#into a wall of tragedy and despair

[infinitethree]

OOC::

I've had this done for about a week and have struggled to do a writeup (or even choose) the top ten most Day songs, so...fuck it, here's the link for just the playlist.

As of the writing of this, Day and Daz's full playlists are both at 811 songs. This is of course fucking insane to put onto youtube one by one, hence why this is a heavily culled selection.

Daz's playlist went down to 284. Day's went down to 321.

You might notice one of those is significantly bigger than the other! That's partly because some of the songs I cut from Daz's playlist were cut specifically for being a lil weird-- usually in the context of those songs being about sex or romance. They weren't used that way for him, but it still made me uneasy to throw those into the mix.

Day, by contrast, has a lot less of that kind of thing. There's definitely significant overlap between him and Daz (both musically and as characters), but much less of the sorta angry break up song type deals.

These two are hands down the biggest playlists I have. I have full branch AUs, with multiple characters, that have a fraction as many songs. Inn/Creepypasta has 378 unique songs, for instance!

I think the next playlist I do might be Perce, because he's rapidly grown on me. Lil nerdy menace has a lot of competition-y songs that are fun. His full playlist is 344 songs. Aster is 544 and Theo is 384, though I do want to do them eventually.

(Vio is 192, Lee is 61-- too many depressing/emo songs that vibe not at ALL with the sunshine boi.)

Oh right and I also threw this together. It might seem a little familiar, and there's a reason for that. :)

[gachaparadise]

crying and sobbing and throwing up why is the event story like this

[lila-lou]

✨ His second exception - Pt. 3/? ✨

Summary: The moment Ben found out you were pregnant was probably the happiest moment of his life. However, happiness proved fleeting. Now, he is faced with the aftermath of his shattered dreams. Of what is left of you, and what is left of him.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Language, Ben being hurt, Reader being hurt, soft Ben, sad Ben

Word Count: 5637

A/N: This is the sequel to “His only exeption” - and Part 3 of "His second exception".

English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

The two of you sat there amidst the shattered furniture, a somber testament to the little life you had lost. The minutes stretched on, time seeming to stand still as neither of you found the words to break the heavy silence that hung over the room like a suffocating shroud.

The only sound was the echo of your shared sobs, a symphony of grief that reverberated off the walls, filling the air with a palpable sense of loss and despair. Each tear that fell was a silent tribute to the innocence that had been stolen away, a reminder of the love that would forever remain etched in your hearts.

But amidst the darkness, there was also a glimmer of hope, a flicker of light that refused to be extinguished. For in each other's arms, you found solace, a beacon of strength guiding you through the storm.

And as you sat together in the aftermath of tragedy, you knew that no matter how broken you felt, you would find a way to heal. For love, you discovered, was not measured in years or even moments, but in the quiet moments of shared sorrow and the unwavering support of those who held you close.

Eventually, with trembling hands, you carefully lifted Ben's face, your touch gentle as you brushed away the tears that still lingered on his cheeks. His eyes met yours, a mixture of pain and longing reflected in their depths, a silent plea for understanding.

With a shaky breath, you leaned in, your lips meeting his in a tender embrace. It was a moment of raw vulnerability, a silent acknowledgment of the pain and sorrow that bound you together, but also of the love that refused to be extinguished.

In that fleeting moment, the weight of your grief seemed to lift, if only for a heartbeat, replaced by the warmth of his touch and the promise of tomorrow.

It wasn't a heated kiss, fueled by passion and desire. Instead, it was a sweet kiss, soft and tender, born from a deep well of love and understanding.

And as you pulled away, your foreheads resting against each other, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. For in each other's arms, you had found solace, a refuge from the storm that raged outside.

With a gentle yet determined touch, Ben carefully got up, pulling you with him as he rose from the wreckage of the room. You wrapped your arms around his neck, finding solace in the strength of his embrace, the warmth of his touch a comforting presence against the cold reality of your shared grief.

Supporting you with one hand under your butt, Ben cradled you against his chest, his touch both tender and protective. With careful steps, he navigated the debris scattered across the floor, his gaze never wavering from yours as he guided you through the chaos.

As you approached the crib, Ben paused, his eyes lingering on the plush toy nestled among the blankets. With a gentle touch, he carefully placed the toy back where it belonged, a silent tribute to the innocence that had been lost but would never be forgotten.

Then, without a word, Ben carried you in his arms, the weight of your sorrow pressing against his chest.

Finally, you reached the sanctuary of the bedroom, the soft glow of the moon casting a gentle light across the room. Gently, Ben laid you down on the bed, tucking the blankets around you with a tender touch.

He settled in beside you, his arms wrapped around you in a protective embrace.

As the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, you stirred from a deep, undisturbed sleep, a rare respite from the nightmares that had haunted you for weeks. With a sense of peace settling over you, you found yourself cradled in Ben's arms, his steady breaths a comforting rhythm against your skin.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there were no shadows lurking in the corners of your mind, no echoes of grief or loss to haunt your dreams. Instead, there was only the warmth of Ben's embrace, a tangible reminder of the love that bound you together.

But as the soft light of morning cast a gentle glow across the room, you felt a familiar pang of guilt tug at your heart. With a quiet sigh, you bit your lip, turning away from Ben and towards the window, the weight of your sorrow pressing down upon you once more.

Feeling you turn away from him again, Ben's heart clenched with a mixture of sadness and fear. His hand instinctively reached out to your hip, pulling you back close against his chest, unwilling to let you slip away.

"Don't shut me out again", he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with the raw vulnerability of a man who had tasted the depths of despair. "I won't survive this".

His words hung heavy in the air, a silent plea for understanding, for reassurance that you would not retreat into the darkness once more. And as his mouth pressed against your shoulder, a tender gesture of longing and love, you felt the weight of his sorrow pressing down upon you like a leaden shroud.

In that moment, you realized the depth of his pain, the anguish of being shut out by the one he loved most in the world. With a soft sigh, you leaned back into his embrace, letting the warmth of his touch chase away the chill of your sorrow.

"I won't", you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your heartbeats intertwining. "I promise".

And as you lay entwined in each other's arms, the weight of your grief seemed just a little lighter, knowing that you had each other to lean on, to hold onto, no matter what the future held.

After a while of lying still, Ben's fingers began to trace a gentle path from your upper arm down to your forearm, his touch sending shivers through your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His breath was warm against your neck, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as he gathered the courage to speak.

"I'm so sorry", he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. "For destroying the baby's room". The mere mention of those words seemed to twist something deep inside him, and you felt his body tense against yours.

The term "baby's room" hung in the air, a painful reminder of all that had been lost. You could feel his regret and sorrow mingling with your own, the weight of the grief almost too much to bear.

"It's okay", you murmured, your voice barely audible but filled with a quiet strength. "We were both hurting".

Ben's fingers continued their gentle path, tracing the contours of your arm with a tenderness that spoke of his deep love and regret. "I just… I didn't know how to handle it", he admitted, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I was trying to be strong for you, but I couldn't keep it together".

You turned slightly in his embrace, enough to look into his eyes, seeing the pain and guilt reflected there. "We both need to be strong for each other. Not just you", you said softly, reaching up to brush away a tear that had escaped down his cheek. "It's okay to fall apart sometimes. We just have to pick up the pieces together".

Ben nodded, his grip tightening around you as if afraid to let go. "I love you", he whispered, his voice a soft vow. "We'll get through this".

You turned completely in his arms, bringing one hand up to his cheek, your fingers tenderly brushing down his jaw to his neck. Finally, your eyes met his, and you saw the depths of his pain and hurt, but also the unwavering love he held for you.

Your voice was soft, barely more than a whisper as you spoke. "I'm the one who needs to be sorry", you murmured, your eyes searching his for understanding. "I always urged you to show more emotions, to be open with me… and then I shut you out when you needed me the most".

Ben's eyes glistened as he listened. "It's been so hard", you continued, your voice breaking slightly. "I was so consumed by my own grief that I couldn't see how much you were hurting too".

He shook his head slightly, pressing his lips to your palm in a gesture of reassurance.

Before he could say anything, you spoke up again, your words tumbling out in a rush. "I couldn't look at you because I knew how much this baby meant to you", you confessed, your heart aching with every syllable. The word "baby" felt like it might rip your heart out of your chest. "I failed you, Ben. I couldn't protect our baby with my weak human body. I was ashamed and afraid that you might hate me for it".

Tears streamed down your face as you voiced the fears that had haunted you for so long. You felt Ben's grip tighten on your hand, his eyes searching yours with a mix of pain and understanding.

"How could I ever hate you?", he whispered, his voice breaking. "You didn't fail me, and you didn't fail our baby. This was never your fault".

His words were meant to comfort, but the pain in his voice was undeniable. He took a shaky breath, struggling to contain the torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. "It’s my fault", he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I’m the supe. I’m the one who’s supposed to protect you. I should have never let you out of my sight. I should have stopped Homelander earlier".

As he spoke, his chest began to glow ominously, the light pulsing with the intensity of his emotions, ready to explode. The sight of it filled you with a new kind of fear, a terror that his anguish might consume him entirely.

"No, Ben", you said urgently, your hands moving to cup his face, trying to bring him back to you. "This isn’t your fault either. Please, don't do this to yourself".

But Ben's glow only intensified as the memories and regrets he had tried so hard to suppress began to surface. "I should have been there", he choked out. "I failed to protect you. I failed to protect our baby".

You felt a surge of desperation as you watched the man you loved teetering on the edge of self-destruction. "Ben, look at me", you pleaded, your voice trembling with emotion. "You did everything you could. This wasn’t your fault!”.

With trembling hands, you wrapped your arms around him, pressing your forehead against his. The warmth of his glowing chest radiated between you, a tangible reminder of his immense power and the depth of his anguish.

Slowly, as your words of reassurance and love washed over him, you felt the intensity of Ben's glow begin to wane. His chest, once ablaze with the turmoil of his emotions, gradually dimmed until it returned to its normal state.

With each passing moment, the tension that had gripped him began to ebb away, replaced by a sense of calm that seemed to settle over the room like a gentle breeze. His breathing, once ragged and uneven, steadied as he leaned into your embrace, seeking solace in the warmth of your touch.

You held him close, your arms wrapped around him in a protective cocoon, your heart aching with the depth of your love for him. Despite the darkness that threatened to consume him, you refused to let go, determined to be his anchor in the storm.

With a soft sigh, Ben buried his face in the crook of your neck, his arms tightening around you as if afraid to let go. You held him tightly, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

With a tender touch, you gently ran your fingers through Ben's hair, feeling the soft strands slip through your grasp. As you held him close, the warmth of his embrace enveloping you both, you whispered the words that echoed in the silence of the room.

"I love you", you murmured, your voice a soft caress against his ear. "I love you more than anything in this world".

The words hung in the air, a testament to the depth of your feelings, the strength of your bond. In that moment, there was no room for doubt or fear, only the simple truth of your love for him, unwavering and unconditional.

As the minutes passed, the two of you remained wrapped in each other's arms, reluctant to break the newfound connection that had brought you both such comfort. The weight of your shared grief seemed to lift with each heartbeat, replaced by a fragile sense of peace that hung between you like a delicate thread.

Neither of you dared to move, afraid that the fragile bond you had rekindled might shatter if you dared to leave the safety of the bed. In the quiet of the room, the only sound was the steady rhythm of your breathing, a comforting reminder of the presence of the other.

But eventually, the silence was shattered by the loud rumble of your stomach, a reminder that even in the midst of grief, life went on. You couldn't help but laugh softly at the unexpected interruption, the sound echoing through the room like a gentle breeze.

Ben's eyes sparkled with amusement as he looked down at you, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I think your stomach is trying to tell us something", he teased, his voice filled with warmth.

You couldn't help but blush at the realization, feeling a surge of embarrassment at the loudness of your hunger. "I guess we should probably get up and eat something", you replied sheepishly, feeling a pang of regret at the thought of leaving the warmth of the bed.

But Ben simply grinned, his hand reaching out to gently stroke your cheek. "I think that's a good idea", he said softly, his eyes shining with affection. "And besides, I'm starving too".

Down in the kitchen, you stood in front of the refrigerator, surveying its contents with a thoughtful expression. The events of the morning weighed heavily on your mind, but the simple task of preparing breakfast provided a welcome distraction from the turmoil of your emotions.

As you scanned the shelves of the refrigerator, your stomach grumbled impatiently, a reminder of your hunger. With a determined nod, you reached for a carton of eggs and a few vegetables, a plan beginning to form in your mind.

Ben glanced over at you with a smile as he poured two steaming cups of coffee, his gaze filled with warmth and affection. "What are you thinking?", he asked, his voice gentle.

You turned to him, a mischievous glint in your eye. "I thought I'd whip up some omelettes", you replied, a hint of excitement in your voice. "With whatever we have on hand. It'll be a surprise".

"Sounds perfect," he said, setting the cups of coffee down on the counter. "I'll leave the cooking to you then".

As the omelettes sizzled in the pan, filling the kitchen with the mouthwatering aroma of cooking food, you stole a glance at Ben, who was watching you with an expression of quiet contentment.

Feeling Ben step up behind you, you smiled softly as his chin came to rest on the top of your head. His arms wrapped gently around your waist, his touch light and comforting, though he carefully avoided your stomach.

The warmth of his embrace enveloped you, grounding you in the moment and banishing the lingering traces of sadness that had clung to you since morning.

For a moment, you simply savored the warmth of his presence, the steady beat of his heart against your back a soothing rhythm. In that quiet moment, surrounded by the love that bound you together, you felt a sense of peace settle over you like a gentle caress.

And as you turned to face him, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that took your breath away.

After eating, you found yourself sitting at the kitchen table, lost in thought. Unlike the past weeks, your thoughts weren’t dominated by the same overwhelming sadness; instead, they were more reflective. You felt a profound sense of guilt for failing Ben, for not seeing how deeply he was struggling. Even in the face of his own grief, he had been strong for you, supporting you despite being pushed away repeatedly.

Ben watched you quietly from across the table, noticing the subtle changes in your expression. The shadows of sorrow still lingered, but there was a newfound softness, a sense of connection that had been missing for so long.

“Hey”, Ben said softly, drawing your attention back to him. “What are you thinking about?”.

You looked up, meeting his gaze with a mixture of gratitude and regret. “I’m thinking about how much I owe you an apology”, you admitted, your voice heavy with emotion. “You were so strong for me, even when you were hurting just as much. I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I didn’t see how much you were struggling. I’m so sorry for that, Ben”.

Tears gathered in your eyes, blurring your vision as you looked at Ben. He was ready to brush off your apology, his instinct to protect you and minimize your guilt. But you couldn't let him.

"Ben, please", you said, your voice trembling. "I need you to hear this. I feel terrible for how I've treated you. Even though you’ve never been the most emotionally available person, during the hardest time of our lives, you did everything I asked. You made me your top priority, above your own feelings, above your own pain".

Ben's expression softened, a mix of sadness and understanding. He opened his mouth to speak, but you continued, not wanting to lose your momentum.

"You were so strong for me", you said, your voice breaking. "You put me above everything, even when you were hurting so much. I pushed you away, but you stayed. You tried so hard, and I didn't see it. I was so lost in my own grief that I didn’t realize how much you needed me too".

Ben reached out, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. "You don't need to apologize", he said softly. "I did what I did because I love you. Because I knew you needed me, and I wanted to be there for you. That’s what we do for each other".

You shook your head, more tears spilling down your cheeks. "But I need to, Ben. I need to apologize because I didn’t support you the way you supported me. You were in just as much pain, and I shut you out. I’m so sorry for that. I’m sorry for not being there for you when you needed me most".

Ben's hand cupped your cheek, his touch warm and reassuring. "We were both hurting, and we coped the best we could. But we're here now".

His words were a balm to your wounded heart, and you leaned into his touch, feeling a sense of peace begin to settle over you. "I love you, Ben", you whispered, your voice filled with sincerity. "And I promise, from now on, I’ll be here for you, just like you were there for me".

Ben's eyes softened with love as he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. "I love you too", he murmured. "And we'll get through this together, one step at a time".

There was a flicker in Ben’s eyes, a spark of a memory surfacing from the depths of his mind. He remembered the first and last time the two of you had taken a bath together. It was a simple act, but the intimacy of it had left an indelible mark on his heart. For Ben, it was one of the most peaceful moments of his life, a time when he had felt profoundly connected to you.

He stood up, his eyes never leaving yours as he extended his hand. “Come with me”, he mumbled, his voice soft and filled with a mix of vulnerability and hope.

You looked at his outstretched hand, then back up at his face. There was a tenderness in his eyes that made your heart ache. Without hesitation, you placed your hand in his, allowing him to help you up from the table.

He led you upstairs, each step deliberate and filled with silent promise. When you reached the bathroom, he turned on the tap, adjusting the water temperature until it was just right. The sound of running water filled the room, creating a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy that enveloped you both.

Ben glanced at you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. Seeing none, he began to undress, his movements slow and deliberate. You followed suit, the act of shedding your clothes a symbolic shedding of the walls that had kept you apart.

Once the tub was filled, Ben stepped in first, holding out his hand to help you in. You settled between his legs, leaning back against his chest, feeling the warmth of the water and the solid strength of his body behind you.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, his chin resting gently on your shoulder. The warmth of the water and the closeness of his body enveloped you, creating a cocoon of comfort and safety.

“Remember the last time we did this?”, he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

You nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. “I remember”, you mumbled, your voice teasing. “I was so sore after that night because of how you fucked me”.

Ben let out a soft chuckle, his breath tickling your ear. He pinched your thigh gently under the water, his touch playful. “Stop with the dirty thoughts”, he murmured, his lips brushing against your shoulder. “I’m trying to have a romantic moment here”.

You giggled, the sound light and free, a stark contrast to the heaviness that had dominated your life recently.

“You know”, you teased, “the word ‘romantic’ and your mouth don’t really match at all”.

Ben raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Is that so?”, he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

You nodded, your smile widening. “Yeah, but I like the effort”.

He chuckled again, but this time it was different. His eyes softened as he looked at you, his heart swelling with the sound of your laughter—a sound he hadn’t heard for weeks.

“Keep laughing”, he said softly, his tone sincere. “I’ve missed that sound”.

Your smile faltered slightly, the weight of the past weeks pressing down on you. “I’ve missed it too”, you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ben’s arms tightened around you, his touch both protective and reassuring. You felt his warmth seep into your skin, grounding you in the present moment.

As you leaned into his embrace, a thought crossed your mind, one that you hadn't entertained in weeks. You looked down towards your flat belly, the absence of the life that once thrived within it painfully evident. You hadn't dared to acknowledge it, let alone touch it, for fear of reopening wounds that had barely begun to heal.

But now, with Ben's comforting presence beside you, something shifted inside you. With trembling hands, you reached down towards your belly, your fingers hovering just above the surface. Ben swallowed heavily behind you, his own emotions mirroring yours.

Slowly, tentatively, your hand made contact with your stomach. You felt the smoothness of your skin beneath your fingertips, the absence of the life that once pulsed within. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to look away. For the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to acknowledge the emptiness that resided within you.

Ben watched you silently, his heart breaking for the pain you carried. He longed to reach out, to offer you solace and comfort, but he knew that this was a journey you needed to take alone. So he remained by your side, his presence a silent source of strength and support.

Together, you sat in the quiet of the bathroom, the weight of your grief heavy in the air. But there was also a glimmer of hope, a flicker of light amidst the darkness. And as you traced the contours of your belly, you knew that healing was possible, that love could triumph over loss.

Feeling Ben's tender kisses on your shoulder blades, you melted into his embrace even further. His touch was a balm to your wounded soul, offering a sense of comfort and reassurance that you desperately needed.

His arms tightened around you even more, pulling you closer against his chest. The warmth of his body enveloped you, chasing away the chill of grief that had settled deep within your bones.

You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to simply exist in this moment of quiet intimacy. With each kiss and each gentle squeeze, Ben wordlessly conveyed his love and his unwavering support.

You lay there in Ben's embrace, the outside world forgotten as you reveled in the warmth of his love. Time seemed to stand still, each moment stretching into eternity as you held onto each other, unwilling to let go.

But eventually, Ben's super hearing picked up on voices downstairs, pulling him back to reality. Frenchie and MM were engaged in a comical discussion that he couldn't help but overhear.

"Frenchie, are you out of your damn mind?", MM's voice echoed up the stairs, incredulous. "Soldier Boy will kill us for just walking into his house like this!".

Frenchie grumbled in response, "It's fine! The door wasn't even locked!".

MM scoffed. "Of course the door isn't fucking locked! Who in their right mind would just walk into Soldier Boy's house uninvited?".

You felt Ben tense up underneath you, his muscles tightening with a hint of apprehension. Sensing his change in demeanor, you turned slightly, watching him with a furrowed brow.

“What’s wrong?”, you asked, concern lacing your voice.

Ben let out a low grumble, his jaw clenched with frustration. “Laurel and Hardy are fighting downstairs about whether I’ll kill them or not”, he muttered, his voice tinged with annoyance.

You blinked in confusion, not quite understanding the reference. “Huh?”.

Ben let out a groan, rubbing his temples with his fingers. "MM and Frenchie are downstairs to see you", he clarified, his frustration evident in his voice.

Realization dawned on you, and a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "Oh, they're here for me?", you asked, feeling a mixture of surprise and warmth at the thought.

Ben nodded, his expression softening as he met your gaze. "Yeah, they said they wanted to check in on you", he explained.

Ben shifted to sit up, gently urging you to do the same.

As Ben helped you out of the bathtub and wrapped a towel around you, you couldn’t help but notice the subtle tension in the air. His erection was evident, but he didn’t say anything, nor did he make any advances. You appreciated his restraint, grateful that he wasn’t pushing you into anything.

You knew that Ben had strong needs, and over the past weeks without any intimacy, it must have been incredibly difficult for him. But you also knew that you weren’t ready for that kind of physical closeness, not after everything that had happened.

“Thanks”, you mumbled, feeling a sense of relief wash over you as you started to dry yourself off. With a towel wrapped securely around your body, you made your way into the bedroom, knowing that Ben would follow.

Sure enough, Ben trailed behind you, grabbing some clothes from the dresser. His muscles were tense, and you could sense the effort he was making to control himself. With a slight wince, he discreetly adjusted his erection, hoping it would go down quickly.

“Are you okay?”, you asked softly, your voice filled with concern.

Ben sighed, running a hand through his hair as he tried to compose himself. “Yeah, I’m fine”, he replied, his tone strained. “Just… trying to get this under control.”,

You nodded understandingly, a pang of guilt tugging at your heart.

As you observed Ben, a wave of concern washed over you. You couldn't help but wonder how much longer he would be able to remain patient with you before he reached his breaking point.

The strain in his expression was evident, his efforts to control himself taking a toll on him. You knew that he was trying his best to be supportive and understanding, but you also couldn't ignore the underlying tension that simmered beneath the surface.

With a heavy heart, you realized that you couldn't continue to rely on his patience indefinitely. As much as you appreciated his unwavering support, you knew that you needed to find a way to confront your own grief and move forward, not just for your sake, but for Ben's as well.

After getting dressed, you walked over to Ben, feeling a surge of affection and gratitude toward him. Cupping his face gently in your hands, you pulled him down towards you, pressing your lips softly against his.

As your mouths met, a rush of warmth and tenderness flooded through you, a silent reassurance of the love that bound you together.

Ben responded to your kiss, but his voice broke the silence with a low mutter. "This certainly won’t fucking help", he whispered against your lips, his tone tinged with both humor and frustration.

You couldn't help but chuckle at his comment, the sound bubbling up from deep within you. Despite the weight of the situation, his words brought a moment of levity to the moment, easing the tension between you.

Blushing slightly, you pulled back from the kiss, meeting Ben's gaze with a mixture of amusement and affection. "Well, maybe it's not the solution", you admitted with a playful smile, "but it's a start".

With a soft laugh, Ben pulled you into his arms, holding you close against him.

Downstairs, MM and Frenchie continued their banter, their voices echoing through the quiet house. Frenchie lounged on the couch, idly flipping through channels on the TV, while MM paced near the door, his posture tense with anticipation.

"We should leave", MM muttered, his voice low and filled with unease. "They're probably not even here. We're just wasting our time".

Frenchie glanced over at MM with a smirk, shaking his head in amusement. "Oh, come on", he retorted, his tone teasing. "They're probably upstairs, fucking like rabbits. We just need to wait".

MM rolled his eyes, clearly not amused by Frenchie's suggestion. "That's ridiculous", he muttered.

As Ben and you made your way downstairs, Ben couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the sight of Frenchie lounging comfortably on the couch, as if he owned the place. Frenchie grinned cheekily in response, clearly enjoying his relaxed position.

Ben's expression remained stoic, his demeanor as grumpy as ever. "Make yourself at home, why don't you", he muttered under his breath, his tone laced with sarcasm.

You stifled a giggle at Ben's grumpy remark, knowing all too well that it was just his usual demeanor.

Frenchie simply chuckled in response, unfazed by Ben's grumpiness. "It's good to see you two", he said warmly, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "We were starting to think you'd never come down".

Ben rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, we had things to do", he replied curtly.

Frenchie chuckled at Ben's response, shaking his head in amusement. "I bet", he muttered under his breath before standing up and making his way over to you.

With a grin, Frenchie handed you the bouquet of flowers. "Here you go, mon amie", he said with a playful wink. "You don't look so sick to me".

You couldn't help but laugh at Frenchie's comment, feeling a surge of warmth at the gesture. Despite the lighthearted teasing, you knew that his visit was a sign of his genuine concern and friendship.

"Thank you, Frenchie", you said with a smile, accepting the flowers gratefully. "It's good to see you".

MM watched Ben closely as he walked towards the kitchen, his gaze wary and cautious. Sensing the tension in the air, Ben glanced back at MM and let out a gruff shout. "I won’t kill you, MM", he declared, his tone firm but tinged with amusement. "Just sit the fuck down".

With a shrug, MM complied, settling into a nearby chair as Ben disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, Ben returned with two beers in hand, extending one towards MM with a small nod. "Here", he said gruffly, his expression softening slightly. "You look like you could use it".

MM accepted the beer with a grateful nod, his tense posture relaxing slightly.

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A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

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Part 4

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Taglist: @deangirl96, @thatgirljayy, @suckitands33, @deans-spinster-witch@mimaria420@kaz11283@uncle-eggy@jackles010378@vxnilla-hxrddrugs @meowmeowyoongles@sarahgracej @zemosdarling228 @leila22rogers @mostlymarvelgirl@emily-winchester @blacknoirr @onlyangel-444@seasonofthenerd@staple-your-mouth@artemys-ackles@selfdestructionandrhum@mystic-mara @kat-nee @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @star-yawnznn @me1501 @CheyNovaK @faephoria @hobby27 @baby19sthings @fitxgrld @winchesterwild78

[sadnymi]

The Tortured Poets Department: {Slytherin boys version} A Headcanon.

[Mattheo Riddle-Theodore Nott-Lorenzo Berkshire-Blaise Zabini-Draco Malfoy

The Department: These five delinquents may not be penning sonnets, but they cause enough drama to fill a Shakespearean tragedy. They're the rebels, and champions of chaos at Hogwarts.

The Name:  name, bestowed upon them by Professor Abraxas Rookwood, a man as obsessed with forbidden muggle literature as he was with the Dark Arts, was a cruel irony. Rookwood, with his melancholic readings of Byron and Shelley, saw their broodiness reflected in these young Slytherins, They became the Tortured Poets, their "poetry" scrawled not with ink, but with blood and fear.

The Rules (Unbreakable):

Loyalty is Our Blood Oath: Mess with one of them, you mess with all of them. This unwavering loyalty is their foundation.Betrayal is a fate worse than expulsion. A single transgression could result in a "disappearance," a fate worse than Azkaban.

Secrets are sacred currency: What's shared in the dimly lit corners of the Department stays there. Unless it involves a particularly juicy Ministry scandal, then all bets are off (courtesy of Blaise Zabini's insatiable gossip appetite).

Darkness is a double-edged sword: They embraced their darkness, honing it into a weapon against those who deserved it - revel in darkness too long, and it devours you whole.

Art over Arson: Destruction wasn't the goal. The Department aimed to leave their mark with a touch of twisted artistry.A perfectly sculpted ice sculpture of a screaming victim, a whispered poem etched on a sleeping rival's forehead, a haunting melody tinged with despair echoing through the halls.

No Scars: The mark of a Tortured Poet was discretion. Leaving physical evidence was a rookie mistake. The true artist left only a shattered spirit.

No Outsiders: The Department is a closed casket. New members are hand-picked, tested, and broken before being deemed worthy.

Never Love, Only Possess: Love is a weakness, a vulnerability they cannot afford. Possession, domination – these are the true expressions of power. ( a rule they all broke )

The Members:

- Mattheo "The Mastermind" Riddle:

The brains behind the operation. Heir to a dark legacy, Mattheo possessed a chilling charisma that masked a calculating mind. He wielded curses with grace, his voice a silken threat, capable of weaving hypnotic lies or unleashing venomous truths. Mattheo is cunning and calculating, always two steps ahead with a plan so outlandish it just might work. He's the one who assigns roles and ensures their targets get a taste of their own medicine (or worse).He embodies the darkness, a shadow that chills even the bravest hearts.

Theodore "The Artist" Nott:

With a talent for manipulating shadows, Theo could create phantoms that danced on the walls, whispering secrets and igniting paranoia. brewed potions that twisted emotions and conjured illusions that blurred the lines between reality and nightmare. His signature move: A shroud of darkness that swallowed the victim, leaving them alone with their inner demons. He was also The department's strategist. His mind, as sharp as a serpent's fang, weaved intricate webs of psychological manipulation.He took a perverse pleasure in dissecting his victims, unraveling their secrets with a chilling detachment.

Lorenzo "The Charmer" Berkshire:

The Charmer. Lorenzo's weapon of choice is not a wand, but his silver tongue. He can disarm with a smile and deceive with a single word. Information is his currency, secrets his trophies. He is the Department's siren, luring the unsuspecting into a web of lies. tongue that could weave illusions as real as dreams. His victims, lulled into a false sense of security, often found themselves entangled in compromising situations or facing fabricated scandals.

Blaise "The Blackmailer" Zabini:

Blaise has a knack for finding dirt on everyone and isn't afraid to use it to his advantage .He's the one who gathers intel and makes sure no one double-crosses the Tortured Poets. He was the Shadow Dancer. Elusive and acrobatic, Blaise was the Department's phantom. He could infiltrate even the most secure locations, leaving behind unsettling calling cards – a misplaced object, a cryptic message scrawled on a dusty window pane.

Draco "The Distraction" Malfoy:

Draco was the prodigy, a master of forbidden spells before he even reached adulthood. His talent fueled a quiet arrogance, but his loyalty to the group was undeniable. He was their muscle, the unleashed storm of magic when subtlety failed.He saw emotions as a map, effortlessly navigating the labyrinthine corridors of fear and hope.

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The Tortured Poets Department existed in the shadows of Hogwarts, a clandestine group teetering on the edge of sanity. They were not poets, but dark artists, sculpting fear and pain into a twisted form of power, a chilling testament to the allure and danger that lurks in the human heart.

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[hisfavegirl]

Can you make a scene when aegon is crying in his room after b&c and the reader is his twins?? like angst but also comforting??

Silent Grief - King!Aegon Targaryen x TwinSister!Reader.

Summary : Jaehaerys—your precious boy—was stolen from you too soon. Taken from the world in a brutal twist of fate that left your family fractured, broken in ways you never thought possible. He was a promise of a future, a new beginning after the turmoil that had once gripped your bloodline. But now, that future is gone, lost in the cruel grasp of tragedy.

Aegon Masterlist.

You pause outside the door to your husband’s chambers, the soft murmur of his voice filtering through the crack in the door. It isn’t just the faint sound of a man grieving—it is the raw, broken sobs of a man whose heart has been shattered. Aegon’s cries hit you like a wave, crashing over the walls you’ve spent so long building to protect yourself from the pain. His sorrow is thick with the weight of a loss you both share, a loss that feels impossible to bear.

Jaehaerys. Your son. The child who had brought so much joy into your life, now gone. His laughter, his tiny hands reaching for you, gone in an instant. And now, it is Aegon’s sorrow that fills the room, the pain that has consumed him for days.

You’ve watched him retreat into himself, isolating himself from you, from the world. He has avoided you—his wife, his twin sister. He doesn’t want you to see him like this. He doesn’t want you to witness the vulnerability and despair that have overtaken him, the weight of grief that he can no longer hide.

But you are his wife. You are his twin sister. The bond between you is too strong, too deep for him to shut you out completely. You know him better than anyone. You know that behind the closed doors and the silence, he is breaking.

With a steady breath, you push the door open.

The room is dim, lit only by the flickering light of a candle that seems as fragile as the moment itself. Aegon sits at the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of his grief. You’ve never seen him like this before—not even during the darkest days of their war for the throne. The powerful, often indomitable king, now reduced to a man wracked with sorrow.

He doesn’t look up when you enter. His voice is barely a whisper, lost in the rawness of his emotion.

“Please, don’t… don’t look at me like this,” Aegon’s voice cracks, and his words hang heavy in the air, as if the very act of speaking them causes him more pain. “I couldn’t protect him. I couldn’t save him.”

You feel your heart tighten, the weight of his grief pulling at you. You know this pain all too well—this unbearable ache of loss that consumes you from the inside out. But you refuse to let him suffer alone, even if he tries to push you away.

Slowly, you walk towards him, your presence a silent comfort in the midst of his storm. You sit beside him on the bed, your hands gently resting on his back. He stiffens at first, then gradually relaxes as he feels your touch. Your connection is undeniable, a bond forged from years of shared experiences, of love and loss. You were born together, lived through the chaos of the world together, and now, even in this moment of unbearable grief, you would face it together.

“Aegon,” you whisper, your voice soothing, “I’m here. I’m right here with you. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

He turns to you then, his tear-streaked face contorted with sorrow. His eyes are dark with exhaustion, haunted by the death of their son, and in that moment, he looks so fragile that it nearly breaks you. The strong, proud king you once knew, now just a broken man, clinging to the remains of his shattered heart.

“I couldn’t protect him,” he repeats, his voice barely audible. “I couldn’t save Jaehaerys.”

You take his face in your hands, gently forcing him to meet your gaze. “You didn’t fail him,” you say softly. “There was nothing more you could have done. We both loved him. We both did everything we could, Aegon. But some things… they’re beyond our control.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than any words could express. The weight of the grief, the loss of their son, hangs between you, binding you in shared sorrow. And yet, as you sit there with him, holding him close, you realize that despite the pain, there is still something stronger than it all: your bond. Your love for him.

The sound of Aegon’s sobs pierces through the heavy silence of the room, each cry a reminder of the grief you both carry. The sorrow in his voice is raw, unfiltered, and it cuts through you like a blade. You had lost your son, your beloved Jaehaerys, to a brutal fate, but hearing Aegon, the man you had once looked up to as a rock, crumble before you, makes the ache in your heart swell with a new, unbearable pain.

His cries are not just for Jaehaerys. They are the cries of a father who feels like he failed, a king who couldn’t protect his own flesh and blood. And though you, too, are lost in your own grief, there’s a part of you that can’t help but feel the weight of his sorrow, the burden he’s placed on himself. He has always been your pillar—strong, unyielding. Yet now, in the wake of their son’s brutal death, you see him as you never have before: broken, fragile, and lost.

You want to hold him, comfort him, but you are equally as lost. You, too, are drowning in the loss of your child. Your son, your Jaehaerys, was taken from you in a way so cruel, so violent, it feels like the world itself has torn you apart. You wanted to protect him, to keep him safe in a world that has only ever been ruthless. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

Your heart aching, and without a word, you pull him into your arms. His body is trembling with grief, his face hidden in the crook of your neck, and it feels as if your tears have no end. The dam breaks, and you cry, not just for Jaehaerys, but for the man who has always stood beside you. You mourn for him, too. For the Aegon you once knew—so proud, so certain of everything—and now, reduced to a shell of himself, lost in the same pain you feel.

You both weep together, your cries a mirror of each other. You weep for the child stolen from you, for the cruel brutality that claimed him. You weep for the dreams of a future that will never be. You weep for the man you loved, who now is slipping away from you, consumed by guilt and sorrow.

His arms tighten around you, as though trying to hold onto something—anything—to anchor him in this world that has suddenly become too much to bear. Your fingers run through his hair, your hands trembling as you hold him close, wishing that somehow, in this moment, you could ease his suffering. But you can’t. Neither of you can escape the truth of what has happened.

“Jaehaerys,” you whisper, your voice barely audible through the tears. “Our son… he was taken so brutally. So violently.”

The words choke you, the reality of it too much to speak aloud. But you know Aegon hears it, feels it, because he clutches you tighter, as if your embrace is the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

“He was everything,” Aegon mutters, his voice broken. “He was everything. And I couldn’t protect him. I failed him. I failed you.”

“No,” you say, your voice trembling with the effort to make him understand. “You didn’t fail us. You didn’t fail him. We both did everything we could. The world… the world is just cruel, Aegon. There was nothing we could do to stop it.”

But even as you say the words, you know they don’t bring comfort. Nothing can fix this. Nothing can heal the wound in your heart, nor his. You are both drowning in a grief that feels too heavy to bear, yet somehow, you hold onto each other as if your lives depend on it.

And in the midst of it all, as your bodies shake with sorrow, you both know that, for now, the only thing that can get you through this pain is the shared weight of your loss. Together, you mourn the life stolen from you both, sharing in the quiet understanding that while you have lost your son, you have not lost each other—at least not yet.

The night stretches on, and as the hours pass, the tears begin to subside, leaving behind a quiet, fragile silence. You and Aegon remain locked in each other’s arms, not saying a word, but knowing that the grief will never truly leave. It will live within you both, forever. But in this moment, as you hold him close, you find solace in the shared sorrow, in the unspoken promise that, together, you will face the darkness ahead.

The quiet sorrow in the room is almost suffocating as you and Aegon remain locked in each other’s embrace. Your tears have slowed, but the ache remains—a heavy, unyielding weight that neither of you can escape. In this moment, the world outside seems so distant, so far removed from the grief that binds you both together. It’s just the two of you, sharing in a silence that speaks more than words ever could.

And yet, unbeknownst to you, another presence lingers in the doorway.

Alicent stands there, her figure silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway, watching her children in a way that is both loving and helpless. She stands frozen, unsure of how to act, torn between the instinct to rush to you both and the fear that her comfort will fall flat, that her words will be hollow against the rawness of your pain. She’s always been the Queen, the figure of authority, the protector of the family. But in this moment, all that seems to have failed her. She doesn’t know how to fix what is broken—how to fix you both.

Her heart aches as she watches you and Aegon, the children she has raised, the ones she has tried so hard to hold together. She wants to walk over, to wrap her arms around both of you and tell you everything will be alright. That the pain will fade, and time will heal the wounds. But she knows—deep down—that it isn’t true. Time will not heal this, not this wound, not this loss. The emptiness left by Jaehaerys’s death is something none of you will ever fully escape.

For a long moment, she stands there, unsure whether to enter or retreat. She hesitates, caught between her love for her children and her inability to bridge the growing gap between them. Alicent doesn’t know what to say, or if anything she says will even be heard. She has tried so hard to be the mother you both needed, to mend the fractures that have always been present in your family, but now, more than ever, she feels like a stranger to both of you.

Aegon shifts slightly, his face still buried in your shoulder, and you let out a shaky breath, holding him tighter, as though the very act of holding him could somehow stop the world from crumbling. You don’t notice Alicent’s presence at first. But after a few moments, she realizes that her hesitation has already caused the distance to grow.

With a quiet sigh, Alicent turns away from the door, her footsteps soft as she retreats into the shadows of the hallway. She doesn’t look back, afraid that if she does, it will break something that is already too fragile. The silence between you three is deafening, and though she’s tried for years to hold your family together, in this moment, she feels more distant than ever.

Alicent doesn’t know how to make you feel better. She doesn’t know how to ease the sorrow of losing a child. She doesn’t understand how to fix the bond between her children and herself, a bond that has been fraying for so long, so silently.

As she walks away, her own heart aches, not just for Jaehaerys, but for the two of you—the children she cannot seem to reach, no matter how hard she tries. She doesn’t realize that, in her silence, she has only deepened the divide, pushing you both further away without ever meaning to.

Alicent knows nothing of the quiet, unspoken resentment that has grown in the wake of everything that has happened. She doesn’t understand that, while she watches from the outside, you and Aegon have begun to forge your own bond, one that excludes her. A bond born not from love, but from shared pain and the deep understanding that only you two can truly know the weight of this loss.

And as she disappears down the hall, a quiet, invisible rift stretches between the three of you, one that will not easily be mended.

Tag list : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @zaldritzosrose @yazzzmints @giirlinblack

[kckt88]

Goodbye to you.

Summary:

There is a debt to be paid, a son for a son.

Aemond and his wife struggle to cope in the aftermath of their son's death.

Warnings - Angst, Darma, Tragedy, Grief, Child Loss, Blame.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x Y.N (DAERON TWIN SISTER)

Word Count: 4505

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8

The morning light streamed softly through the heavy drapes of the nursery, casting a gentle glow on the small, empty bed where Aerion had once slept. The room, once a sanctuary filled with laughter and joy, now felt cold and barren.

Y.N. stood in the doorway, her eyes scanning the space that held so many precious memories. She took a hesitant step inside, her heart aching with every beat.

Her gaze fell upon Aerion’s bed, meticulously made as if he might return at any moment. But something was missing. Her breath caught in her throat as she realized what it was. Aerion’s favourite blanket, the one he never slept without, was nowhere to be seen.

Panic gripped her, squeezing her chest until it felt like she could hardly breathe.

“No-no, no, no-” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Where is it?”

Y.N. moved to the bed, her hands frantically pulling back the covers, searching every corner. The blanket, soft and worn from countless nights of comforting her little boy, was gone.

She tore through the small pile of toys beside the bed, scattering wooden dragons and knights across the floor. Her desperation grew with each passing second.

“It has to be here!” she cried, her voice growing louder, more frantic. “It’s the only thing I have left of him!”

She yanked open drawers, tossing out clothes and small keepsakes in a frenzy. Her hands shook as she rifled through Aerion’s things, her vision blurred by tears.

The room, once a place of warmth and security, now felt like a cruel mockery of what she had lost.

Her cries echoed off the stone walls, a heart-wrenching symphony of grief and despair. She fell to her knees, sobbing as she rummaged through the last drawer.

Each item she touched brought a fresh wave of sorrow, a reminder of the little boy she would never hold again.

“Aerion,” she whispered, clutching one of his tiny shirts to her chest. “Please-where is it?”

The door creaked open, and Aemond entered, his face drawn and pale. He had heard her cries and felt the same sharp pang of loss twist in his gut.

He rushed to her side, kneeling beside her, and wrapping his arms around her trembling form.

“Y.N., my love,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “What’s wrong?”

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a desperate, heartbreaking plea. “His blanket, Aemond. It’s gone. It’s the only thing I have left of him, and it’s gone!”

Aemond’s heart broke anew at her words. He held her tighter, trying to offer what little comfort he could. “We’ll find it,” he promised, though he knew it was a small consolation. “We’ll search every inch of this castle if we have to.”

Y.N. buried her face in his shoulder, her sobs shaking her entire body. “I just want him back. I just want my baby back.”

Aemond’s eye stung with unshed tears as he held his wife, his own grief mingling with hers. “I know, my love. I know.”

Aemond held Y.N. tightly, his own heart breaking at her anguish. As he tried to think of where Aerion’s blanket could be, then a memory surfaced—the maids helping to clean the room after the tragic night, whilst he had insisted on removing his son’s blood-stained bedding himself.

"The maids," Aemond said suddenly, his voice urgent. "They must have picked it up after I handed them the bedding. They might have it."

Y.N. pulled back, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and desperation.

Without another word, she bolted from the room, her footsteps echoing through the halls as she chased after the maids.

Aemond followed closely, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and urgency.

She raced through the corridors, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Where are they?" she muttered to herself, her eyes scanning every corner.

She finally spotted a group of maids at the end of the hall, their aprons stained with the day’s work.

"Wait!" Y.N. shouted, her voice cracking.

The maids turned, startled by her frantic approach. One of them, a young girl with wide eyes, stepped forward. "Princess, what’s the matter?"

"The blanket," Y.N. panted, her eyes wild. "Aerion’s blanket. Did you take it?"

The maids exchanged worried glances. "We did, Princess," the young maid said hesitantly. "It was with the bedding that the Prince gave us, it was covered in-in blood”.

"Where is it?" Y.N. demanded, her voice rising. "Where is it now?"

The maid pointed to a nearby room, where a large bucket of soapy water sat. "There, my lady. We are soaking it to remove the stains."

Y.N. felt her heart plummet. She rushed into the room, her eyes locking onto the bucket.

The blanket, now soaking wet and submerged in the water, was unrecognizable.

She let out a scream, a sound of pure anguish and horror, as she snatched it from the water, clutching the sodden fabric to her chest.

"No, no, no!" she cried hysterically, pressing the wet blanket to her face. "His scent-it’s gone. It was the only thing I had left of him."

Aemond reached her side, his own grief etched deeply on his face. He wrapped his arms around her, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. "Y.N., I’m so sorry."

She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clung to the blanket. "My boy, I can’t smell him-he’s gone" she whispered, her voice breaking.

“I’m sorry-“

"You," Y.N hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and grief. "You're the one who gave the maids Aerion's blanket."

Aemond’s heart sank, a fresh wave of guilt crashing over him. "Y.N., It was an accident—"

"Do you realize what you've done?" she screamed, cutting him off. Her voice was raw, filled with a pain that echoed in the walls of the room. "How could you be so stupid? How could you give them the only thing I had left of our son?"

He took a step forward, his hands trembling. "I thought—"

"You thought?" she spat, her face contorting with fury. "Did you even think at all? That blanket was all I had, Aemond. The last piece of him. And now it’s gone, ruined, because of you!"

Tears welled up in Aemond's eye, but he forced himself to meet her gaze. "I’m so sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I never meant-"

"-Sorry?" Y.N. interrupted, her voice rising to a hysterical pitch. "Sorry won't bring Aerion back! Sorry won't bring back his scent, his memory, the one small comfort I had left. You took that from me!"

“Please-” muttered Aemond.

Y.N.'s sobs turned to gasps as a sudden, fierce anger ignited within her.

She pulled away from Aemond, her grief transforming into a boiling rage.

Clutching the soaked blanket, she turned on him, her eyes blazing.

"This is your fault!" she screamed, hitting him with the wet blanket over and over. "You did this!"

Aemond staggered back, raising his arms to protect himself from her blows. "Y.N"

"They killed our son because of you!" she cried, her voice raw with fury and pain. "How could you let this happen?"

Each word was a dagger to Aemond's heart. He stood there, accepting her blows, knowing that her pain and anger were justified.

He had killed Lucerys in a moment of rage, and now their own son had paid the price.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

Y.N. continued to strike him, the blanket slapping against his chest and arms, her strength fuelled by the depths of her sorrow.

"Sorry? Sorry won't bring Aerion back! Sorry won't erase what you've done!"

Aemond's eye filled with tears, his own grief and guilt overwhelming him. "I know," he said, his voice trembling. "I know, Y.N. I would give anything to undo it, to bring him back."

But his words only seemed to fuel her anger further. "You should have thought of that before you acted so recklessly!" she shouted; her voice hoarse. "You should have thought of our family!"

Her blows began to weaken, the weight of her grief finally overtaking her. She collapsed to the floor, her hands still clutching the blanket. "He's gone," she sobbed as she pressed the blanket to her face. "Our little boy is gone, and it's all your fault."

“Y.N”

"Get out" she hissed, her voice trembling with fury. "Get out, Aemond. Leave me alone."

Aemond recoiled, the words hitting him like a physical blow. "Y.N., please," he began, reaching out to her.

"NO!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the halls. "I can't even look at you. Every time I do, I see Aerion"

Aemond's face crumpled in pain, but he nodded slowly, understanding the depth of her anguish. "I understand," he said quietly, his voice barely audible. "I'll go."

He took a hesitant step backward, his eye never leaving hers, hoping for some sign that she might change her mind.

But Y.N.'s gaze was steely, her resolve unyielding. "LEAVE!" she shouted again, her voice breaking. "I can't bear to see you. I can't bear to be near you."

Aemond's shoulders slumped as he turned and walked away, his heart heavy with guilt and sorrow.

He paused at the doorway, glancing back one last time. Y.N. had turned away from him, clutching Aerion’s blanket, her body wracked with silent sobs.

"Y.N.," Alicent whispered, her voice filled with concern.

Y.N. looked up, her tear-streaked face reflecting a lifetime's worth of pain.

The sight of her mother, broke the last of her fragile composure. "Mama," she sobbed, the word escaping her lips like a plea for solace.

Alicent rushed to her daughter's side, gathering her into her arms. "Shh, my darling, I'm here," she murmured, stroking Y.N.'s silver hair gently.

Y.N. collapsed into her mother’s embrace, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. "He's gone-" she cried, her voice muffled against Alicent's shoulder. "My boy is gone."

"I know, my sweet girl," Alicent said softly, her own eyes filling with tears. She held Y.N. tightly, rocking her gently as she continued to stroke her hair. "I know."

“It’s Aemond’s fault,” Y.N. cried, her voice muffled against Alicent’s shoulder. “What he did-our son is dead because of him.”

Alicent’s eyes filled with tears as she tightened her embrace, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. “I know”

Y.N. pulled back slightly, her face streaked with tears and contorted with pain. “How could he do this? How could he be so reckless, so blinded by his anger?”

Alicent cupped Y.N.’s face in her hands, her own tears falling freely. “Aemond made a terrible mistake, and he is suffering for it as well. But right now, we must find a way to get through this, together.”

Y.N. shook her head, fresh sobs wracking her body. “I don’t know if I can”.

"Y.N.," Alicent began softly, her voice filled with a mother's pleading. "Please, do not shut Aemond out. He made a terrible mistake, and he is suffering too. He needs you now more than ever."

Y.N. shook her head, her expression hardening. "I can’t”

Alicent's eyes filled with tears as she squeezed Y.N.'s hands more tightly. "I understand, my sweet girl. I do. But Aemond is consumed with guilt and sorrow. He knows what he has done, and it is tearing him apart. He never intended for any of this to happen."

"Intentions don’t matter now," Y.N. replied bitterly, pulling her hands away. "Our son is dead. Aemond’s regret won't bring him back."

Alicent’s heart ached for both her children, torn apart by this tragedy. "Y.N., please. I’m not asking you to forgive him now, or even soon. But don’t shut him out completely. Let him share in your grief. Let him try to make amends."

Y.N.'s eyes flashed with anger and pain. "Make amends? How can he ever make amends for this? He killed Lucerys out of rage, and now our son is gone because of it. How am I supposed to move past that?"

Alicent's tears spilled over, her voice trembling as she spoke. "I know, my darling. I know it seems impossible. But shutting him out, living in this isolation of grief and anger, it will only deepen your pain. Let him in, if only a little. Let him show you that he is suffering too, that he is willing to do anything to make things right, even if it’s impossible."

Y.N. shook her head again, her expression resolute. "I don’t know if I can”

Alicent's shoulders slumped in defeat, her heart breaking for her daughter. "Alright," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "I won't force you. But please, just consider it. Don’t let this grief destroy everything. Don’t let it destroy you."

Aemond stumbled down the corridor, each step feeling like an eternity. His heart ached with the raw, searing pain of loss and guilt. He could still hear Y.N.'s sobs echoing in his mind, a haunting reminder of what he’d done.

He reached a quiet, shadowed alcove and leaned against the cold stone wall, his strength leaving him. Slowly, he slid down until he was sitting on the floor, burying his face in his hands.

The weight of his sorrow was unbearable, pressing down on him until he could barely breathe. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, the grief and guilt overwhelming him.

As he sat there, lost in his despair, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up, his vision blurred by tears, and saw his sister Helaena standing beside him.

Her eyes were filled with empathy and sadness, understanding his pain without needing words. She quietly sat down next to him, her presence a silent offering of comfort.

"Aemond," Helaena said softly, breaking the silence. "Y.N. is lashing out because of her grief. She’s in pain, and she doesn’t know how to cope with it”.

Aemond turned his head slightly, looking at his sister through a tear-filled eye. "I know," he whispered, his voice raw with sorrow. "But it doesn’t make it any easier. She hates me, Hel-”.

Helaena reached out and placed a gentle hand on his arm. "She needs you, Aemond. As much as she says she doesn’t, as much as she pushes you away, she needs to know that you’re there. You’re both suffering and shutting each other out will only make it worse."

Aemond closed his eye, a fresh wave of tears spilling down his cheeks. "I don’t know if I can," he admitted, his voice trembling. "She blames me for everything, and she’s right. It is my fault."

Helaena’s grip on his arm tightened, her voice firm but filled with compassion. "You made a mistake, a terrible mistake. But you’re still her husband, and she’s still your wife. Grief does strange things to people, Aemond. It twists and distorts their emotions. But underneath all of that pain, she still loves you. She’s hurting, and she needs you to be strong for her”.

Aemond’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, the enormity of his guilt and grief threatening to crush him. "I don’t know if I’m strong enough," he whispered. "I feel like I’m drowning, and I don’t know how to save her when I can’t even save myself."

Helaena moved closer, wrapping her arms around him in a comforting embrace. "You’re stronger than you think, brother. And you don’t have to do this alone. We’re all here for you, for both of you. Take it one day at a time, one moment at a time. Be there for her in whatever way you can, even if it’s just by being present. She needs to see that you’re not going anywhere, that you’re committed to facing this together."

Aemond leaned into his sister’s embrace, drawing strength from her words and her presence. "I’ll try," he said, his voice a broken whisper. "I’ll try to be there for her, even if she doesn’t want me to be."

Helaena held him tighter, her own tears falling silently. "That’s all you can do, Aemond. Just try. And remember, you’re not alone in this. We’ll get through it together."

Alicent gently guided Y.N. through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, her arm wrapped protectively around her daughter's shoulders.

The weight of their shared grief pressed down on them, but Alicent's touch was steady, a small beacon of comfort in the overwhelming darkness.

When they reached the chambers, Alicent opened the door and led her inside. The room was quiet, the flickering candlelight casting soft, dancing shadows on the walls.

Alicent guided her daughter to a chair by the vanity and began to tenderly undress her, treating her with the same attention she had when Y.N. was a child.

"Let me help you" Alicent said softly, her voice soothing. She unfastened Y.N.'s dress with gentle hands, carefully removing it and laying it aside.

Y.N. stood motionless, her body weary and spirit broken, allowing her mother to take care of her.

Alicent fetched a soft, linen nightgown and slipped it over Y.N.'s head, smoothing the fabric over her shoulders. "There, now," she murmured, her fingers lightly brushing Y.N.'s hair.

She picked up a silver comb from the vanity and began to comb Y.N.'s hair with slow, deliberate strokes.

The rhythmic motion was calming, a small act of normalcy in a world turned upside down. "You’ve always had such beautiful hair," Alicent whispered, more to herself than to Y.N.

Y.N. remained silent, her eyes distant and unfocused, but the gentle care of her mother brought a faint sense of peace. Alicent continued to comb, her touch tender and loving, until Y.N.'s hair was smooth and free of tangles.

"Let’s get you into bed," Alicent said, setting the comb aside. She guided Y.N. to the bed and pulled back the covers, helping her daughter to lie down. The sheets were cool and soft, offering a small measure of comfort.

Alicent tucked the blankets around Y.N., smoothing them with care. "Rest now" she whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to Y.N.'s forehead. "I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep."

Y.N. closed her eyes, the exhaustion of grief finally overwhelming her. Alicent sat on the edge of the bed, her hand resting gently on Y.N.'s, her presence a steady anchor in the turbulent sea of sorrow.

As Y.N. drifted off to sleep, Alicent watched over her, her own heart heavy with sadness. She knew the road ahead would be long and difficult, but she would be there for her children every step of the way, offering whatever comfort and support she could.

Aemond stood outside his chambers, the cold stone wall pressing against his back. He took a deep, steadying breath, his heart pounding with a mixture of dread and determination.

He reached for the door handle, his hand trembling slightly. Gathering his resolve, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of candles casting a warm light over the furniture and walls.

His eyes quickly adjusted to the low light, and he saw his mother, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her face was etched with sorrow, but her presence was a source of comfort in the midst of his turmoil.

Y.N. lay asleep in the bed, her face peaceful but marked by the traces of countless tears. The sight of her, so fragile and vulnerable, filled Aemond with a fresh wave of guilt and sorrow. He closed the door softly behind him, not wanting to disturb her rest.

Alicent looked up as he entered, her eyes filled with a mixture of relief and sadness. She rose from the bed and walked over to him, her steps silent on the thick carpet.

"Aemond," she whispered, reaching out to take his hand. "How are you?"

Aemond swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. "I'm trying, Mother," he replied quietly. "Helaena told me I need to be here for her, even if she doesn't want me to be."

Alicent squeezed his hand gently. "Helaena is right. Y.N. needs you, even if she can't see it right now. Grief can make people push away those they love the most. But you must stay strong for her, and for yourself."

He nodded, his gaze shifting back to Y.N.'s sleeping form. "I don’t know how to help her, Mother. I try to reach out, she pushes me away. I don’t blame her. It’s my fault that Aerion is gone."

Alicent's eyes filled with tears as she pulled him into a tight embrace. "We all share this pain, Aemond. You made a mistake, but you mustn't let it destroy you. Be patient with her, and with yourself. Healing will take time."

Aemond returned the embrace, drawing strength from his mother's unwavering support. "I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right, to be there for her," he said, his voice filled with quiet determination.

Alicent nodded and pulled back, her hands resting on his shoulders. "I know you will, my son. Just take it one step at a time”.

Aemond took a deep breath and walked over to the bed. He knelt down beside it, his gaze fixed on Y.N.'s sleeping face.

He reached out tentatively, gently brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead. The simple act of being close to her, of offering his silent support, gave him a small measure of comfort.

Alicent watched from the doorway, her heart aching for both her children. She knew the road ahead would be long and difficult, but seeing Aemond's resolve gave her hope. Quietly, she slipped out of the room, leaving them alone.

Y.N. stirred from her fitful sleep, her eyes fluttering open to the dimly lit room. At first, everything seemed hazy and distant, the events of the past days blending together in a fog of grief.

But then, as her senses slowly came into focus, she saw him kneeling by the bedside, his silhouette illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight.

Aemond.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. In the depths of his gaze, she saw the pain and sorrow etched into his features, a reflection of her own anguish.

She wanted to turn away, to shut him out. But he was still her husband, he was still her Aemond, he was still the man she loved, despite what he had done.

Wordlessly, they stared at each other, the weight of their shared grief hanging heavy in the air. And then, without warning, a sob escaped Y.N.'s lips, tearing through the silence like a knife.

"Aemond," she cried out, her voice raw with emotion as she reached forward and grasped his tunic. "Please Valzȳrys-please hold me” (Husband).

Aemond nodded and slowly eased himself onto the bed beside her.

Y.N. moved to make room for him, her grip on his tunic never loosening. Aemond lay down and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.

Their bodies fit together, each finding a small measure of comfort in the other’s presence.

"Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I-I'm so sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean to-"

Aemond placed a finger gently over her lips, stopping her. His expression was a mix of sorrow and determination. "No," he said quietly, his voice rough from crying. "You were right. Aerion is dead, and it’s my fault."

She shook her head, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. "I was angry. I lashed out. I shouldn't have blamed you like that."

Aemond's hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. "You had every right to blame me," he said, his voice breaking.

Y.N. clung to him, her tears falling freely.

"They should have killed me instead," said Aemond, his words laden with pain. "It should have been me. Our son is gone because of my actions."

Y.N. shook her head "No, Aemond," she said, her voice firm despite the tears streaming down her face. "They killed Aerion because they knew it would hurt us more. They wanted to inflict the deepest pain possible. They killed an innocent child out of pure spite and cruelty."

Aemond's eye closed, fresh tears spilling over his cheeks. "I can’t bear it, Y.N. The thought that my actions led to this-that our innocent son paid the price for my mistake. It’s more than I can stand."

Y.N. cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "Listen to me, Aemond," she said, her voice trembling but resolute. "Aerion's death is on those who committed this heinous act. They are the ones who chose to kill a defenceless child. Your mistake was terrible, but the cruelty of his murder lies with them, not you."

“Y.N-“

“Maybe if Lucerys had been punished when he took your eye then none of this would’ve happened, maybe if our father wasn’t so wilfully blind towards our half sister birthing her bastards then none of this would’ve happened-but the seeds of discord were sown long before either of us existed”

“He was innocent-“ whispered Aemond.

“The innocent are always the ones to suffer in the game of thrones” replied Y.N

Aemond held Y.N. tightly with one arm, he reached behind him with the other, feeling around until his hand closed around a soft, familiar object.

He lifted it up and handed it to Y.N., his heart aching with a bittersweet pang.

“Here,” he said quietly, holding out one of Aerion's favourite teddy bears, a stuffed dragon with worn fabric from being held so often.

Y.N. gasped, her eyes widening as she saw the beloved toy. “Where did you find it?” she asked, her voice trembling with a mixture of surprise and emotion.

“It had fallen under our bed,” Aemond replied softly.

Tears welled up in Y.N.’s eyes as she took the stuffed dragon from his hands. She pressed it to her face, inhaling deeply. And there it was—the sweet, familiar scent of their little boy.

She clutched the teddy bear tightly to her chest, her sobs returning with a renewed intensity. “Oh, Aemond,” she cried, her voice breaking. “It smells like him. Our Aerion.”

Aemond’s own eye filled with tears as he watched her, the sight of her finding solace in their son’s beloved toy bringing a mixture of pain and comfort.

He reached out, gently stroking her hair as she held the teddy bear close.

“He’s still with us in these small ways,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “And we will carry his memory with us, in everything we do.”

Y.N. nodded, her tears soaking into the soft fabric of the stuffed dragon. “I miss him so much,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Aemond leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “We will keep his memory alive, Y.N.,” he promised. “We will honour him and see that justice is served, with fire and blood”.

The End.

[j-jared]

A postcanon AU I wanna dabble with, where v3 was another simulation that took place during the Tragedy. Kiibo's data was saved via a replica of his head being in the outside world - but they definitely didn't have enough material to make a whole body for him. V3 was a technical "TV" show but for Despair maddened crowds.

So everyone woke up, found by Future Foundation, but were stuck in one of the Despair ridden cities due to transport not being able to get to them. Basically, V3 are in their typical postcanon recovery, but in a field hospital of sorts.

That is, until the mobs found them and blew it up. In the midst of the chaos, Kokichi stumbled upon where they were keeping Kiibo's head, and grabbed him as fire and crumbling walls surrounded them. Now separated from the rest of their class, these two are wandering the apocalypse. Fun times, am I right?

---

i rlly should name this AU

eh, we'll figure it out later

[superbat-love]

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to block the overwhelming dark memories. In the background, Scarecrow's cackling echoed, and Bruce struggled to anchor himself in the present. The grating laughter and the pain in his body weren't enough to keep the shadows at bay.

He felt the suffocating despair, cradling his son’s lifeless body in his arms. The pain and fatigue that seeped deep into his bones as he pushed his body to its limit. A voice, burdened with guilt, whispered apologies repeatedly, vowing to prevent such tragedy from happening again.

Something urged him to keep his fear under control, warning of consequences greater than his own well-being. His fears, if unleashed, would fuel a much darker force. So he fought to control his breathing, empty his mind, and slow his racing heart.

The room trembled as the opposite wall crumbled to the ground. When he opened his eyes, a shadowy figure with demonic eyes emerged from the ruins — Superman. Gripping Scarecrow's throat, Superman's eyes burned with rage. Behind the rage, Bruce sensed Clark's fear, a fear mirrored in his own. But unlike Batman, who suppressed his fear, Superman would act upon it without hesitation.

Suddenly, Bruce's worst fear became all too real.

[jolenes-doppelganger]

Sunlight (Trick or Treat #1- Kinktober)

Lady Jessica x Fem! Reader

MINORS DNI 18+

Summary: A quiet day in involves reminiscing and slow, devoted sex.

Kinks: Erotic lactation, sensual coupling.

Warnings: This is a trick or treat fic, so you might be in for more than you've bargained for. Read at your own risk, any kinks listed are the only kinks in the fic.

A/N: (See the bottom of the fic).

Word Count: 3.9k

Since the Holy War had begun, there were few places that felt untouched by the tragedy. Untouched by the despair that drew places and people into bitter vigil. All of Arrakis felt hollow, years of battle making the ever present sun almost ghostly. The sun no longer warmed your skin like you remembered it had on your first visit to the land of sand and spice. There were a few places that held onto memories from before Arrakis, places carefully crafted to remind the occupants of better, slower times. The quiet that had come before the storms.

Walking into Jessica’s chambers was like walking into a room at the old Atreides fortress on Caladan, so well constructed was the sentiment. The walls were lined with dark blue tapestries depicting waves and soft seascapes, each handmade and meticulously crafted to imbue that nostalgia. The floor was made of wood. It had been imported for a pretty penny, but it was real wood. Paul had done it for his mother when the fortress was being built. He’d done a lot for her, and it was clear from the craftsmanship of the room how much he loved her, how much you all loved her. The walls were exposed stone, artificially weathered to be smooth and inviting. It wasn’t the dark stone of the porous boulder that Castle Atreides had been carved out of, but it was a good substitute. And it smelled clean. Not stuffy and overpowering like the rest of the Fremen sietches, grainy and polluted by sand and sweat. Most beautiful of all was she, long brown hair falling down her back in soft waves as she read a book. Blue eyes scanning the text, lips pursed in her signature way. She looked good. Relaxed.

“Jessica.” you smiled, settling beside her on the couch.

Her eyes locked onto you, recognition devolving into tender affection.

“Lover.” 

Her arms were thin, but sculpted, and they cradled your body with soft reverence. The fabric of her dress was expensive, another luxury awarded to her by her ever-devoted son. One glance up and it was like you were back on Caladan again. Jessica’s face no longer bore the markings of the Fremen ritual, the markings that you’d memorized and traced on so many sleepless nights. She was no longer a Sayyadina, she no longer carried that burden, thus her face was free of such markings. The demotion hadn’t affected her, to what you could tell. She would always carry the burden of the Reverend Mother’s knowledge, that much she seemed to accept. And maybe that was why she didn’t need the duties, she had enough with Alia and Paul. Enough memories to keep her occupied for as long as she could bear them. But in this moment it was clear she wasn’t reminiscing, rather she simply existed in the moment. She almost hummed with soft energy. It was a beautiful thing, while it lasted. 

“I’ve been reading up on the tribes in the South. Paul has refused to let me see the death tolls, but I fear so many have been-” Jessica spoke, spiraling softly.

“Jessica, that’s not your concern.” you dismissed her, cupping her face. 

It was smoother than you remembered, but still littered with those soft freckles. Her face contorted into a soft frown, and her blue eyes didn’t land on you for some time. Cutting her off in the midst of one of her soft monologues wasn’t something you did often, but you did it frequently in recent months. She was no longer a Reverend Mother, she didn’t carry those burdens, she wasn’t meant to.

“It was once.”

You nodded, gently guiding her into her lap. She bent like a reed in the wind, resting into your comforting embrace. All of the little burdens she carried on her back, endless worries her mind created… You hated it. The Jessica you loved should never carry such troubles. 

“I was a lot of things.” Jessica finished, staring blankly at the far wall.

“Jessica, I want you to focus on something else.” you firmly spoke, leaning forwards to kiss her.

Her slow descent into depressive spirals was often contagious, so it needed to be stopped. She let out a startled sound as you kissed her, eventually melting into your advances. Her lips were soft and warm, but a little stiff. The distraction was old, a trick she was used to by now. But it caught her every time, causing her arms to droop, the muscles in her shoulders to go lax, even her breathing evened. Jessica’s tongue was wet and dexterous, if not a bit clumsy. But her hands were soft and warm against your cheeks, her nose brushing yours in that familiarly comforting way. And that was what broke your inhibitions, the need for propriety and distance in your love. Her hair felt like silk as you ran your fingers through it, her lips sweet, breath tinged with the smell of coffee. Every soft stroke of your cheek, the small little inhalations of breath she gave in between your sweet caresses of tongue and teeth, it reminded you of simpler times.

You focused on a particularly bawdy memory as you continued to kiss, one that inspired mood. A hot summer as your lady’s handmaid, the slow descent into nakedness as the two of you fought to cool off in her humid yali. The rise and fall of her breasts, how gorgeous she’d looked postpartum, a year or so it had been. And the smile she’d given, the flicker of amusement in her eyes as her finger cocked forwards, gesturing you to the bead of milk sliding down her breast. It had all been sweet, a forbidden delicacy partaken in during a moment of weakness on both of your parts. A minor relapse into the human; the selfish and carnal. 

“Suck, yes.” Jessica gasped, tangling her hands in your hair.

You remembered how the warmth of her breast had seeped into your face, more insufferable heat. Sweat dripped down your back, mirroring the sweat that dripped between her boobs. Salty and invigorating. Nothing like the bead of milk that landed on your tongue. You remembered how sweet it had been, how rich and… How Jessica’s.

“God, they’re so heavy, Alia isn’t weaning properly.” Jessica breathily complained, holding up her other breast to attempt to cool herself off.

She looked positively miserable. You both were. The sun penetrated everywhere, and you swore it wormed its way into the Fremen sietch. She was carrying too much fluid. That was bad. Storing it in your body was a temporary measure, one that would help Jessica. Her fingers tangled themselves in your hair, aided by the sweat of your scalp. Sweat everywhere, sweat and milk. You gulped down the first mouthful, the embarrassment of such a debaucherous act fading as you tasted the unforgettably delicious commodity that was her milk. Jessica’s back relaxed while her grip on your hair tightened, urging you forwards. The coming and going of others outside of Jessica’s yali hadn’t concerned you, neither did the threat of a hungry Alia. All that mattered was the soft pull and release of nursing, of nutrients, of passion.

This memory inspired mood.

The bed beneath you was cool, the internal arrangements of the rebuilt stronghold of Arrakeen were far more accommodating than her yali had been. Some nights you managed to feel a chill. Those were the nights you didn’t spend with Jessica, the nights where you weren’t tangled in her arms, trying to match the rise and fall of her chest as you slept.

Jessica was atop you, breathing heavily as you aligned your thigh in between her leg and hers in between yours. It should have alarmed you, how quickly the two of you devolved into such passionate entanglements. But this was the way you were designed, after all. This was the Jessica you remembered.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” Jessica admitted, beginning to rut against your thigh desperately. 

Sunlight streamed through the upper window, filtered by layers of tint. It was beautiful, and it covered Jessica’s body in a gorgeous glow. Of their own accord, your fingers began to trace each vertebrae of her spine, providing gentle stimulation to Jessica’s rutting.

“You’re not very receptive.” she teased. “I’m doing all the work, it’s very rude.”

Your eyes snapped up at hers, and you understood the hidden challenge.

“Oh, I’m not very receptive?” 

Jessica shrieked with laughter as you rolled her onto her back. You began to tickle her, starting behind her neck, then down her abdomen. Each little tickle caused her body to twitch and convulse, arms flailing uselessly as she gasped and giggled. Her neck craned upwards, face growing pink like the cherry blossoms of your home world. Her eyes sparkled with laughter, each little gasp causing her entire body to vibrate with contagious joy. She was beautiful like this, a magnificent creation of soft edges and hard foundations. It made you forget the evil of the world, the tragedies of the starving, the fate of the dying.

And then she began to moan. 

“Oh… Oh… Oh!” she gasped, eyes rolling shut as the tickling turned erotic.

All thoughts of melancholy, the inner guilt you carried on your shoulders at all hours of the day faded. Sisyphus was granted the momentary relief of falling, of sliding down the hill with his boulder before the toil began anew. That was the hold Jessica had on you. One sweet, muse crafted moan and you were set free from the realities of your environment. You ducked your head down, tasting the salty sweat that dripped down her sternum, like all those years ago. She’d long since weaned Alia. Her breasts sat small and firm against her chest. Sure, they had once been larger, more inviting, but they were still pretty. The change surely didn’t stop you from leaning forwards and capturing one.

Her nipple was soft and warm between your lips, as soft as the sounds that fell from her lips. Jessica’s hands drew over your back, fingernails digging into your skin just ever so, leaving their mark. You would leave your own mark, teeth softly nibbling at her nipple until it grew puffy and engorged, until her whines grew insistent and upset. Soft kisses and licks soothed the flesh, and her moans returned, breathier and husky. A subtle dance of teasing and torturing, one the two of you knew well.

“Other side.” she sighed, though her voice lacked the commands that had made up every word during her time as a Reverend Mother.

You complied slowly, pressing kisses to her sternum, taking a moment to feel her heartbeat against your lips. The beat was solid and familiar, one that momentarily distracted you. Only momentarily. You continued on, trailing kisses under her breast and wrapping your lips around an already stiff nipple. There was no milk to be had, no burst of sweetness, but there was the memory. You began to suckle, your hands splayed over her ribs as you worked, rolling the nibble in between your teeth, not half as rough as you’d been with the first side. Jessica sighed, adjusting her grip on your hair to slowly massage your scalp. Sensual, loving, comforting. You looked up, seeing the column of her neck elongate as she threw her head back in a moan that reverberated up from deep within her core. 

It was temporary, this particular attention. One sharp tug from Jessica, hand and your kisses trailed lower. The path was slow, you took your time to nibble at each of the defined valleys of her abs, flexing at your attentions. They almost stuttered in response to your soft kisses and nips, like the fluttering of bird wings. Her skin was less flavorful here, unaffected by the sweat that clung to her chest. You took a moment to savor her touch, tracing your tongue into her belly button to elicit a sweet giggle from her. The smiled you shared subverted the passion momentarily. Love made lovers, after all. She was perfect, soft and oh-so remarkable. Your mouth trailed lower.

The pubic hair that snuck up from her pubic bone was slightly damp, carrying a certain musk. It was different. She’d changed since she’d stopped feeding Alia, since she’d purposefully allowed menopause to set in. It hadn’t affected her sexual appetites, though. Yet. Another reason to savor this moment.

“Hand me that big pillow.” you murmured, kissing the crux between her torso and hip, nibbling softly at the divot there.

It was addicting, finding new places to love this woman, to honor the force that was Jessica Atreides.

Jessica obeyed your soft command, but in her own way. A thick pillow smacked across your head, and your chin hit her pubic bone. You both yelped in discomfort, and the two of you shared a glance.

“Stupid.” you glowered.

“Shut up and eat my pussy.” she retorted, giving an embarrassed smile.

You lifted your hands in mock surrender, slipping the thick pillow beneath her hips. It raised her up and did a lot for your neck. But you weren’t going to give her what she wanted just yet, oh no.

Taking a deep breath in, you leaned forwards starting just above her knee. Soft kisses working from her inner thigh up to her outer labia drew out the sweetest whines from her, and it gave you time to acquaint yourself with the new smell of Jessica. It wasn’t bad, just different. But her skin was still fun to nibble, and nibble you did. Jessica tangled her hands in your hair, pulling and jerking impatiently. She began to mutter under her breath in Chakobsa, a remnant of her past, you supposed. It didn’t bother you that she was cussing you out in a language you didn’t have true proficiency in, what bothered you was that she wasn’t moaning.

“Baby, what do you want?” you spoke, letting your breath hit her inflamed pussy.

Jessica’s breath hitched, and you swore her eyes dilated as she felt the first sliver of true stimulation. But that indicator of arousal was overshadowed by the curl of her lip as you refused to lean in further.

“Get to work, or so help me, I will do it myself.” she huffed, face red and upset.

“Empty threats.” you giggled.

It was enough teasing, really. With agonizing delicacy, you placed the tiniest kiss on her clit before parting her labia with your fingers. The smell hit you then, and you didn’t wince at its unfamiliarity; you wouldn’t dare. You dove in, as was instinct, and began lapping fervently at her fluttering entrance. The reward was the softest, sweetest moan she’d given that evening. It spurred you on further, until you were lost in her, lost in the sounds she made. Grunts, gasps, moans. All interspersed with the taste of her, the constant tugging of your hair. Her pubic curls tickled your nose, the smell of her sex concentrated. 

“Please! Yes… Right there, deeper.” Jessica huffed, desperately grinding her face against your mouth. 

Every undulation of her hips, every cuss word, both known and foreign that fell from her lips was proof of your success, the pleasure she was feeling. Your jaw ached, your nose moved from side to side as she ground her clit against it, but the feeling was worth the mild discomfort. No, the experience was worth the sensation. Jessica, your poor, sweet, tortured Jessica, thighs rippling as she clenched every muscle in her leg, abs rising and falling in time with her frantic breaths, nipples as hard as diamonds… It was a sight to remember. 

“Close, so fucking close… Oh.. OH!”

Her thighs clamped around her hair, and the threat of suffocation was one you shoved down in practiced disinterest. What mattered was holding her steady, holding her hips down so she didn’t buck too violently, rolling your head side to side so she could continue to grind her clit against it as your tongue plunged inside of her spongy canal. Her back bowed, head falling backwards in a tender curve of ecstasy. What mattered was her pleasure, the long moan that reverberated off of the walls, the sighs of relief as she slowly came down from her orgasm. Every muscle in her body went lax. You didn’t bother savoring her taste. Not this time, not when she was sprawled so organically in your bedsheets.

The world went still, and you just observed Jessica. The slowing rise and fall of her chest, the way her pelvis rested contentedly above the thick pillow beneath her hips. Sunlight streamed through the small windows above, bathing her in golden light. Your hands trailed up her stomach, you felt the softness there. Her ribs were hard and defined beneath the skin, and you traced over them, trying to recall if this too had changed. Her eyes flicked upwards, a confused pout on her face. The sun made this look natural too.

The desperate way you crawled upwards and embraced her wasn’t quick enough to subvert your grief, or the rising despair that crawled up with bile from your throat. It wasn’t the intimacy that triggered your cognitive dissonance, nor the underlying truth of Jessica’s lack of tattoos and minimal scars, it was the cognitive dissonance of seeing her so human.

“Jessica, come here.” you managed, wrapping your arms around her desperately.

Her eyes landed on you, and you tried to press your ear to her heart, trying to hear the soothing beat. It was firm and comforting, and it took away the ache for just a moment, but as soon as you buried your face in her neck once more, you could no longer fight the truth. 

Jessica didn’t smell like Jessica. 

And of course she wouldn’t. This wasn’t Jessica. Not really.

For all the months Paul had spent painstakingly creating the various pieces of the thinking machine, what he had never been able to get right for you, or anyone else, was the way Jessica had smelled. There was no way to capture her smell, after all, Paul had taken one mold and several scans of her body initially, but she’d been buried soon after. There was no one in your small inner circle that could bear seeing her face slowly fade from color, body growing bloated as the hot sun of the desert began to accelerate the natural decay of flesh. Paul was a genius, and he’d worked several miracles getting the machine to perform so faithfully. But as beautifully as the machine could replicate her laugh, her smile, the way she could flush and respond to stimulation, it couldn’t mimic her smell.

“...God, I miss you so much.” you whispered, fighting the urge to cry into its shoulder.

If you listened intently you could hear the whirring of the gears as it tilted its head, reaching up to stroke your hair in soft, too familiar gestures.

“I’m right here.” it whispered.

“No. Not really.”

The machine hugged you tighter, as you reflected. Its creation had been a blatant violation of imperial law, creating and shaping a machine that not only resembled a human mind, but attempted to mimic the mind of a woman long since lost. A crime such as this could have the machine dismantled and Paul under further fire, but Paul had been as heartbroken as you. As desperate.

“... I have her memories. Paul managed to give me those. I remember you. And I feel things for you.” it whispered, wiping the tears from your eyes.

“It’s not the same.” you sniffled, sitting up.

You pointed to a spot on her right arm.

“She had a birthmark right here. Small, like a bit of wine dropped and stained the skin a purple-brown.”

The machine blinked up in confusion at you. Such things could be fixed, and easily. A small bit of paint, and it would look more like Jessica.

“I know. I remember.” it said, voice soft and artificially intoned.

“You’re not her.”

The machine looked to the side for a moment, an imitation of the human process of collecting one’s thoughts. It was convincing, but from this angle you could see the way its eyes changed, the optics zooming in and out of the various possessions Jessica had around the room as it “thought”.

“No. Not completely.” it agreed.

It took all of your willpower to refrain from slumping into the bed. The thinking machine reached for you, manhandling you into the cuddle Jessica had so often put you in.

“I know this.” it said, voice hopeful.

You shut your eyes, stroking the back of her head. It was solid, but not quite her head shape, so you avoided the gesture most of the time. That was another thing Paul wasn’t able to replicate in addition to the minor scars and birthmarks. You were adding those as you remembered them, but the rock that had smashed her skull ruined any hope of an authentic reconstruction.

“Was she in pain when she died?” you whispered, pressing your face into her neck again.

It was a question you asked often, and the machine’s response was never dissimilar. You wondered if it had been programmed, or if the moment had been quick enough for Jessica to not ruminate on the sensation of her skull being cracked open by a rogue Sardaukar. 

“No.” the machine said simply. “Not the physical pain you think of. She thought of you. And Paul, little Alia. And Caladan.”

I shut my eyes, sniffling once. A hand came up to cradle me closer to it. Caladan. Jessica’s Caladan with the sea echoing off the cliffs and rain battering the metal roofs. 

“We did the right thing, burying her there?” 

The machine paused, gauging your mental state. It was capable of lying, you knew this. You’d caught it in lies several times, faux pas Jessica would never partake in. But you could tell that this answer was truthful.

“Yes. You did.” it answered, tilting its head to press its nose in your hair.

You shut your eyes, taking a deep breath in. The room really did look like Castle Caladan, and you could swear for a moment that Jessica’s personal touch had been here. Perhaps it had slipped out of you when you picked out different decorations, when you’d placed trinkets that she would have enjoyed here and there. You pressed your ear to the machine’s artificial chest, listening to the heartbeat until you could believe it to be real. Until you were with Jessica again. It was a slow, exhaustingly long process to descend back into denial, but you did it. 

You shoved this moment down into your mind, into a box with other memories you wanted to forget. Finding Jessica dead in the sand, taking her hand and feeling it cold for the first time. Those awful things. But right now her hands were warm, and they cradled your face just as they had always done so. You looked up through teary eyes, and the eyes that looked back were without the stain of melange. Against your hand now, that was where you felt her heartbeat, the slow animation of life. The dimming light of evening blurred her features even more, and the warmth of her body became pronounced as the room rapidly cooled.

She didn’t speak a word as the two of you lay curled together in her large bed. Her arms never left your body, and the soft puff of breath upon your cheek lured you in further to the oblivion of sleep. 

In and out. In, out. In. Out. In… Out…

Jessica’s breathing evened.

<---->

A/N: This will be the only gut-wrenchingly sad fic of Kinktober. THis was a very dirty, mean trick, and I apologize to my fellow Jessica enthusiasts. Stay tuned for week three for a far more sexy and fun Jessica fic.

Tags: @ilovehotactresses @marvelwomenrule @midnight-lestrange @rosiesthehat

[theriverbeyond]

It's crazy how well-crafted Hadestown is, like there aren't many shows out there that have equally strong messages artistically and politically. What do you think of the balancing of Hades as a character? Personally I love how it's shown that even after his reconnection with Persephone it's his clinging to the existing power structure that leads him to make the deal he does with Orpheus, so it isn't a clear-cut redemption - I think that is what makes it so neither his humanity nor the system he upholds feels hollow.

CRACKS KNUCKLES ok so on a character/thematic/narrative level I'm obsessed with Hades because the political compentary he represents feels so coherent and distinctly recodnizable to like, Figures and Systems Of Power that exist in the world right now

I really really really love how Hades specifically turns to industry because he is *lacking* genuine love/connection/care and using these material comforts trying to fill the void inside him -- "Lover, you were gone so long/ Lover, I was lonesome/ So I built a foundry/ In the ground beneath your feet" -- it feels very similar to how so much of modern life is Being Sold The Idea Of Love And Connection. We too turn to capitalism to replace genuine connection that is lacking in our lives, like how buying and being sold the aesthetics of community is easier than actually creating and being in community. Genuine affection and care vs the feeling of power as you wield it over others.

And Hades doing this only further alienates him from Persephone, and it becomes this vicious cycle of him creating and upholding a system that drives away any actual connection, which then of course only motivates him to Continue Onwards. His "Lover, when you see that glare/ Think of it as my despair for you" with Persephone responding "Lover, what have you become/ Coal cars and oil drums/ Warehouse walls and factory floors/ I don't know you anymore".

And re: Hades' redemption, I think the fascinating thing is he ISN'T redeemed. TO ME!! He gets to the point of redemption and then he turns away, which I think fits really well into the overarching theme of the show, as in, resisting the pull of capitalism feels impossible and often ends in tragedy but we should do it anyway, and also fits the PATTERN of the show, which is people getting to the doorstep of freedom and then turning around.

Specifically, when Orpheus asks "Can we go?" and Hades says "I don't know", that is his redemption point. He wants to help them, but he feels stuck, and trapped in this web he created and sat himself in the middle of. Can he break his own system? And Hades' personal tragedy is he gets SO CLOSE but then the Fates (or like, his own inner dialogue) come in and tempt him away. They make him Doubt -- "If you let him go/ Oh you're a spineless king/ And you'll never get em in line again". He is, at the end of the day, TOO trapped in the system he has created ("Whole damn nation's watching you"), too dependent on the workers he exploits that he doesn't see any other way to live. "That's the way the world is". Hades gets so close to letting them go before he turns around, because he decides that letting them go means letting himself go, and he no longer thinks that is possible.

He does let them try, though. "Give them a rope and they'll hang themselves" he does expect them to fail, because he doesnt himself have hope that another world is truly possible, but he knows Orpheus does. Even as he turns back I feel like he's saying. If you believe another world is possible, prove it. "Show the way so we believe"

And I'm just so obsessed with this sequence because like -- "Show the way so we can see/ Show the way the world could be/ If you can do it, so can she/ If she can do it, so can we/ Show the way" -- the unspoken here is that Hades is watching too, and this is a trial, and a test, and like. He can't break the system. He doesn't know how, he doesn't feel like it's possible. But he's watching, he can't not watch, and so that means like. Orpheus' effort is worth it. His believing is worth it. Even as they all fail, again and again and again, it's worth it.

[daddy-de-la-guerra]

Be Among The First To Hang A Limited Release "Dark Poetry" Piece On Your Wall Before The Collection Is Even Displayed Publicly

darkartprint.com

The Curious One

by Michael de la Guerra

An ambient light’s flicker keeps the soft pulse of darkness beating at night;

It shines from your study, flaring higher as each page turns in your mind;

In pursuit of true wisdom, you torch both wax ends of joy and despair;

Alone in the madness, your morbid longings and dark secrets laid bare.

No one can miss your devilish wish to be enlightened and all-knowing;

But those who truly know knowing know there to be no total knowing;

Knowledge persists as inexhaustible, immortal, unbound, and undying;

You know this, of course, but infinity’s hurdle is one you’ll die climbing.

Under what stars endure, our whole waking world sits alone in the dark;

Natural order’s chaos in symmetry leaves us all with holes in our hearts;

Those blind to the heartache and misery pump blood that’s gone rotten;

To know the divine is to know well the darkness they’ve all but forgotten.

The Acheronian undercurrents surge through the psyche’s river of self;

While the curious one stands at the edges, under wicked twilight itself;

Resilience heals only scars you deem worthy when night turns to day;

To know the thrills of love, don’t let the heart’s scars become chains.

Trust the fine geometric lines of your tastes along every abnormal twist;

Keats speaks to you in autumn notes, rich shades of brown in the mist;

Verdant tints of forest vigor conceal your once bare walls and your doors;

A map of the heavens hangs in constellation with scribblings of Yore;

Books line the ground, line the wall, line the soul of the curiously inclined;

Death’s kiss leaves dried blossoms with a forever stain of beauty in time;

Once we wilt and snap like old stems to live only within frames on a wall;

The curious one sees tragedy not in death, but in never having lived at all.

Never feasting on what philosophy lurks in libraries and flea markets alike;

Never making love while Chopin serenades you under the bare moonlight;

To never have questions of the cosmos answered back to you in a dream;

And to never find God in rolls of film as they project onto a cinema screen.

So, curious one, pack your old soul in a bag before it knows any better;

Turn days into words you’ll write out by hand for loved ones in letters;

To tell the tale of your own secret history will be your greatest endeavor;

Go and be the one to alter existence so furiously that you live on, forever.

[keisobe]

Imagine being Hobie's canon event. Everything is perfect and then WHAM . . .

Just like that, you're gone.

(I'm sorry I love hobie aND making myself suffer apparently-)

okay angsty i see i see and don’t worry, i love to suffer too shshsh ㅜㅜ ♡ ⋮ p.s. this was based heavily on gwen from tasm, so if it feels familiar, that’s why!

+ tw — angst. minor spoilers !! mentions of death. blood.

hobie would be in the amidst of trying to saving you. he never felt so much fear, anger, despair flooding throughout his tired body. if only he was an inch closer, his webbing was more quicker— you would’ve been alive.

he would remember the way you called out for his name, a desperate cry fading into dead silence. the glint in your eyes now completely lifeless and bleak, his webbing barely clung to your clothing as crimson pooled around the crown of your head. 

that’s the first time he ever cried in a long time. quiet sobs muffled under his mask, hidden away from the ecstatic cheers from those he managed to save.

you were his reason he abandoned the mantle of spider-man, but you also became his newfound strength to put back on the mask. he knew you never wanted him to give up, at least that’s what he believed you’d say.

the bracelets you wore during your last moments were wrapped around his wrist. your writing and little doodles still decorated his guitar. all the pictures he could find of you were hung along the walls beside the bed you guys once shared.

then he would keep one stuffed in his pocket. the one you guys took in a beaten up photo booth. the smudged image of your smile and silly expressions comforted him during his hardest moments.

though you were now a memory, he kept you safe in his heart. it’s just how it’ll be for now, that’s what hobie told himself infinite amount of times. 

the event of your untimely death played in one of the openings of the holographic web. he stared at it for a moment, thinking of ways that he could’ve prevented it. when your head grazes the cement for a split moment, he can’t help but turn away in shame. 

yet, hobie would simply shrug his shoulders when miles sadly gazes at him. 

“‘ey.. wha’ of it?”

it’s too late now, but if he could go back to that moment, he would rewrite your tragedy and have you right beside him.

KEISOBE © 2023. please do not copy, translate, or modify any of my work. all of my works are not permitted to be posted on any other sites.

[shrenvents]

Haunting Fear of the Dead

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, implied (small) age gap, survivors guilt etc

Pairing: Rick Grimes x reader

Summary: Negan’s aftermath served as the last straw to instill in you, the belief that nothing lasts forever.

Word count: 1k

...

The conversation rings in the back of my mind, and your face dominates my thoughts. That despairing, lost expression still makes me wonder whether I crossed the line.

Life is moving too fast, and the overwhelming concept of inevitable death, and her vivid memory haunt me.

The idea, that you may see her in my eyes...

Things fall apart, and I'll never be her.

I knew Lori for no more than a week before she died. And now I've known you for several years, yet she hasn't left my side. Has she left yours?

Your wife and I couldn't be more different.

A troubled, younger girl, who can't help how unloveable she feels. How vulnerable I am. How susceptible I am to doubt. Versus the mother of your child. Your woman before the fall.

How can I compare? How can you love me? After this tragedy and loss, how can I return your love?

Maybe these are all the things I should’ve conveyed, but the moments gone, and I’ll never get you back Rick.

…

"If ya sigh one more time girl, I'll smack you," Daryl intimidates passively, and I snap my obscure stare at him below my post. Then, looking at the world outside these metal walls, one last time, I turn to the ladder. "Call Rosita, I'm tired."

"Nuh-uh, if I'm here all night, so are ya," He challenges, catching my gaze. He holds it before scoffing in defeat, obviously feeling guilty, after viewing my sorrowful appearance.

As I pass him, he grips my forearm. "I know things are bad right now, but yer a survivor," he murmurs, full of pity. "And if ya ain't gonna believe in yerself, believe in Rick." He trails off, and I nod to make him loosen his grip, so I may walk away.

Things just blew over with the Saviours, now that Negan is behind bars. But regardless, death plagues my conscience. How can I think my happiness is important, or everlasting when my survival is just dumb luck?

Ending things with Rick rang so much truth to that.

Now lonely and isolated, I only have myself to blame. Since confusion and indecision left my bed empty, my head is full of profuse distress.

To this day, after weeks, I'm still unsure of what I was trying to achieve -what I was running from, and why was it him?

No, I know...

I feel it again, her looming behind me. Lori. Whispering stories of their pleasant life together before Walkers existed.

Her ghost regularly tells me how life would be different if it wasn't the end times. She remarks how Rick wouldn't look my way if I wasn't his only option.

My rapid imagination slows to silence when I pass his house. I picture Carl on his porch bouncing Judith to sleep, and misery brutally latches onto me, forcing me to remember what is lost.

'You left him when he needed you the most...' Lori breathes.

Tears prick my eyes, and I bite my bottom lip to reduce its trembling. Then, a call of my name drags me out of the dark, and I seek out its source.

"Rick?" I reply, swallowing my cry and straightening my back. Blinking frantically, I assess him as he marches towards me, seeing concern playing across his features.

'Good things aren't meant to last...'

"How are you?" I croak.

"Fine," he stammers slightly, "you?"

"I'm well," I lie pathetically, and even though he clearly doesn't believe me, he accepts my response nonetheless.

"Shouldn't you be patrolling the wall?" He questions hesitantly.

"Yeah, but Rosita offered to take over, to let me rest you know?" I murmur with a shrug like I'm asking him to confirm my lies. He nods again, seeming just as awkward. "Need me to walk you back?" Rick proposes, motioning his pointer in the direction of my place. "No," I utter flatly, far too fast. He gulps, unable to hide his dejected manner.

A beat later I wordlessly amble away, but he hollers my name again, and I freeze, whirling around, brows furrowing. "Can I walk you back?" He urges this time, and his dilated pupils hold such fervour and desperation, that I give in. "Okay," muttering, I look to the ground as he jogs to my side.

Walking closely together, we're uncomfortably quiet. I peer at him and see his eyes squeezed shut as he inhales, expanding his chest to its limit.

"Rick?" I mumble. His eyelids pop open, and he swivels his head to mine, brows raised.

"Why are you," exhaling, "forcing yourself to-" I cut myself short, and he grasps my meaning. "I'm not forcing myself to do anything," Rick rasps. "If anything, I'm forcing you, to be with me," he drops my befuddled stare. "I'm sorry," he grunts.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I splutter as a wave of grief, racks through me. "I'm the one with problems," my meek voice gets choppy.

The pace of his legs falter. "Problems," he echoes, puffing a soundless laugh in disbelief. "Problems I want to hear," he more or less pleads. I faintly shake my head.

When I stagger, Rick stops moving completely, and captures my hand, yanking me squarely to him. I take in how alarmed his features appear and again, wish I was alone so I could cry.

"C'mon beautiful, talk to me," he begs, cupping my hand in both his palms, and when he utters my name of endearment, I finally break.

Liquid flows down my cheeks, and Rick, with his thumbs, hopelessly tries to sweep them aside. But the more his rough pads graze my skin, and he pulls me closer, adorning me with such affection, the more tears stream.

He wraps his sturdy arms around my smaller frame, tugging me tightly to his chest, and I collapse into him. He holds me upright when my knees buckle, and simply lets me cry.

"I broke up with you, why on Earth are you consoling me?" I sob, words escaping my mouth in messy bundles.

Sighing, "Because I love you," Rick's voice grows rocky, "and I hate to break it to you," he chokes up, "that isn't gonna change, just 'cause ya don't feel the same."

His statement makes a louder cry erupt. But, I struggle to muster the courage to dispel, the third lie told tonight.

Of course I love him.

"I'm here, always," he soothes, nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck, and I feel water drip onto my nape.

As my arms encase his shaking body, Lori materializes behind me.

Reminding me, for the hundredth time:

I don't deserve Rick Grimes, and I never will.

[family-blug]

Fgggg

Emergency: Help Evacuate What's Left of My Family From the Gaza War Dear Humanity.🍉🚨🚨

Here is our story - On October 7, our lives changed forever, we witnessed the real tragedy, 45 days we lived in our house surrounding the Al-Shifa hospital Complex with terror and pain every day, new events, and the most heinous crimes were practiced, shooting everywhere, terrifying fire belts that continued for half an hour, the sky lit up red, bombing all the towers and bakeries surrounding us, and all the solar energy on the roofs of the buildings and electricity motors, bombing all the surrounding restaurants and practicing starvation as a weapon, cutting off water, cutting off all types of meat, cutting off communication and communication networks, rising prices. Two days passed and we were unable to obtain potable water, we were drinking polluted water, and after our insistence on not evacuating the house, my family was evacuated from the house under threat and force in the northern Gaza Strip in (Al-Wahda Street opposite Zahran Restaurant), hoping to return soon, but that was not intended. On the same day we left the house, we learned that the house that was once a fortress of hope, is now destroyed and unfit for habitation, but our leaving the house was The real supplication as my room was destroyed, bordered by the living room, which was completely destroyed by the force of the explosion, and all the shrapnel penetrated the walls, where my mother's room, the shrapnel penetrated the ceiling of the room and the missile fell on her bed, where we were with my grandmother hoping that the danger was far away, but we were not spared from the brutality of the occupation. The danger approached two days later, the night when Al-Shifa Hospital was invaded was screaming.

The sounds of bombing were everywhere, causing a loud noise that seemed to penetrate our souls. Each explosion shook the ground like earthquakes, sending waves of fear through our trembling bodies. The air smelled of destruction and blood, making it difficult to breathe. When dawn broke, we saw the destruction around us, and we realized that our home had now become a symbol of loss and despair. We were at my grandmother’s house, hearing the sounds of approaching vehicles and death surrounding us from every direction, telling us, “I am here.” It was a very terrifying night. Flare bombs were everywhere in the city. Everyone was targeted. The occupation was calling all our phones and ordering us to move to the southern part of the Strip, and that we were in a dangerous combat zone. It was sending messages: “You must leave your homes immediately and head south for your safety. You must not return to your homes until further notice, according to the Defense Forces.”

Since that time we left and did not return to our home. Everything was completely destroyed. I was separated from my fiancé and my brothers. My father was killed in this fierce war. Our souls ascended to heaven. I lost everything, all my belongings, my office and my laptop. I left our clothes. The house was destroyed by 80%. The furniture was completely destroyed. My bedroom was destroyed.

In the 3-storey building we had a group of shops for rent that have now been completely destroyed and everything has become ashes and we have no other livelihood

I have no income here, just tell me ، how to live!

Pleas if it is not donation, help me with areblog or like and thank you front the bottom of my heart.🍉

‏Iam Diaa‼️🚨

‏I graduated from the Faculty of Sharia Law at the Islamic University with a Master's degree and now I am a doctoral researcher. I was hoping to complete my doctorate degree which I registered for in Egypt, but I will not be able to complete it yet because of the poor internet network. The price of the crossing ticket is very expensive. I was working in a private company in Al-Galaa, but I lost my job since the beginning of the war because my workplace was destroyed. I also lost the family home and my future home which I have not yet celebrated with my fiancée, Lauren, unfortunately. Now I want to leave to complete my doctorate degree in law. I aspire to do so and I cannot sleep because I dream of completing it.

https://gofund.me/142cc793

‏Please help even if it's $10 it can make a difference and if not just share the post

‏Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #218 )✅️

@90-ghost @sar-soor @sayruq @herecomesthementalmeltdown @words-of-emotion @sar-soor

[creepercraftguy]

NAEGIRI WEEK 2024: Day 1 - DISCOVERY

Makoto Naegi is the unlikely headmaster of a rebuilt Hope's Peak Academy, navigating its haunting past and uncovering hidden secrets alongside Kyoko Kirigiri, who confronts the emotional and physical scars left by their shared tragedies.

@naegiriweek

Full Story below the cut. You can also find the story on my WattPad and AO3.

In case it wasn't already obvious, Makoto Naegi was not your typical high school headmaster.

Several months after the Final Killing Game, Makoto and the Future Foundation decided to rebuild Hope's Peak Academy, with him becoming the principal and working alongside Kyoko. This was a decision that many had found...questionable...Especially considering almost every bad thing that had happened to Makoto, and by extension, the entire world, all originated from this prestigious, but ultimate twisted academy.

Any other person would have been more than happy to scrap the building, abolish the Ultimate system entirely, and maybe even build an entirely new academy to teach the next generation of youths, but Makoto's idea of Hope was much stronger than the average person. The symbolism of turning a school that had fallen into despair, and transforming it into a beacon of Hope once again was just too powerful to pass up, and thus the Future Foundation agreed to give Makoto this one opportunity.

But there were more reasons than just that. Hope's Peak still hid many secrets within its walls. Secrets that could potentially be exploited for evil. Makoto knew that if anyone was going to find these secrets, he was the best person for the job. And who better to help him uncover these secrets than Kyoko, who was well acquainted with the school herself?

With that being said, progress on the investigation was slow, and Makoto mostly handled it himself due to Kyoko's condition. She had almost died due to the NG poisoning during the killing game, but miraculously, she left the building alive, having been recovered by Mikan from a near-death state. However, the poisoning had still destroyed a large portion of her body inside, leaving her arms and hands horribly scarred. The doctors were able to fix the damage, but unfortunately, the burns were so severe that Kyoko had lost nearly all vision in her left eye, and needed a walking stick to help move around.

Makoto knew she would never be able to live a normal life, but he was glad she was able to survive. Even though it had been a month since the incident, she was still getting used to her new disabilities. Makoto offered to have the Future Foundation provide her with the best possible prosthetic arms and legs, but Kyoko refused, saying she wanted to overcome her struggles using her own strength.

Unsurprisingly.

Still, today was a bit different, as out of the blue, Makoto had asked Kyoko to come and visit him at the school. He hadn't been clear on the reasons why, just that it was important and involved her. Kyoko had agreed, and now the two were standing in the middle of the classroom together, looking around as Makoto spoke.

"So you're probably wondering why I asked you to come here?" he said.

His voice was almost teasing, as if he was enjoying being the one in the know while Kyoko didn't; a rare switch in their usual standing that he was very happy to take advantage of.

"You wanted to show me something," Kyoko answered, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the room, "That's the only reason I can think of for why you would invite me here."

"Correct," Makoto nodded, "so...you know how we've been looking around the school, and we keep finding these hidden rooms that each serve a different kind of purpose?"

"Yes," Kyoko nodded, "are you saying you found another one?"

"I am. But there's a reason why I called you here instead of anyone else who could help me check it out. I know you're supposed to be resting, but it felt right to invite you over. It was a bit hard getting you to come here without spoiling the surprise, though."

"That was an annoying effort, I'll admit," Kyoko smiled, "but you did a good job."

"Thanks," Makoto smiled, "So...you ready to see it?"

"Lead the way," Kyoko replied, gesturing forward.

Makoto gave a single nod, then proceeded to walk over to the wall where the hidden room was. With a quick tug on the right books, the door to the secret area opened up. The room was small, only big enough to fit one or two people inside, but it was still impressive. The walls were lined with monitors and a few keyboards, all of which were powered by an electrical box that was sitting in the corner of the room.

Kyoko also saw a few shelves with dusty paper files on them. At a glance, it was clear which one's Makoto had already read and which one's he had left be.

"What's all this then?" she asked.

"Well, I was hoping I could your opinion on that," Makoto told her, "but from what I can tell, this room was supposed to be some kind of secret study. A place where someone could hide and work on stuff away from everyone else."

"A spy room?"

"Possibly, or just a place to think."

"Junko's?"

"That's what I thought at first, but...Well, when I was looking around, I found a bunch of these files on the shelf," Makoto explained, "past investigations, secrets about the school, and even a few hidden journal entries that somebody left behind. All of them are signed with the same name..."

"Who's?" Kyoko tilted her head. Makoto swallowed, as if he was hesitating telling her, but did so anyway.

"The previous headmaster, who died prior to our Killing Game," Makoto told her, "Jin Kirigiri. I think this was his secret study."

Kyoko's eyes widened.

"My...father's?" she asked.

"I know how crazy it sounds," Makoto replied, "but this place has the same vibe that his office did, and the writing style in these documents matches up with what we knew about him. Plus, I can't think of a reason why anyone else would be hiding this place, not even Junko."

Kyoko felt a little bit of emotion rise up inside her, but quickly stomped it back down, keeping her expression calm.

In the eyes of many, and in the heart of Kyoko herself, she and Jin Kirigiri were related by blood, but nothing more. For most of her life, she believed that Jin left her when she was a little girl and that he used her mother's death as an excuse so that he could leave the house, never knowing him as a father because they never really spoke to each other much during their days together.

It was Kyoko's disturbingly twisted grandfather, Fuhito Kirigiri, a man she had spent her whole life looking up to before she found the truth of who he really was, who encouraged her to hate her father. In reality Jin left the family because Fuhito showed no care when Jin's wife died.

When Kyoko found out that her father died in the school at the hands of Junko and Mukuro, and found his skeleton, she didn't show any feelings towards his death. But Makoto, who was looking at the remains of her father instead, noticed that she didn't even look in the box.

Makoto somehow knew that somewhere in her heart she must have thought she was wrong and guilty about her father's death. But she never showed it. Not even now.

"That is certainly interesting," she commented, "I wonder why he didn't tell me about it, if this is his secret study."

"I don't know," Makoto said, "maybe he was just hiding it in case anyone tried to snoop around and found his investigation papers? I mean, it's not like you would have remembered it was here after Junko wiped our memories, so maybe he did tell you and you just don't remember?"

"Fair point..." Kyoko nodded, "So what's in here that you think is so important?"

"I think it'd be easier if you saw for yourself..." Makoto gestured towards some of the shelves, "just...be careful. The dust is thick in here."

Kyoko was honestly hesitant. Yes, as it turned out, Jin Kirigiri wasn't the poor, selfish man that Kyoko thought he was, but at the same time, she'd been avoiding places associated with him since their escape from the school. She didn't want to think about him, or about her past in general, because she didn't want to stir any painful feelings inside of her.

But still, Makoto had been nothing but kind to her, and he had taken time out of his day to find this secret study. He had even invited her specifically, despite knowing how she felt. Kyoko would have been lying if she said she wasn't at least a little curious, so with a deep breath, she walked over to the shelf, grabbed one of the folders, and flipped it open.

Makoto, for his part, lingered in the doorway, letting her read alone, but waiting nearby enough so that he could offer his support if she needed it.

"Is this..." she whispered, her voice trailing off as she began to read.

"Yeah," Makoto said, his own tone low, "it is."

On the inside of the folder, Kyoko saw a picture, a list, and some handwritten notes. The photo was of a young girl, around 10 years old...Unmistakably herself as a child.

Her style was a bit softer and less hardened than her current self, though still notably professional and reserved. She had long, silver-purple hair tied in a neat, straight ponytail, with her bangs framing her face and covering part of her forehead.

Kyoko wondered how her father got this picture of her. After all, this had been taken long after they'd been separated, so where did it come from?

"There's a letter," Makoto mentioned, "you can read it if you want, but I've already done that."

Kyoko knew that even though he said she could read it if she wanted, his tone suggested that he really wanted her to read it now. Maybe not out loud, but still while she had it so she wouldn't forego the chance to read it later.

She sighed and found the letter he was talking about, and her eyes began moving along the page, silently reading her father's words:

Dear Kyoko,

I hope this letter finds you, though I can only imagine what state you might be in, should it reach you at all. And I hope, despite everything, you will still find it in your heart to read it.

The world seems to have fractured at its seams, spiraling into something darker with each passing day. This tragedy...it is beyond anything I could have predicted, even in my worst fears. I can only wonder how you and your classmates are managing in the middle of it all. I do not know what kind of future is left for you, or for any of the young souls burdened by the chaos we failed to prevent.

I can only apologize, though I know it will never be enough. For not being there when you needed me, for all the unanswered questions I left you with. Believe me, leaving you was not a choice I made lightly. I told myself that my distance would protect you, that it was the only way to keep you safe from a fate darker than loneliness.

Seeing what you have become...an accomplished, highly intellectual detective, I believe that my father's teachings served you well, even if I disagreed with the notion myself. Yet now, I can't help but regret it. I can't help but wish that I had been stronger, had found another way. One that did not mean leaving you on your own.

But even in my absence, Kyoko, I have always cared. You must know that. I followed your progress from afar, watched you grow into someone more resilient and brilliant than I could ever have imagined. I see in you the strength I had hoped for, though I had no right to ask it of you.

Hold fast to that strength. The world may be coming undone, but I have faith that if anyone can navigate it, it is you. I say this not as your headmaster, but as your father, and whether you accept as much is not for me to force upon you.

With all my love and my deepest regrets,

-Jin.

Kyoko could feel her hand beginning to tremble as she reached the end of the letter, and she quickly placed the folder back down on the shelf. She took a deep breath, then turned back to face Makoto, who had patiently waited for her.

"It's a shame," she commented.

"What is?" Makoto asked, a little confused.

"This room," Kyoko explained, "all this space, and for what? To keep secrets, and hide things away. Such a waste..."

Makoto knew exactly what was going on, though. He knew her too well not to.

"We'll get the chance to make better use of it," he reassured her, "once everything's settled, I'll have a room cleared out. You can store all the important evidence you need in here, and nobody will be able to get to it. You can make it your own personal study, and we'll call it the Kyoko Kirigiri room!"

He flashed her a bright smile, hoping to cheer her up.

Kyoko stared at him blankly, but there was a twitch in her mouth, as if she wanted to smile back.

"We can discuss that later," she said, turning back to the shelf, "for now, I should check over the files and make sure we're not missing anything."

"Sure thing," Makoto agreed, "but...Kyoko?"

"Yes?"

"You know you don't have to be like this ALL the time, right?"

"Excuse me?"

Makoto sighed.

"I know you've been like this for as long as you can remember. You keep your emotions in check so that the people around you can't take advantage of them. It's the best defense mechanism you've got. But, the world's different now. We're rebuilding it. We've overcome the worst of our despair," he asserted, "You're among friends. I know this is gonna sound cheesy, but you're safe. There's no reason for you to have to keep putting on a mask all the time, not when we're here for you. You don't have to be so cool, calm and collected 24/7. If you want to cry, then cry."

Kyoko shook her head.

"I don't want to cry," she made this clear, "but...you're right in that I feel...emotional...about this..."

"There's...actually another thing in that file that you might want to see," Makoto mentioned, "it's a photo. I'm not sure who of, but I can take a guess."

Kyoko turned back to the files, and found the photo.

It was of her father, and another woman sitting next to him, back when he was much younger. She was sitting on Jin's lap, her head resting against his chest. A wide, contented smile was spread across her face, and Jin was grinning down at her, his arm wrapped protectively

She looked a lot like Kyoko. She shared her composed demeanor and elegant appearance, with some physical similarities. She had a refined, calm aura, and her hair was a muted shade, worn in a practical yet stylish way, possibly in a short, neat cut or a simple, low bun.

"I was thinking that might be your mother," Makoto mentioned.

"I agree," Kyoko nodded, and surprisingly, a smile broke across her face, "so that's what she looked like?"

"You didn't know?" Makoto asked.

"I never met her truly," Kyoko said, "she passed away when I was too young to remember her. I'm sure I'd have some semblance if I was allowed to visit her, but my grandfather forbade me. He wanted to prioritize my detective work."

Makoto clicked his tongue. Even though he knew that he had been an iconic figure in Kyoko's life, he couldn't hide his disdain.

"I know this isn't my place to say. I can't speak for either of you, after all," he said, "but Kyoko...Jin really did love you as his daughter. I'm certain of that now. Whether you agree or not is a matter for you, but you can't deny the proof."

Kyoko nodded.

"You're right," she said, "as far as my father's involvement, there's no denying the facts."

She put the file back on the shelf, then turned and looked at him.

"Thank you, Makoto," she said "For showing me this, I mean. I think you were right to. This isn't the kind of thing you can just ignore, no matter how hard you try. It's something that has to be faced."

"I agree," Makoto smiled back, "so it's no problem, really."

"And, also, I'm sorry. For putting you through this, for making you deal with my issues. You're trying so hard, and I appreciate that," she said, "I'm a bit embarrassed, honestly. I'm supposed to be helping you with your investigations, and instead you're doing all the work and having to worry about me on top of it. You'd think, with all my experience, I'd have a little more self-control..."

"Hey, it's fine," Makoto assured her, "it's okay to lose your composure once in a while. In fact, I like this side of you. Not to say that you're a dishonest person. I just want you to be more honest with yourself, just like you are with us."

"Honest with myself?" she frowned curiously.

"Yeah, when it comes to emotions, anyway," he elaborated, "We're friends, so we don't mind. Just...don't shut yourself out. Don't pretend you're okay when you're not, and don't pretend like you're not hurt when you are."

"I suppose I could work on that..." Kyoko said.

"Yes, you could," he chuckled, "just...if you need to let your emotions out, do it any way you please, and I'll help you with it."

Kyoko paused, considering his words for a moment.

Makoto was completely the polar opposite of her. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and never usually hid how he felt. Even when he tried, he was usually bad at it.

His kindness and compassion for others were evident in his every action, and that was one of the many reasons why everyone who had been affected by the tragedy adored him.

Maybe there was some wisdom in that. After all, Kyoko wasn't sure how much longer she could go on keeping her feelings to herself. And she trusted Makoto with her life. She had every reason to, after all.

"If that's...really how you feel..." she lowered her eyes for a minute, brushing some hair to the side with her hand, "could you...come closer?"

"Sure," Makoto nodded, carefully moving a little closer, "is there something else you need me to look at?"

"Not quite," Kyoko replied, "I was actually thinking that I'd like to return the favor..."

She carefully wrapped her arms around him in a hug. Makoto paused for a moment before he returned the gesture, as Kyoko rested her head on his shoulder.

True to her word, she didn't cry. But she did take a minute to bask in the feeling of having someone so close, a warmth she hadn't experienced in a long time.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Makoto didn't say anything back, but Kyoko didn't miss the small, comforting squeeze he gave her as they stood there, embracing each other in the secret study.

In that moment, Kyoko felt the urge to say something more.

Maybe the world wasn't ready, maybe she wasn't, or maybe it wasn't the right time. But even so, the words bubbled up inside her, and she wanted nothing more than to say them. She lifted her head, and stared into his eyes.

"Can I kiss you?" she asked.

"Sure," Makoto said again, without hesitation, knowing that this had been a long time coming.

The two moved their heads closer, and their lips met, as Kyoko's hand found its way to Makoto's hair. He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, and she let out a soft sigh.

After a few minutes, the two reluctantly separated, and Makoto gave a small laugh.

"So...did you just kiss me because you were grateful?" he asked, his tone light and teasing, "or was there a little more to it than that?"

"You're smart," Kyoko smirked, "I'm sure you can figure it out."

"Well, maybe you could give me a clue?" he suggested.

Kyoko thought about it, and her answer came quickly.

"It's not something that needs a reason, is it?" she said, "If two people love each other, then there's no reason not to express it. That's my opinion, at least."

Makoto blushed.

"Love?" he said, his tone incredulous, "Is that how you feel?"

"I wouldn't ask otherwise," Kyoko shook her head, "you know me. I'm not the kind of person to ask something like that without meaning it. Unless the idea of your lips on mine is that revolting."

"Don't be stupid," he chuckled, pulling her in for some more.

Time passed, and eventually they broke away. Kyoko left the files where she had found them, took her cane, and they walked out of the study, locking pinkies.

"I'll definitely come back to that room later," she said, "I...think there's more I want to learn about my father."

"Me too," Makoto nodded, "just make sure you let me know next time. I'll come with you."

"You don't have to do that," Kyoko assured him.

"I know, but I want to," Makoto said, "for a few reasons of my own."

"And those are?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"Well, for one," he listed, "I also want to learn more about Jin. And even if I didn't, I want you to know that come hell or high water, I'll be there to support your or lend you an ear if you need it. That you can lean on me if you have to."

"A fair point," she said, "but also, I hope you don't feel like you have to watch over me or worry about me. I am an independent woman, after all. You don't have to treat me like a porcelain doll."

"Oh, I know," he nodded, "it's just that...well, it's nice to have someone watching your back."

"I agree," Kyoko nodded, "sorry for being difficult. Are there any other reasons?"

"Well," he leaned in, his tone and expression surprisingly low and flirtatious for him, nuzzling his cheek against hers, "I don't think anyone else knows about that study yet. So it's nice to know there's a place we can go without getting...interrupted..."

"Psh...You dog...!" she snapped teasingly, planting a kiss on his cheek.

[pxnsneverland]

Ruthless Grace | Austin Butler x OC (part 5)

(gif source: nairobi-resources)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

plot summary: Amidst the grime and squalor of Victorian England's winding cobblestone alleys, a young woman's life hangs precariously in the balance. Violet, a poor peasant girl with long raven locks and piercing gray eyes, possesses a haunting beauty that belies the harsh realities of her existence. Tragedy struck two years prior when Violet's mother succumbed to illness, leaving her to fend for herself and her father – a cruel, selfish man consumed by vices of alcohol and gambling. On one fateful night, Violet's father drags her unwillingly to that very den of iniquity, and there she learns a horrifying truth from the club's greedy, perverted owner: to repay his mounting gambling debts, her father has sold her into sexual servitude. Violet's vehement protests fall on deaf ears, until an unlikely savior emerges from the shadows. Lord Austin Butler intervenes with a bargain of his own. This dangerous man offers to pay off Violet's father's debts in exchange for her accompaniment, and Violet is torn from the only life she has known. While Austin's demeanor remains shrouded in mystery and detachment at first, Violet gradually glimpses his softer, even playful side as time passes within the manor's walls and an unexpected connection blossoms between the unlikely pair.

pairings: austin butler x oc

word count: 2,884

warnings/notes:

Chapter 5: A Dance in the Rose Garden

Violet's fingers traced the intricate embroidery of the bedspread, each stitch a reminder of the distance between her past life and the present. The lush fabric felt foreign under her touch, almost as if it whispered secrets she wasn't yet privy to. She shivered slightly, a chill running down her spine despite the warmth of the room.

Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the estate. The beauty of it all was undeniable, but beneath that beauty lurked layers of complexity that Violet knew she must navigate with care. Her survival had always depended on her ability to adapt quickly to new environments, but this was unlike anything she had ever encountered.

As darkness settled outside, a soft knock on the door startled her from her reverie. “Miss Everly?” called a gentle voice from the other side. It was Mr. Pembroke, his tone respectful yet carrying an undertone of urgency.

Violet rose swiftly and crossed the room to open the door. “Yes, Mr. Pembroke? Is there something amiss?”

Mr. Pembroke offered a small bow before answering. “No, Miss, nothing amiss. However, Lord Butler wishes to inform you that tomorrow after breakfast, he would like to give you a tour of the grounds.”

The words were straightforward, yet they hung in the air with an unspoken significance. A tour of the grounds was undoubtedly a privilege, a sign that Austin perceived her as more than just a transient guest. But Violet knew it was also a test—a way to gauge her reactions and perhaps delve deeper into her character.

"Thank you, Mr. Pembroke," she replied, maintaining her composure. "Please inform Lord Butler that I am looking forward to it."

"Very well, Miss Everly," Mr. Pembroke said, nodding once more before stepping back and closing the door gently behind him.

Left alone again, Violet's mind raced with possibilities and predictions. What did Austin hope to discover during their walk? Was it merely an act of courtesy, or did he have ulterior motives? She knew his reputation as 'The Devil Lord' was not unfounded; he was a man shrouded in mystery and darkness, capable of both immense cruelty and surprising kindness.

Sleep proved elusive that night as Violet lay in the massive bed, staring up at the shadowy ceiling. Her thoughts drifted from her father's harsh words and the despair of their dilapidated home to the opulent room in which she now resided, as if she had stepped into someone else’s life.

Morning came with a gentle intrusion of light filtering through heavy drapes, heralding a day that held unknown challenges. Violet rose, her body stiff from a night spent on the edge of slumber. Dressing quietly, she prepared herself with a meticulousness born from necessity. As she made her way down to breakfast, the house seemed to wake with her, its corridors filled with the soft sounds of servants moving ghost-like with practiced efficiency. The dining hall was vast and intimidating, its long table set impeccably with gleaming silver and delicate china. Lord Butler was already there, his presence dominating the room as he conversed softly with Mr. Pembroke.

Violet approached cautiously, her heart pounding unnervingly loud against her ribs. "Good morning, Lord Butler," she greeted him, her voice steady despite her nerves.

Austin turned towards her, his piercing blue eyes assessing her in a single glance.

"Good morning, Miss Everly," Austin replied, his voice smooth and measured. He gestured towards a chair at his right hand. "Please, join me."

As Violet moved to take her seat, the weight of his gaze felt like a tangible thing; assessing yet not entirely unwelcoming. She settled into the chair, her posture straight as a rod, acutely aware of every detail of the setting—the clink of silverware, the soft rustle of linens, and the faint aroma of freshly baked bread.

"I trust your first night in the manor was comfortable?" Austin began, breaking the slight tension that had started to coil in the air.

"Yes, thank you," Violet responded, allowing herself a small smile. "Your home is most beautiful." Her words were genuine, even if spoken from behind the mask of politeness required in such intricate social dances.

Austin nodded, seemingly pleased with her response. "I'm glad to hear that. I hope you'll find everything to your satisfaction here." His tone hinted at layers of meaning that went beyond mere hospitality.

Breakfast was served then, an array of dishes that seemed far too extravagant for just two people. Violet took small bites, her mind racing through all possible scenarios that could unfold from this enigmatic invitation. As they ate, the conversation flowed more smoothly than Violet had anticipated. Austin spoke of the estate's history and its vast lands, his words painting pictures of lush gardens, hidden paths, and ancient trees with secrets of their own. He spoke with a reverence that seemed at odds with his ruthless reputation, revealing a passion for the preservation and beauty of his surroundings.

However, beneath the casual exchange, Violet could feel the undercurrents of a deeper examination. Each question he posed, seemingly innocent, probed gently into her own history and views. It was clear he was not only interested in her as a guest but was also scrutinizing her suitability for something she couldn’t yet fathom.

"Your observations are quite astute, Miss Everly," Austin commented after she made a remark about the architectural style of the manor. "It is rare to find someone of your… background so well-versed in these subjects."

Violet met his gaze steadily, aware that this was another test in their intricate verbal dance. "I've had the opportunity to read quite a bit over the years," she replied carefully. "Books are a refuge that require no wealth to enjoy."

Austin’s eyes flickered with what might have been respect or surprise as he nodded slowly. "Indeed," he said thoughtfully.

"You've clearly made the most of those opportunities," he continued, studying her with an intensity that made her slightly uncomfortable. "Knowledge is a precious resource—one that many fail to appreciate."

The meal continued with discussions on various topics, each revealing a bit more of Austin's complexity. Violet found herself drawn to his intellect and the subtle shifts in his demeanor—how his eyes would soften when he discussed the gardens, or the rare smile that touched his lips when he recounted an amusing incident involving one of his horses.

As they finished their breakfast, Austin set down his napkin and regarded her with a calm that belied the sharpness in his gaze. "Miss Everly, if you are ready, I would like to show you the grounds now."

Violet nodded, feeling an unexpected surge of excitement mixed with apprehension. "I would be honored, Lord Butler."

“Call me Austin, please.”

His sudden informality took her aback slightly, but she masked her surprise with a nod. "Very well, Austin."

They rose from the table together, and as they stepped out into the crisp morning air, Violet felt a chill that wasn't entirely due to the weather. Austin led her down the steps of the grand manor and onto a pathway lined with ancient oaks whose branches whispered secrets of old. The estate stretched far and wide, the lush greens vibrant against the clear blue sky, and Violet couldn’t help but admire its beauty—a stark contrast to the grimy streets of her childhood.

As they walked, Austin pointed out various landmarks—a centuries-old fountain, a hidden gazebo veiled by climbing roses, and a quaint stone bridge arching gracefully over a babbling brook. With each site, he shared stories or facts about his ancestors who had lived and breathed in these lands. It was as if he was peeling back layers of himself, revealing more with each step they took together.

Violet listened intently, not just to his words but to the unspoken language of his demeanor. There was an earnestness in how he spoke of his heritage and a subtle plea for understanding in his tone that intrigued her. It was amidst these revelations and the tranquility of the verdant surroundings that they arrived at the rose garden. The garden was a masterpiece of horticultural artistry, a riot of colors that seemed to celebrate every shade imaginable. Neat rows of roses, from deep crimsons to delicate pinks, stretched out before them, their petals unfurling like the skirts of dancers at a grand ball.

Austin led Violet through an arched entryway covered with climbing ivy, into the heart of this floral paradise. “This has always been my favorite spot,” he confessed quietly, his voice carrying a tone of reverence as though he were sharing a deeply held secret. "There's something about roses – their beauty borne out of struggle against the thorn."

Viciously intrigued by his analogy, Violet reached out to touch one particularly vibrant bloom, her fingers brushing against its silky petals. It was then that a sharp pain jolted her – a thorn had pricked her finger, drawing a bead of blood that bloomed bright red against her pale skin.

Austin's reaction was swift. His hand grabbed hers gently but firmly, drawing her close to inspect the minor wound. "Allow me," he murmured, his voice low and unexpectedly warm. Before Violet could protest, he brought her finger to his lips, his eyes locked on hers. The contact was brief, his lips barely brushing against her skin, and yet it sent a wave of warmth rushing through her. The pain ceased almost immediately as if soothed by his touch alone.

Violet stared at him, her heart throbbing in her chest, unsure of how to interpret his actions. Was it merely a gentlemanly gesture? Or something more intimate, a sign of some deeper connection she was only just beginning to comprehend?

"Better?" Austin asked, his voice a soft whisper that seemed to vibrate through the air between them.

"Yes, thank you," Violet managed to reply, pulling her hand back slowly, feeling the lingering warmth of his touch. She noticed then the intensity of his gaze had softened, replaced with something more tender, more vulnerable.

"I apologize if I overstepped," Austin said after a moment, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. "It's just... I have a particular sensitivity to... blood."

His admission hung in the air, weighted with an unspoken gravity that seemed to pull more secrets into the light. Violet, though taken aback by the intimacy of his gesture, found herself curiously drawn into the depth of his confession. His vulnerability, so starkly contrasted against his usual composed demeanor, intrigued her further.

"Why is that?" she asked quietly, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest.

Austin looked away briefly, his gaze settling on the horizon where the sky met the lush greenery. When he turned back to her, his eyes held a mixture of resignation and something akin to fear. "It's a long story. Perhaps another time," he said, his voice almost imperceptible against the gentle rustle of the rose bushes swaying in the breeze.

Violet nodded, respecting his need for privacy. Yet, she couldn't deny her growing desire to understand this complex man who had unexpectedly disrupted her world. They resumed walking through the garden, their steps slow as they navigated between the vibrant displays of roses. The earlier incident had subtly shifted their rapport, weaving a thread of intimacy into their budding acquaintance.

As they continued their stroll, the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting a golden glow over the estate. Austin paused by a particularly lush bush adorned with white roses, each bloom flawless and full. “These,” he said gently, “are known as the 'Queen of the Night.' Quite rare and requires careful tending.”

Violet leaned in to admire them, aware of Austin's gaze on her. “They’re beautiful,” she remarked, “but I suppose all beauty requires some form of sacrifice or care, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed, it does,” Austin agreed, a trace of melancholy threading through his words. “Much like people.” His eyes met hers again, and Violet felt a pull, an unspoken connection that was both unsettling and exhilarating.

They moved on from the rose bushes, their conversation turning towards lighter subjects. Austin inquired about her favorite books and music, and Violet was surprised to find that they shared similar tastes in literature and classical compositions. It was easy to forget his formidable reputation when he spoke so passionately about his love for Chopin’s nocturnes or his fascination with Shakespeare’s tragedies.

The morning gradually turned into afternoon as they explored the vast grounds. Their path eventually led them to a secluded pond, where the water mirrored the cloudless sky and willow trees drooped gracefully over its edges. Ducks glided across the surface, undisturbed by their presence.

“I used to come here to think,” Austin revealed as they stopped at the water's edge, watching the ripples fan out from a stone Violet had idly tossed in. “It’s one of the few places where I can find peace.”

Violet glanced at him, noting the wistfulness in his voice. “Peace seems a rare commodity in your life,” she observed softly.

Austin smiled, a rueful tilt to his lips. “Indeed, it is. But today has been an exception.” He looked at her directly, his gaze intense yet gentle. “Thank you for that.”

She felt her cheeks warm under his scrutiny, unaccustomed to such direct praise. “I should be thanking you,” Violet replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “For showing me all this... for being so kind.”

They continued around the pond, their reflections side by side in the water below. The conversation flowed easily now, bridged by a mutual appreciation for the beauty surrounding them and deepened by the emerging layers of their shared experience.

As they made their way back towards the manor, the light began to wane, casting long shadows across the lush lawns. Austin paused by a towering oak, its limbs stretching protectively overhead. "I must confess," he began, his voice hesitant. He turned to face her, his expression earnest. "I find your company... extraordinarily refreshing, Violet."

His words, though simple, carried a weight that tethered her heart to the moment, anchoring her in a mix of joy and apprehension. "And I yours," Violet responded, her voice trembling slightly with the vulnerability of her admission. She felt the gravity of their shared secret moments, each one building upon the last, creating a tapestry of unspoken understanding between them.

Just then, as the shadows grew longer and the air cooled with the approach of evening, Mr. Pembroke, Austin's stern-faced butler and confidant, appeared at the edge of the garden path. His presence was like a cold gust of wind that suddenly swept across the serene pond, disturbing the peace they had cultivated.

"Lord Butler," Mr. Pembark intoned with a respectful bow that still managed to convey urgency. "There are matters that require your immediate attention."

Austin nodded, his face tightening subtly as he turned back to Violet. "Duty calls, it seems," he said with a hint of regret.

Violet nodded, her mood shifting as she sensed the change in atmosphere. "Of course," she replied, trying to mask her disappointment with a polite smile.

While Austin departed, Mr. Pembroke lingered for a moment, his gaze meeting Violet's with an intensity that made her falter. "Miss Everly," he began in a low, gruff voice meant only for her ears. "A word of caution, if I may be so bold."

Violet felt a chill trace down her spine, her curiosity piqued. "Yes, Mr. Pembroke?"

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that barely rustled the leaves around them. "Lord Butler is not like other men, Miss Everly. There are aspects of his life that are... darker than most can fathom. Please, tread carefully."

Violet nodded, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and intrigue. "Thank you for the warning, Mr. Pembroke," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil swirling within her.

Mr. Pembroke gave her a curt nod before turning and following the path back to the manor, leaving Violet alone beside the tranquil pond. The serenity of the moment was now tinged with a shadow of mystery and danger. She wrapped her arms around herself, contemplating the enigmatic man who had so thoroughly captivated her interest.

As she walked back to the manor, Violet's thoughts were a whirlwind of emotions and questions. Austin's allure was undeniable, yet now it was colored with the stark warning from Mr. Pembroke. What secrets did Austin carry? What darkness lurked behind those intense blue eyes? And how could she, a simple girl born of hardship and survival, navigate the complexities of this unexpected world she was drawn into? Violet's mind raced with possibilities and fears as she approached the grand manor house. Its imposing stone facade, which earlier seemed to echo a kind of historic grandeur, now loomed menacingly in her eyes.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Dinner was a quiet affair; Violet found herself seated at the opposite end of the long dining table from Austin. She caught glimpses of him conversing quietly with other distinguished guests—his demeanor composed, his laughter forced. Every now and then, their eyes met across the array of crystal and silver, and Violet felt the earlier connection between them pulse like a silent heartbeat.

Stay tuned for part 6!! Click HERE to view!

Taglist: @buckysteveloki-me @imusicaddict