the covers over your legs. You look at him for a few seconds, watching as his hands run through his fluffy mohawk, his hair could do with a trim you find yourself smiling at him. 

“Johnny,” you say. He turns to look at you reaching out for your hand but you move. 

“Come lay with me.” You say the bed is big way too big for you, plenty of room for Johnny to climb in. You move your body up to the side of the bed. Johnny takes his boots off as you pull the thin sheets back. He slips into the bed and you let him wrap his arm round your shoulders pulling you onto his chest. You can smell him the familiar musky smell you find comfort in. He pulls the sheets over you and you relax into him. He kisses your head. You know this isn’t allowed, this is a military base, you didn’t care feeling yourself in Johnny’s arms again makes you feel safe. 

“Hey Johnny,” You whisper as he kisses your head. 

“Yeah?” He asked his voice low breathing in your ear. 

“I can’t wait to go home.” You say stroking his chest, the thought of being in their flat laying on the sofa or cuddling in bed. Just being in a closed environment with them shutting the outside world off for a few days sounded like heaven on earth. 

“We’ll be home soon.” He replies kissing your head pulling you tighter into his arms. “Just get some rest.” You listen to him closing your eyes, finally feeling safe for the first time in days.

—————————— 

Johnny slips out the bed early before the doctor comes. He checks your vitals then discharges you, Johnny pops in as the doctor is leaving to drop your kit off so you could change out the hospital gown. 

“I’ll be back in 10 minutes and we’ll go see Price.” He says before darting out the room again. You debated changing into your scrubs, the thought of the tight belt round your stomach was not exactly appealing. You change into your standard uniform not wanting to do anything to show Price up. You were expecting to see him already, expecting him to tell you you’re being send home on medical leave. No one comes though, it’s been at least 20 minutes, you’ve already rearranged your bag twice you’ve been so nervous.

Price intimidated you, not in a mean way more just in a boss way. Your mind keeps going back to what he said yesterday. ‘With what happened, you’re under our protection.’ Is that what 141 did? Protection? You heard they were something to do with terrorism, probably counter terrorism. That’s a big thing, you defiantly didn’t want to get involved with that, you’re just an army nurse after all. You hear voices in the door way pulling you out of your thoughts.

“You don’t have to wait I’m changed.” You say pulling your bag off the bed onto the floor. Okay that hurt your broken rib, seems like you’ll have to avoid heavy lifting for the next few days or weeks. 

Price walks in followed by Johnny, then Simon then Gaz. You smile seeing them all. The smile is quickly wiped off your face as Johnny moves to pick your bag up. They look sad about something. Your eyes flick to Simon, he won’t look in your eyes. 

“What is it?” You ask a wave of nervousness washing over you. For a second no one talks.

“Does Chloe have a key to your flat?” Simon asks. That’s random you scoff, thinking you got yourself all nervous for nothing. 

“Yeah of course she does,” you reply shaking your head. Your eyes flick to Price, then back to Simon. Something still felt wrong. 

“She was killed yesterday.” Price says. Your breath catches in your throat, you look at him shaking your head. You feel Johnny’s hand on your shoulder. It’s like the ground beneath your feet is being sucked down, you lean up against the bed to support yourself.

“I’m so sorry.” Price says. Your hand balls up into a fist. You know who’s responsible for this. Who else would have it out for Chloe, why did they want to know about your flat? This has Jack’s name written all over it. 

“How?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady. 

“Gunshot.” Price says. All you can think about is her dying alone, alone and scared. You should have protected her. This is your fault, you should have done something. 

“This is my fault.” You whisper looking down at your feet. You feel Johnny squeeze your shoulder. 

Chloe’s dead, your best friend is dead and it’s all your fault.

Next part

[chemdisaster]

secret life joel has seriously got me so fucked up

it's something about how in 3rd life he was all alone, he had his dogs and his all-consuming propensity for destruction and that was that. he had the taste of fire climbing up his throat, the smoke that clouded his vision and turned everything red, and that was all he ever needed, no alliance ever meant a thing to him beyond how it would eventually look when it went up in flames. then in last life he made attempts at something resembling genuine connection, but they fell through and so he fell back on what he knew, what was familiar. he made alliances that only went as far as the shared blood they could draw, willingly relinquished himself to the comfort of loneliness and death, and ended up being damn good at it. he had his fingers with the red dripping from them and not much more, and he never asked for more, either. all he really had was himself and the fire. and he was fine staying like that, everything was as it was meant to be, it was fine.

but then came double life and etho and the relation ship, and suddenly joel had something to fight for, a cause and a direction for the destruction, and when the relation ship burnt it was a conscious, purpose-filled decision to let his own blaze explode outwards and reduce everything else to embers and smouldering ash. joel said, "the ship burns, everything burns," and even when his words came true in the cruellest way possible, when everything burnt and he and etho followed, in the spills of swirling lava, amidst their sizzling remains that quickly dissolved into nothingness, something had changed.

and then came limited life and the bad boys, and at this point joel had known what it was to be wanted and to want, and maybe he never expected the bad boys to matter as much as they did in the end, but it happened before he'd even had time to notice, slowly and then all at once, and there was no denying now that he cared. and this time when he died, it was reckless and desperate and with one name playing on repeat in his ears until the sky came down and he heard nothing at all. he died wanting to stay alive, in a world where suffering and loss grew on you like fungi until it was all you ever knew how to feel, joel died with something to live for and something to die for.

and now here he is. in secret life. and you'd think someone like joel, someone who never really asked for connection, someone who knows how to stay himself with nothing but an army of wolves surrounding him, would get burnt once or twice and close himself right off, go back to doing what he knows and what works. but for someone so accustomed to loneliness that he wears it like a second skin, joel remains startlingly willing to put himself out there. he remembers the bad boys, screams when jimmy dies and gives grian hearts and tells him he would always help him out. he, despite the complicated nature of their relationship and the way they always seem to go for each other in fights, despite how he's made sure to put on an air of being unaffected when it comes to their memories, nevertheless gets in a boat with etho and openly tells him that he still cares, it's just - it's just. when pearl is green and he is yellow, he purposely throws away his guess to ensure that she is safe around him. joel, the character who you'd think would be most likely to spurn every alliance and go back to fighting for himself only because if he doesn't, no one else will - joel, despite all that, is actively trying to be more, more than what he is and what he already knows how to be.

you can see it in how he is as a red life, too. in every previous season, to the point where other lifers have made note of it, joel has become imprudent, excessively reckless and rash when he's gone down to red. in contrast to secret life, where he's more or less calmly completing tasks, gathering resources and preparing himself for possible eventualities. his actions this go around are step-by-step, organised and calculated in a way they weren't before. and obviously part of that is to do with the nature of this season, there isn't much room to be reckless when everything you do has to correspond with what's in your book. and tomorrow is life day, probably the last session, and who knows what's going to happen. but still, it cannot be denied that joel's demeanour has changed to be more collected this time - especially impressive if you remember that he's lost three people he loved already.

over the course of the life series joel has been learning what it is to love and be loyal and fully and unquestionably open yourself up to someone. despite getting hurt over and over again, something that by all rights should have warned him off from getting close to people forever, he's instead taken everything good about those relationships and carried it with him. in a world that pushes everyone to fall to the same character flaws, he's found space for growth and healing, and that is so beautiful it hurts.

[glitteringdust]

There were too many emotions swirling in his chest.

He could have killed Illario for all that he had done, perhaps should have killed him, but when his cousin begged for death he could not find it in his heart to do it. He was still family, even if he didn't deserve to be.

Rook was usually a believer in second chances, but the only thing she had to say to Illario was a threat— should he try to get at Lucanis again he'd have to go through her, and he'd live to regret it.

He should be grateful for Rook, for her help and loyalty. For her kind hand. For her. He should be happy to be First Talon, too, as it was the highest of honors and what every one of the Crows was now celebrating. For Caterina to pick him meant it should all pay off— the pain, the suffering, the betrayal…

Instead everything tasted of ash.

The villa was too loud, with too many people around and the grip he had on Spite thinned with each passing minute. He wasn't aware his heart was racing until Rook’s hand brushed against his, gaze neutral if not for the small wrinkle of concern between her brow.

“Do you… want to stay? Or should we head back?”

He lets out a breath, “We can go. I have other plans for this evening.”

He did not expect those plans to include him locked in thought while he sat with his coffee in the corner of the dining room. He's aware of those coming and going, most of them offering quick congratulations before heading back where they came. Rook was there, and then she wasn't. They'd discussed the night, but she must certainly expect something more from this evening and he had little to give now. Another disappointment.

It mattered little in his rumination.

Illario had said he'd never trust Lucanis as long as he was an abomination, and would never see him the same way again. What was he supposed to do with that? Spite was here to stay, and it all started with Illario. How long had his cousin hated him? He knew he had a jealous streak, but enough to want to remove his own family from the picture to take the glory himself?

Spite lingered along his temples, enhancing the headache already simmering there. The demon was satisfied with their choice, smug that Illario had wanted death and they gave him the opposite. But it only continued to swirl the discontent in Lucanis' chest. Spite did not understand Lucanis' continued unhappiness at his cousin.

Why unhappy? Got. What he. Deserved.

If only he knew how to put into words something a demon could understand.

“Lucanis?”

How long had he been lost in thought? He refocuses his gaze to see Rook, sitting on the arm of his chair. The smell of onion and garlic in the air reminds him of his hunger. He notices the table is set, including lit candles and the fancy wine Rook had been saving.

“Rook, did you…?”

She shrugs, “You take care of everyone, including me, before yourself. And after today, you could use some comfort,” She looks down at her hands, almost shyly, “So, will you have dinner with me?”

He chuckles, setting his mug down before standing and taking one of her hands in his, “It would be my pleasure.”

So they eat, drink, and Rook tells story after story he’s never heard, and some he has. Her voice softens the knot in his chest, unraveling the unrest and when the plates are cleared and table cleaned he finds he doesn’t want this to end.

He doesn’t want to be alone, now.

Rook stay. Here.

For once, he agrees with Spite. After the long, exhausting day he just had all he wanted to do was rest. He could fall asleep next to her in the loveseat, if he tried.

So he does.

“Rook? Do you want to… stay? Just for a little while longer?”

Her gaze could make him melt, “Of course. Are you worried about Spite?”

“No, its not that. I just… would you hold me?”

He feels torn open and raw, overexposed from such a question but she only smiles, “You know I'll do just about anything for you, right?”

He moves, climbing into her lap and resting his head upon her shoulder in an almost effortless fit. Her free hand entwines with his and the other finds itself running its fingers through his hair at the base of his neck. He almost shivers at the featherlight touch.

In her arms, he was at home.

[purple-babygirl]

fallen

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x guardian angel!f!reader

Word count: 1,395

Summary: Steve thought Bucky falling out of that freight train was partially his fault. What if there was another unseen side to the story?

Warnings: angst, crying, mentions of violence including being captured by the war enemy, torture, blood, angel wings snapping, imprisonment, cryo freezing, suffering and nightmares.

A/N: i don't know what i'm doing. I'm sad. i don't even know how I'm gonna continue this story. i have nothing prepared for it. again, I'm just sad. i love you tho.

~

Guardian angels, beings as old as time. They exist and protect without getting bored or fed up. They are there even if people have created too many wars until they have stopped believing in them and in gods altogether.

She was the same, and although she wouldn’t know, she was a piece of art. Lilac hair and eyes, skin softer than silk and a voice so sweet it could melt mountains.

She had no name or age. She had a number. Angel number 11 was who she was. She had no family or friends.

But she had a human.

He was assigned to her and she was made for him. Her only purpose as a creature of the light was to look out for him and keep him safe.

What she wasn’t supposed to do though, was fall in love with him.

Unlike her, he had a name. He was James Buchanan Barnes. This handsome, brave, young man who got enlisted and was about to go fight for his country. He was so kind, so charming and so so far away.

She was very worried, her angelic heart only ever knowing these feelings for him, yet confident in her powers. She would never let anything bad happen to James, or Bucky as he liked to be called.

War or not, she had his back. He could walk through fire and she would get him out of there unharmed.

A

Sadly, all of her planning was burnt to ashes when her ‘superiors’ found out about her latent feelings for the human she was assigned to guard since birth.

It has never happened before. Or at least that was what they had said.

It was all the same with each and every one of them. They get assigned to a baby human, be it male or female, they look after the human all their life until they no longer have one and then they move on to another human.

No angel has ever broken the rules, let alone to this extent.

Why did she think she was going to get away with this? Why did she think she was any different? Who did she think she was trying to carelessly cross the clear boundaries?

The night they were sure she had those forbidden feelings for a lesser being, she was chained and temporarily deprived of her powers, and Bucky was captured by the enemy.

They left her alone to wallow in the dark and cry in worry about her beloved, wishing she was strong enough to get out of her shackles and go be with him in this time of war; in his time of need.

When they kept her there for days to give her a chance to have a ‘change of heart’, Bucky was experimented on and tortured by Hydra.

And when she begged, swearing on all things holy that she was past her silly feelings for him and was ready to go back to serving her part and her part alone, Steve had found Bucky and brought him back with him.

She saw the bruises on his face, the dried blood down his ears and she cried and cried until her eyes were out of diamonds.

She blamed herself for being sloppy with her feelings. She had to be careful if she wanted to stay by Bucky’s side. She had to step on her heart and suppress her emotions if she wanted to keep protecting the man she was in love with.

The way she was unknowingly being monitored, however, ruined everything for her and ended her life as she once knew it forever.

Bucky was being the good friend that he was, going with Steve to fight again, looking more courageous and more handsome than any human ever has.

She was so proud of him and her smile wasn’t missable.

They noticed the focus on her face as she made sure the rope Bucky used to descend on the back of the train held up. They noticed her angel heart and how its beats accelerated with every bullet she dodged for him.

They noticed and they had to stop it.

“You lied,” they said, coming prepared with stronger chains to lock her in.

“He needs me. Please let me be with him,” she begged instead of  finding a way to defend herself.

They didn’t care, hands already on her wings and others on her neck.

“It’s over. He’s on his own from now on and it’s your fault.”

They were punishing Bucky for her mistake. He was going to get hurt and it was all because of her stupidity.

“Please, no!”

They didn’t hear her pleas or her cries, or pity her heart-wrenching screams as they snapped both of her wings off her back at once.

The second she fell to her knees, bloodied and broken, Bucky fell off the train, her last sight of him being him trying to reach for Steve’s hand and failing.

“You’re gonna be in there for at least 80 years, better try to forget because when you’re out, he might be gone.” They advised with little sympathy as they threw her inside the dark cave-like cell.

If this was heaven, what was hell supposed to be like? She can’t be feeling her heart get crushed over and over like that in the one place that was supposed to be void of such bitter feelings, could she?

She cried and cried, day and night. The bright lilac of her pupils turning dim and dull.

Has she just caused Bucky’s death? Did she just kill the one man she was created to protect? The one man that had gotten her heart to beat?

Screaming until she couldn’t breathe, she mourned the man she has known and loved all her life.

Nothing mattered anymore. Not her wings or her imprisonment. Nothing made sense without Bucky. Her life didn’t make sense without Bucky’s.

They let him die. They let her watch him die. Her heart ached with the memory for nights on end even though she could still feel their bond as if Bucky was still there. It was weaker, but it was present.

She became quieter as the years passed, no longer singing or screaming or even talking. The heavens didn’t miss her though, but James sure did. They had too many of her kind, but James only had her. Such thoughts would attack her every night year after year until she would cry herself to exhaustion every night, eventually losing sense of time.

20 years later, she started having nightmares. Terrible, horrendous dreams of her long-missed beloved hurting others.

Her once gentlemanly, well-mannered, kind man was now ending lives in cold blood in her nightmares.

James looked different. His hair was longer, his face grimmer, his eyes darker and his left arm shinier. His warm gaze was replaced by a dead one she never knew.

Had she not known him with her heart before her eyes, she might have not recognized him.

She knew it was her James. She could feel him. She could never forget him even if she wanted to.

Their bond felt strained, weighed down and suffocated. She had no idea what that meant. She thought she was turning crazy, her mind conjuring up an evil version of James to make her fear him or hatr him or leave her memories of him behind for good.

But she would never. Let her turn crazy, she was still going to be in love with James until her last breath no matter what.

Another 50 years and her nightmares have been recurring visions that she was used to, and even waited for.

Any glimpse of James was welcome even if he was acting nothing like the James she had known and loved.

The hardest visions where the ones where she saw him get hurt, his pained screams pulling her heart out and shattering it.

It all felt so real and that made her hate it all more.

It took her a while but she eventually figured out that James was still alive. She didn’t understand how he didn’t age until the cryo-chamber visions came on. Her heart ached for him, bled and sobbed inside her chest for the man who was suffering because she couldn’t be there to protect him; because she let both herself and him fall.

~

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[lunarflux]

x: Thomas Shelby found his match in an information bookie who has eluded the grasp of the Peaky Blinders long enough to crumble their power over Birmingham. But at last, he found you. The ghost he'd been chasing was finally in front of him, but you were trickier than he expected. Dangerous, cunning - and a bit too much like himself. To buy your loyalty, he would have to sell his in equal measure. Loyalty for loyalty - blood for blood - how much were either of you willing to spill before the game changed entirely?

part 6: a tall tale

word count: 1,764

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

Polly found Arthur in the back room of the Garrison, nursing a glass of whiskey. It was quiet, the usual chaos of the pub fading into the background. He glanced up as she entered, and though his face was worn with the weight of too many fights, too many drinks, and too many regrets, there was an openness there reserved for Polly alone.

“You’re early,” Arthur said, raising his glass in greeting.

Polly pulled out a chair and sat across from him, lighting a cigarette. “Had a conversation the other day,” she started, her tone casual but carrying that edge that always meant more was coming.

“With Tommy?” Arthur asked, already bracing himself.

Polly shook her head, taking a drag. “No. With her. Before she disappeared to that bloody bookshop of hers.”

Arthur sat up a little straighter as a grimace stretched across his face. “What’d she do now?”

“Nothing,” Polly replied, the word hanging in the air like smoke, her lips pressed into a thin line. “But she’s sharp. Meticulous with every word.”

Arthur exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “What are you saying? You think she’s trouble?”

Polly tilted her head, considering. “Trouble? No. Not in the.. Not in the usual way. She’s clever, Arthur. Knows how to hold her cards close. But she compels attention like it's a show. She’s playing the game with Tommy, alone. In time, we'll see if the rest of us are just collateral damage.”

“And what game’s that, then?”

“The game of trust. Of figuring out who’s holding the knife and who’s actually willing to use it, strong enough to swing without hesitation. She’s testing him. But what surprised me...” She paused, flicking ash from her cigarette.

Arthur leaned in, curious now despite himself. “What?”

“She’s testing me, too. Perhaps, she tests all of us, only we don't know it,” Polly said, her tone almost amused. Her eyes searched the room as if the answer to all her questions floated somewhere in the air. “Turned my own questions right back on me. Asked if I thought Tommy really trusted her. And then had the nerve to suggest maybe I wasn’t so sure about trusting him myself.”

Arthur let out a low whistle. “Ballsy,” he muttered.

“That's one word for it. Dangerous is another. But it wasn’t bravado. She wasn’t showing off. She was... It's hard to say. She was trying to figure out if I was worthy of asking those questions. Worthy of the trust Tommy put in me. Same as I was doing with her.”

Arthur downed the rest of his drink and set the glass on the table with a thud. “So what do you reckon? She a threat?”

Polly took a moment, the silence stretching as she exhales a long plume of smoke. “Not yet,” she finally uttered. “In her own way, yes. Not because she’s untrustworthy—but because she’s too much like Tommy.”

"Fuck," Arthur snorted, shaking his head. “One of him’s bad enough.”

Polly laughed softly, though there was little humor in it. “They’ll either destroy each other,” she whispered, leaning back in her chair, “or together, they'll empower the other until they're indestructible. Either way, we need to keep an eye on her.”

Arthur nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling between them. “And Tommy?”

Polly’s expression softened. “Tommy’s already decided she’s worth the risk, but I’m not so sure she knows how much of a risk she’s taking with him. I wouldn't dare insult her by saying she took him on blindly, but the depths to which we've suffered because of Tommy's secrets is only something she can understand by experiencing it.”

Arthur let out a low sigh, reaching for the bottle to pour himself another drink. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“We always do,” she murmured, standing and heading for the door. As she left, Arthur watched her go, his own thoughts churning as he sipped his whiskey once more.

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

Early the next morning, Tommy stood outside the bookshop, his car parked at a discreet distance. He watched as Finn emerged, laughing at something you’d said. There was an ease in Finn’s body language that Tommy hadn’t seen in a long time.

Through the window, Tommy saw you behind your desk on the second floor, the soft lamplight casting a warm glow around the room. You were writing something, occasionally pausing to look out the window as if lost in thought. There was no sign of the tension or sharpness Tommy associated with you during your own conversations. Here, you were... calm. Unguarded. Peaceful, even.

A young boy carrying a stack of books stumbled near the door, and you rose quickly, shuffling out of your office and down the stairs to help him. You steadied the books with a kind smile, greeting the boy with a warmth that could be felt even from this distance. Tommy watched as you crouched to his level, saying something that made the boy grin before he ran off.

Tommy’s jaw tightened as he went through the motions of lighting his cigarette, the flicker of the match briefly illuminating his face. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl and fade into the morning air. When he drove away, the image of you laughing with Finn and helping the boy lingered in his mind, unsettling in a way he couldn’t quite place.

✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒✒

Another early morning sunrise, Tommy leaned against the side of his car, cigarette between his fingers, as he watched Finn approach the bookshop. The younger Shelby’s gait was unhurried, hands stuffed into his pockets, completely oblivious to the shadow tailing him.

“Finn.”

Finn froze mid-step, whipping around to see Tommy stepping out of the shadows. His face shifted from surprise to mild annoyance.

“Tommy, what the fuck?” He asked, his voice low.

Tommy took a slow drag from his cigarette, letting the question hang in the air. “Going to see her again, are you?”

Finn's shoulders squared slightly. “Yeah, so what? You got a problem with it?”

Tommy’s lips twitched, not quite a smirk but enough to unnerve his younger brother. “No problem,” he answered calmly. “Just thought I’d come along.”

Finn blinked, taken aback. “Why?”

Tommy stepped closer, his presence looming. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with her. I’d like to see what all the fuss is about.”

“She’s not gonna talk the same with you there.”

“Then don’t tell her I’m there. Let her think it’s just another visit with you.”

Finn narrowed his eyes. “What's this all about, Tommy? I told you, we just talk. It's not business. Just life and all that.”

“I'd like to see for myself, Finn.”

After a beat of tense silence, Finn sighed, running a hand across his forehead in stress. “Fine. But I swear, it's nothing like you're assuming.”

Tommy didn’t respond and gestured for Finn to lead the way. The bell above the door chimed softly as Finn stepped in, followed closely by Tommy. They took the short trek to the second floor, and when you looked up from your desk, a small smile formed for Finn. It faltered when you noticed the figure behind him.

“Morning,” Tommy said, his tone polite but his eyes sharp as they scanned the room, taking in every detail. He didn't expect there to be any photos, but you had art and small trinkets scattered about your space. The faint smell of your last cigarette lingered in the air, but it was mixed with something sweeter.

“Didn’t know you were bringing company,” you said evenly, closing the book you’d been jotting notes in.

Finn shot you a sheepish grin. “Yeah, well, Tommy wanted to come along. Thought you wouldn’t mind, y'know, considering...” He trailed off.

You glanced between the two brothers, noting the contrast in their demeanors—Finn’s boyish naivety against Tommy’s cold façade. “Of course not." You gestured to the chairs on the other side of your desk. “Take a seat.”

Finn flopped into one chair, but Tommy lowered himself deliberately, his gaze never leaving you.

“So, what’s the story for today?”

Finn brightened. “Oh, she’s been telling me about some of the people who come into the shop. There’s this bloke who—”

“Let her tell it,” Tommy interrupted, his tone mild but firm.

Finn raised his eyebrows but leaned back, gesturing for you to continue.

You met Tommy’s gaze, unflinching despite the weight of it. “There's a gentleman here, claims to be quite the romantic. Every week on Monday morning, he buys another book, something that most people would consider to be a love story, others a tale of female empowerment. Know why?”

Tommy didn’t respond, his eyes narrowing slightly as he waits for you to finish.

“He said there's a young woman at the shop he frequents,” you paused, letting the story sink in. “And every time he walks in with another book, she asks him about it. Without fail, she strikes up the conversation first, and that isn't exactly common these days. So he comes here, buys a new book, and waits. For her.”

Finn chuckled softly, clearly entertained, but Tommy’s expression remained inscrutable.

“And what do you think of that?” Tommy asked, his voice low, probing.

You tilted your head in the manner they'd both grown used to. “I think people will find any excuse to keep something—or someone—they care about close. Beckoning them wordlessly, nearer and nearer until it all floods over. The gates part, and it all comes spilling out. People and emotions are investments. That's just the currency he chose, the one that works. A book.”

“And do you think that’s smart?”

“Depends,” you replied without hesitation. “Some are worth the trouble. Some aren’t. Maybe this girl is worth a tattered romance book once a week. Maybe he's worth speaking to first. That's for neither of us to decide.”

The room fell silent, the unspoken tension between you and Tommy thick in the air. Finn shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking between the two of you.

“Well.” He cleared his throat, “This is cozy.”

You smirked, breaking the tension as you turned to him. “You’re the one who brought the extra company.”

Finn grinned, but Tommy remained serious, his gaze still fixed on you.

“Maybe next time, I’ll leave him outside,” Finn joked, but there was a nervous edge to his laughter.

Tommy stiffly stood, straightening his coat. “No need,” he muttered, his tone casual but layered. “Don't be late. Both of you.”

You arched an eyebrow but said nothing to stop him as he headed for the door.

“Enjoy your stories.”