#mello;; threads

[godsiick]

@mihariori liked.

He'd worked with his fair share of people in the past, but it was rare people in those lines of work lived long enough to work with him again. If anything, it was a testament to how good at his job the other was.

"What're you doin' back here?" He spoke casually, like they'd met hundreds of times in the past. "It's not exactly calm these days."

[poucz]

"The "Red Thread of Fate" is an East Asian myth that says an invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. This thread can stretch or tangle but never break, symbolizing the inevitable connection".

*Strongly referenced by the photography of Luigi Boatto.

[blondiest]

i haven't been doing it as much since i got a better personal laptop, because i've been doing more of my writing and note-taking in notion and / or scrivener, but something i really love about taking notes on fics in discord [i have a lil writing server that's just me w/ different channels for different fandoms] is that i can go back through a thread and see the ideas taking shape :') there's something very neat about being able to scroll back and take a look at how the ideas were forming in real time. it's easy to forget how much work something was once you have the finished piece & a little distance from the project, and looking through & remembering. oh yeah. this was really hard! but i did it!! is SO neat

[handfulxfhearts]

cont. from [x] @warofchanges

      Piercing blue eyes narrowed at the other, lip curled in disgust. Mello didn’t want to rise to any comment to come out of the suspected Kira’s mouth, not wanting to bite, but it was hard. Mello had always had a hard time controlling his temper, and it was all the more difficult now that he was face-to-face with the person that L himself had believed to be Kira. To not completely lose his patience was taking all manner of strength that he didn’t even think he had inside of him.

      “Violence and intelligence aren’t mutually exclusive” Mello sneered. “And I would hardly say that killing criminals with heart attacks was a particularly pacifistic move, wouldn’t you?”

      At that last comment, Mello felt his jaw twitch and his fists clench, involuntarily. It was taking everything he had not to launch himself at this bastard right there and completely lay into him. But that would just prove his point. As much as he willed himself not to show how much that comment cut, he couldn’t keep it hidden from his face, his grimace betraying how much it had got to him. He hated that about himself and cursed himself inwardly for allowing his emotions to be seen so clearly on his face. For a moment he didn’t say anything, worried that his voice would crack with anger. So instead, he stood in silence for a moment, steadying his breathing. Eventually, when he spoke, though his voice was a touch shaky, for Mello it was fairly even.

      “What’s your end game here, Yagami? Do you want me to beat the shit out of you? Because if that’s your game, just keep talking, see what happens”.

[handfulxfhearts]

Mello honestly doesn't know whether to be pissed or laugh at Matt for his outlandish suggestion. Though he's leaning more towards pissed off, considering how gleeful Matt seems to be right now.

"I'm starting to wonder if you're mentally stable enough for this stupid wager" Mello responds, dismissively, trying (and failing) not to let his annoyance show. He hates how much joy Matt seems to get out of getting a reaction out of him. After all these years, Mello ought to be better at hiding it now, but he just can't keep his feelings off his face. Stupid, back-stabbing face.

An incredulous eyebrow raises at Matt's comment... Is he serious? Or is this just another ploy to get a comical reaction out of Mello? It seems likely, considering their conversation thus far, and yet Mello can't help thinking to himself if this is some sort of weird fantasy Matt has... and he doesn't know how to feel about it.

He takes a step forward, one hand on his hip and the other pointing accusingly at Matt.

"I'll tell you exactly where you can shove that feather duster" he hisses. "And if you're not entirely sure, I'd be glad to show you". A comment that would have been vaguely threatening, had his cheeks not been on fire.

Ah. Delicious.

It's not often he manages to take Mello by surprise like this and Matt is delighted. He is not even trying to hide it either, he is positively gloating. Honestly, he has won the bet already and they've not even done anything yet.

"Dunno, man. Am I?" And he is smirking back, perfectly contrasting Mello's grimace.

"I think it would suit ya, to be honest," he continues, pretending to be deep in thought, tapping his chin while staring into space. "Maybe you could clean the house while wearin' it. Yanno, with one of 'em feather dusters."

So maybe he is pushing it now. Matt glances at Mello, trying to gauge whether the other is about to shoot him or die of embarrassment. (By this point either is fine. Matt has no regrets, he will die a happy man.)

[idkman-ijustwannamakeatournament]

Round 1: Match 24

"Two Sides of the Same Coin"- Two things that are regarded as part of the same thing. Even if they're very different, they have at least one common thread that helps them fit into this trope.

Propaganda:

Mello and Near:

(no propaganda)

Uzi Doorman and Tessa James Elliot:

"while they both have different personality traits, they both have a lot of things in common in terms of experiences and interests. they both know a thing or two about engineering, have taken an interest into the occult, have a close connection with a disassembly drone (n and j), had their bodies get used by the solver, had a not-so-great childhood, heck they both even use the same weapon choice (guns) ! i could go on but yeah these two parallel each other"

[themotherofblood]

Prologue . 2 | RIVER OF FIRE | The Heir | D.T x READER x R.T

series masterlist | main masterlist | chapter 1

tw: child birth, death.

a/n: thank you to @inlovewithhisblueeyes for beta reading this!!

~ will we ever learn, we’ve been here before. it’s just what we know ~

“I refuse, I refuse to have a child, ever. No lord husbands nor knights shall put a babe in me. She is gone, just as my mother did. Septa Marlow went on about what a joyous thing it was to be with child. She is a septa, what the hell does she know about having a child? What joy! death by childbirth. Though I suppose Viserys had his son for mere moments, Rhaenyra is torn. Asleep in my bed after Maester Mellos gave her tea with Nightshade. I sang to her, the very song Aemma did to me. She is gone, I just don’t believe it yet.

“If I give you this, you promise you’ll win?” you raised your hand to show Daemon the crown you were weaving. Made of blue crystal hibiscuses, mint leaves and gold threads. Already dressed in yet another blue gown and hair braided into a neat crown to match Rhaenyra; you sat making your favours instead of worrying for Aemma. You and Rhaenyra wanted to be with her, but it wasn’t proper nor was it a comely place for young girls to be. 

Instead Viserys had Daemon steer away the two of you to make your favours for the Heir’s tourney, he had been particularly worried. Now with a boy likely on the way, Daemon would have to find another damned position at court to remain at King’s Landing rather than return to his lady wife in the Vale. So sitting here with young - impressionable princesses and watching them prattle on about fabrics and knights at court was a far better outcome than Daemon had hoped for. “Is that a deal you wish to make? A victory for a crown of- blue flowers?” he folded his legs together to sit on the carpet with you. Watching as your fingers worked the threads to lace the crown together. “What if I had hoped for another lady’s favour?” 

You looked at him, offended and lips parted as you clutched your crown. “I- should have you-“ your frown deepened “I have made this, by hand, with my gold threads. From Lys!” you said, jutting out word after word “it has blue hibiscuses, not roses like all the other ladies you wish to woo have,” Daemon raised his palms in surrender, already feeling the warmth of aggravation bubbling from being barred from visiting Aemma before her labours began. 

“You get the champion's purse, you help me buy a dagger,” you lowered your voice to relay your plan of sheer mastery to Daemon.  

“What use do you have for a dagger,” he whispered back,  equal parts amused and confused. He couldn’t picture something so small and dear wielding a blade - to what? Use as decoration? “am I to be an accomplice for homicide- princess I am the Lord Commander of the City Watch,” 

“And you are Daemon, perhaps it is you I shall stab first,” you scowled at him once more before pulling yourself up to answer the knock at your door.

Rhaenyra returned from her chambers, dressed in a red gown and hair done like yours with her favour of red calla lilies, “Why is she scowling?” Rhaenyra asked her uncle, fully aware that Daemon might have found another quirk to tease out of you. Nyra, having been the witness of many such rage-fuelled rants, looked at you confused as you stood with your hands on your hips and cheeks full. 

“She plans a homicide, niece,” Daemon coughed to hold in his chuckle. The twitch in your eye made him highly aware of the many objects to your reach that you could hurl at him. “Who is your victim, sweetling? Marsha Tarly?”

“What-?” Rhaenyra looks between her uncle and you, she wouldn’t put you in the category of homicidal people but she wouldn’t put it past your defensive nature. 

“I just want a dagger, and now I’m being framed a murder by your- sweet uncle,” you hurled your doll at Daemon. “You should worry about winning the tourney first? We have a deal?” you motioned to the doors of your bedchamber. Daemon chuckled one more, placing the doll on his lap on the chaise before taking his leave. 

“Is it so odd that a girl must want a dagger?” you turned to Rhaenyra, exasperated at Daemon's teasing, “merely want one, that’s all.”   Your lips pouted as you reached up to kiss Rhaenyra on the lips. A quick peck that she entertained and returned.

“How are you, truly?” you asked her, the goosebumps of anxiety still littering her skin as she worried for her mother. 

“It will be Visenya, I know it.” she replied, pulling you down to sit with her on the chaise. Her blonde brows furrowed to a line and you wished to soothe away whatever discomfort she was feeling. . Albeit, she would never show it on her face. You embrace her tightly and let your head rest in  the crook on her neck. The only way you could show her that you would be here, you would be with her always. 

“Should we head to the tourney  grounds? Let your  people set their eyes upon the Realm’s Delight?” you kissed her cheek as she blushed, and swatted your shoulder at the mention of her title. You knew she loved it even if she pretended not to. 

“We should give you a title too,” Rhaenyra said as she pulled you up, “Oh let’s see, how about….Pain In My Arse.” She  giggled as she watched  your  curious smile turn to yet another scowl before  you shoved her back. 

“Rhaenyra,” you whined, sensing as if she had joined in her uncle’s torment of you, “Must you poke me too?” 

“Ah, forgive me duck,” she held your face to press a kiss on your nose before dragging you out of your bedchambers. 

The festivities  had already begun as the muffled announcements of Viserys echoed from the balcony. The two of you hiked your skirts up and sprinted to race to make it to your seats first. Rhaenyra kissed her father’s cheek as you smiled at him before taking your seats. Plenty of nobles filled every seat in the Game Grounds, all the houses you were forced to remember with their sigils and words. Baratheons fought Tarlys while low-born knights fought nobility with one in particular standing out, Ser Criston Cole.

The man, unhorsing man after man  as his opponents tested his mettle. Rhaenyra looked curious for this could be another knight for the two to fawn over. You had situated yourself in between and Alicent as you chatted about courtly gossip yet again. Men fought and fell and all you could think of were the poor horses being harmed by the jousting. You would rather they participate in a Contest of Arms. 

The knights lined up once more to present themselves on the whims of the Prince of the City. Daemon rode in on his black stallion that Rhaenyra had named Alastor for him for he was tall and dark. Had he not been so particularly annoying at times, your childish heart might have fluttered at the thought of him. However, he  was far from the gentile knights in your books, a knight surely - aye, an arrogant but pretty one. 

“The Prince cannot be allowed to act with such unchecked impunity,”

Impunity my arse

The Maester had timed Aemma’s labours perfectly to the week of the Heir’s Tourney. Daemon worried for his good sister though the fallout of mourning he couldn't handle. He had occasionally wondered if he were to have another dead niece or nephew that he would help name and bury. Then Otto Cunttower found his perfect opportunity to yet again wedge himself between the brothers.Daemon pitied Visery forhe could stare at the blasted throne for hours and still not find the shred of tolerance Viserys had for the Hand’s nonsense. 

He was sure to put Otto’s impunity in check by planning to have the cunt’s own son tossed from his horse, talk about my impunity then.

That and he had truly hoped to win the champion’s purse for Mysaria even though he  made a fruitless bet that he regretted, for you the small princess that begged him for a dagger. Therein lay the truth, you wouldn’t stab Marsha Tarly of two and twenty, but  your eyes may still try to bore daggers into the dim witted girl’s head. 

As he rode to the Painted Bird to visit Mysaria, he mind did wander to daggers that would be appropriate for you and perhaps even is niece. . Could a fucking swordsmith even weld pompels of delicate flowers and kittens? His head toiled on such things as he drank some more. Having won multiple of his brother’s tourney before, a match would be of little challenge. The blood and violence sang to his animalistic desires  as he entered the brothel full of gold cloaks. 

“The Prince has arrived!” Tarbyk? - Torbk exclaimed, buried deep in a common whore of brown hair. Daemon  looked for Mysaria with a smirk on his face. 

“Ready to prepare for yet another victory, my prince,” she kissed his neck, offering him a cup of ale, “shall we drink! For the Heir’s Tourney!” 

Another round of hoots and hollers followed as Daemon revelled in the disarray of it all, the smell of cunt, ale and incense upon the thick day air in the house. Mysaria settled herself on his lap,preening through and through. Mostly Daemon admired her swan-like neck, spending hours just marking her up with his lips and suckling away at the sweet almond oil rubbed on her skin. 

“Do you truly wish to make your Bronze Bitch, Queen?” Mysaria whispered as she nipped at his lobe. 

“Should I have you be my queen instead,” he wryly asked, his purple eyes fixated on her brown ones. 

She cackled, full bellied before burying her head in his shoulder “I’d rather be gelded my prince,” 

Daemon’s eyes held a yearning sense of mischief, unable to sexually satisfy himself let alone his gorgeous paramour in white. He planned to make a present of unyielding peaks tonight to her, fucking away the truth that come morrow he would yet again have to fight for his place to remain at court, by his brother, in his home and with his family. 

As he arrived at the Tourney grounds, the smell of victory and coppery blood already lingered in the heir. His prized stallion Alastor awaited another pleasant win for he was to remain uncontested at the jousting fields. You are a dragon, you are fire. He closed his eyes, whispering the words his mother once said to him before pushing his reins to ride forth as the Game Master announced his titles. 

Shrill screams of women and based shouts of men echoed, muffled under Daemon's helmet as a knowing smirk crept up onto his lip, this was home, this was his kingdom. A place where he was far better than his brother, he looked to the balcony where his brother sat, proud and crowned. Heir’s Tourney, he was sure to give the people of King’s Landing a spectacle to remember. 

Daemon trotted down the line up of knights, Baratheon, Tully, Stark, Mooton, Serret, Hightower- Hightower. He pointed his lance at Gywane Hightower, wishing it was Otto’s head instead as he picked his opponent. The Game Master yet again announced his choice as both men rode for the balconies, what he expected was to have his lance decorated in the blue crown you made. 

The girls all huddled to the iron bar, leaning down to look at the knights, unaware which one was to give their favour to who. Though appeared prepared as you walked to position yourself in front of Daemon. The deal you had struck with him seemed to have been taken very seriously by you. The Hightower born instead opened his mouth as he called for you.

“I would humbly ask for the favour of the Princess of Dorne,” he projected, the tip of his lance resting by where you stood. 

Why this cunt-

He would lose, you knew it, Rhaenyra knew it and Daemon knew it. Your straightened shoulders slumped in defeat but the polite smile on your face never faded as you slid the crown down his lance. “I wish good fortune to you, Ser Gywane,” you said, looking at Daemon apprehensively.

Though he knew the sweet thing you were, you’d never ask him to lose, though win or lose. It wouldn’t matter for your wish of a dagger would be diffused regardless. Daemon rebuttals with the only other thing he could as he looks to Alicent peeling away at her fingers. 

“Now…” he trotted forward to where Alicent stood. “I’m fairly certain I could win these games Lady Alicent. Your favour would all but assure it” strike of gold as the young lady turned to look at her father before flinging down her favour at Daemon. Who knew he would get to maim Gywane Hightower with his own sister’s blessing. “I shall keep my promise,” he said to you before viciously eyeing the blue crystal- blue flowers upon Hightower’s jousting pole.

Daemon thereafter rode to his end of line, he stretched out his neck one and then twice, you are fire, he looked to his side, crowd murmuring in anticipation, the ladies enthusiastically leaning over the bars. Daemon took another breath before nudging Alastor to attention and charging forward. He tested the green knight once, feeling the jousting pole gash against his armour as he traced the other end. 

Daemon quickly drifted around, reaching for another pole before charging yet again, come to me motherfucker, his dirty trick of aiming for the horse’s legs sent Gywane Hightower landing on his face. Dirt covered and no doubt bleeding, a broken nose mayhaps? 

He looked up to the stands once more, seeing the disdained glare decorate Otto Hightower’s face. Satiating Daemon’s monstrous hunger as he trotted away to prepare for the next round. 

You looked away, the second you heard the horse screech and topple over, poor thing. Alicent silently gasped, watching her brother fall over as both you and Rhaenyra grabbed one hand each to comfort her.  She had bitten away at her skin with blood pooling around her fingers, you couldn’t watch either being sure that you’d grow sick from hearing another horse cry. 

“Come with me,” you whispered in her ear, pulling her up with you as you exited the stand while rubbing your belly to soothe it. You both ventured to the Godswood instead, Ser Darklyn followed at your heel until you sat with Alicent under the Weirwood tree. 

“I’m sorry about your brother,” you gave her a sympathetic smile “only the gods will know what joy men find in these cruel games.”

“He will be fine, I think.” Alicent mindlessly traced her fingers on the lace of her light blue dress. “We match today,” she pointed out. 

You looked at your dress and then hers “I suppose we do, blue is a wonderous colour.” 

“You are to have your hems dropped soon, any chances of your dressing turning mustard?” she asked with a knowing look to her eye, a question you had been asked multiple times before. 

“Maybe..?” you groaned before laying against a section between the roots “if I visit Dorne for the Voyage Day festivities, I am sure my brother would send me home with a crate of mustard and orange dresses.” 

You, in a childish rage, had sworn off the mustard the moment you arrived on the Blackwater shores as ward, when Aemma took to acquiring things for you to appeal to your spirits. You had all your mustard gowns donated for shades of blue, the ones that reminded you of the beaches at Old Palace. There even is a galant vessel named after you, docked at the Blackwater ports in Dragonstone. She sails on every one of your name days, though the Blackwater is far too murky to swim unlike The Sunset Sea. 

“You ought to stop doing that, you won’t have fingers anymore,” you gestured at her fingers as she shyly hid away. 

“I can’t seem to stop…” Alicent mumbled, averting her eyes elsewhere. 

“Maybe twirl you twist your rings instead?” you suggested, they often worked to soothe the anxiety in your chest whenever you visited court or in this case had to sit through brutal games. She nodded, looking at her own rings. You both thereafter sat in silence, it was comforting, it was home as your companionship remained true even years after. 

The muffled shouts from the Game Grounds still reached your ears as you basked in the sun, the slow wind lulling you to a slumber as you had risen far too early today for your liking, you could sleep all day if it were allowed. However today brought on a different exhaustion, in the back of your mind all you could think of Aemma labouring. Toiling if Rhaenyra, Alicent, Laena and you had decorated yet another crib to mourn a child. The egg that awaited this child at the nursery’s hearth, mayhaps it would have a rider. 

“Did you know Lady Marband is hiding a belly?” Alicent spoke up after a while. 

You giggled, nodding to agree. “Oberya told me, here I thought she was getting fat.”

“She is already fat,” Alicent sniggered as you giggled once more.

“She does look beautiful though, the motherhood glow I suppose,” you looked up at her “do you know who?” 

“My pin money is on Lord Massey’s eldest,” she shrugged. 

“No…no?” you laughed, unable to imagine a whore monger like him being wed, the stories of the women in his bedchamber was well known by every brick upon the Red Keep. “Are we sure it’s not the younger one?” 

“Have you ever seen him not look purple whenever a lady speaks to him?” Alicent raised a brow making you giggle once more. “He nearly fainted when Rhaenyra spoke to him once.” 

Rhaenyra sat within the merriments of the stands with her family, Laena now sitting next to her as they gushed about the games. Though every now and then a commoner or squire would wave at the young princess, to which she would politely smile back. Daemon had torn through the lot of the combatants, and as was expected. Having nearly slain two knights, and broken bones of many others as he kept up with his eccentric tricks on the field. 

All of whom were left was him and Ser Criston Cole, this might have been one of the most exacting moments. Perhaps her dear uncle would finally meet his match.

“Ser Criston Cole will now tilt against Ser Daemon Targaryen, the Prince of the City.”

Ser Criston lifted his visor as he approached the stands, lifting his lance at Rhaenyra “I was hoping to ask for the Princess’s favour,” he huffed breathlessly. 

Rhaenyra smirked at Daemon before obliging and slotting her favour down Criston’s lance “I wish you luck, Ser Criston.”

She was far to enthralled by the fighting as the men wasted away two jousting poles before Criston unhorsed Daemon, the fighting continued by hand and while she felt a sting of guilt for favouring against her uncle, it would be an amusing thing to witness Daemon Targaryen finally be bested.

The ruckus behind her was completely forgotten as first Otto Hightower left and then her father King Viserys. In her excitement, she cheered by the bars, clapping along and hooting with Laenor by her side. Blow after blow and still the tension was amiss to her. The Small Council dispersed after, following behind the whispers of the servants. 

Aemma’s screams had long stopped echoing from Maegor’s Holdfast, merely an interchange of midwives carrying towels and basins of water. You had noticed the shuffling down the corridors first, the cheers from the games were still far too loud for the attendant to be filling the halls already. You frowned at Alicent before standing up, your curious mind begging you to follow. 

“I shall return in a moment,” you told her with a confused expression covering your features, she nodded before you could leave. 

As the servant girls began running up the stairs to the Holdfast, excitement grew in your belly. Perhaps the new babe was here, mayhaps a girl to add to your flock. Just as you turned the hallway, your eyes found servants with bloodied towels and sheets in their hands. Basins of pink water covered in pulp like mess, you froze, this was so much blood. It stained the cream of their tunics as they carried these sheets away in a hurry. 

You would have rushed up the stairs to Aemma’s bedchambers, instead you were met with distraught Rhaenyra being pulled out of the stairway by Ser Westerling, he passed a knowing look to Ser Darklyn who was prepared to catch you from running up those stairs. 

“Rhaenyra?” you questioned, you held onto her shoulder but she just kept sobbing. 

“Princess perhaps you might resume to your chambers,” Ser Darklyn requested from behind you. You followed Rhaenyra all the way to your shared quarters. 

“She is dead,” Rhaenyra cried in your arms as you hugged her on the divan, the tears that should have been coating your face too seemed to have disappeared entirely. You just held onto Rhaenyra, that’s all you could do. Alicent did all the consoling, cooing and talking Rhaenyra through her grief. 

Your tongue felt heavy, you had known loss before but this was raw. You had seen her just last night, she laid a kiss upon your cheek before bed. She wasn’t your mother, but she was more, she was Aemma. You would have thought that Viserys would have come to visit but he never did, even as the glaring moon graced her skies. 

The Archmaester himself brought along a tea with Nightshade to help Rhaenyra sleep, her crying found no end until the tea was coaxed into her. Rhaenys visited once, as you succumbed to a slight doze when she grazed her hand upon Rhaenyra’s head. You had awoken to her shushing you back to sleep and squeezing Alicent’s hand. 

You awoke within the early hours of day, the servants filling out to light the candles, your own handmaiden along with Alicent and Rhaenyra’s awaited in the receiving chambers, in your bed chambers a black gown awaited you. 

“Do I have to?” You looked to Sona, she softened her eyes, holding the gown up. 

“It is proper, highness,” she shrugged.

You emerged from your bed chambers to the dining hall, though it was slowly being filled with food. Not a soul loomed in the room, you sat in your chair, frowning hard as you pulled your feet onto the chair. Finding no use of appropriate posture in an empty room. 

“Princess,” Daemon snapped you out of your dazed thoughts. 

“Daemon.” You acknowledged as your frown softened, you pushed your feet off the chair to resume a more ladylike stance. He too dressed in black.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his own voice hoarse from the games yesterday. 

You hadn’t given much thought to how you felt, in truth you weren’t sure if the sensations with you even realized you had truly lost someone. “I- I don’t know.” You shook your head. “You?” 

Daemon grunted rather than replying. It was only then it dawned you to ask the question. 

“Is it a son?” you asked, unsure if this was an inappropriate time. 

“Was a son,” he replied before looking away. Having not more of an answer to give to you. “Rhaenyra?”

“Asleep, Mellos gave her Nightshade,” you said as a matter of fact. Yet again silence graced the room as you tried to nibble away at some melons. A son, was a son. What was the point? Then you felt it, the harder you thought the bile began to rise to the back of your throat. You were sure your palms were growing hot. 

“I know what I feel…” you whispered, making Daemon look at you. “Angry, I feel angry.” At two and ten, you lost yet another mother. All so a man would have an heir (heirs) your eyes watered in the rage you felt. 

“I have to go help Rhaenyra dress.”

on ao3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/47686021/chapters/120437398

taglist (comment/asks/dm to be added) 🩵

[vriskarlmarx]

Threading Silver

Relationship: Mello/Near

Rating: Not rated

2733 words

Summary

Near braids his hair.

Written for @meroniaevent for prompts HAIR-DISGUISE-GRIEF-REGRET-VAIN (bingo card under the cut!)

[malboraslihangifs]

PAID   CONTENT   !   CINDY MELLO   GIF   PACK

by   clicking   the   source   link   you   will   be   directed   to   a   total   of   175   gifs   of   cindy mello   as herself available   on   my   payhip.   she’s   brazilian,   so   make   sure   to   have   that   in   mind   when   building   your   muse.   the   gifs   are   all   sized   268x150   and   made   from   scratch   by   me.    likes   and   reblogs   are   always   welcomed   if   you   find   these   helpful   ! DO   NOT:   redistribute,   resize,   repost   or   include   any   of   the   following   gifs   in   another   gif   hunt   ,   use   my   gifs   in   any   tab*o   things,   smut   threads   ,   in   krps   ,   if   you   are   blocked   or   if   you   use   turkish   fcs   with   non   turkish   names   .

[ladygriffith]

What if Kira was female?

Hi I wanted to thank you guys for your discussion. I did this fan art and had no idea people were already having a reddit thread with my fan art. here is my take: I thought if Light was female, L and Kira would slowly fall in love with each other.

I don't see Light as misogynist, as he disregarded the feelings of either sex and I don't believe female Light would be misandrist. I would have kept Misa female, with Misa being one-sided romantically attracted to fem! Light. She was still kira and had killed the murderer of her parents and Misa pledged her loyalty. I don't believe Takada would be a love interest, but more her best friend from university.

She would still manipulate Misa and L would have even more conflicting feelings between justice, rivalry, psychological mind games and love. L's analytical approach and suspicions of Light might take on different nuances as he navigates the complexities of interacting with a female suspect. With Light being female in a traditional setting in Japan, I believe Kira would be a lot more unassuming as the daughter of the police officer, Soichiro Yagami, making it harder for L to prove she is guilty and the task force would doubt him more. L may grapple with internal conflicts as he navigates the possibility of accusing a young woman of being a mass murderer, adding complexity to his character development and moral dilemmas.

My ultimate goal was that L and Kira bonded more deeply and through love, built a foundation of understanding each other, navigating through the facades and lies as they had twin flame energy. during the time she erased her memory, they would end up being a couple. L would get the chance to confront her more privately and question her motifs more discreetly rather than investigating in front of the task force. they would have an emotional bond, sexual tension and she would try to seduce L. his suspicion increased to a high percent and there would be a phase where L would have to remove himself from the case since of his personal feelings were involved. and we would still have mello and near's appearance.

L would refrain from handing her over to the authorities (I think they still had death penalty in Japan) and Kira would refrain from killing him. soichiro would survive as mello wouldn't kidnap sayu under L's watch. mello would stay alive since takada wasn't involved. and near would work on the case eventually proving she was Kira, not sure if she'd kill him and mikami in the process.

L would survive, but justice would be served.

She would be sentenced, but by L's intervention not to death. L proposes an alternative life sentence:

Kira's imprisonment in an asylum. she would get the help and the mental health treatment she so desperately needed. L revealed that he had personally funded Light's stay in the asylum. over time, they decided to burn the death note, erasing her memories of it and the evil it did in the world too. no one should ever put their hands on that notebook again. after some years when the he once-feared Kira becomes slowly a public distant memory, she would be released. L would take her abroad where they lived together rather secluded but peacefully and solved cases.

all in all, i wanted to give them a chance to confess their hidden feelings and stay alive.

this was partly inspired by a fanfic of bahari 'Asylum' and 'Silence'.

[godsiick]

@mihariori cont.

"Fuck you, I'll be as extreme as I want to be." It was childish, but he could never seem to shake that part of him.

He cocked the gun, glaring hard at the other man. "I've had enough. All you do is play games with me. I'm not gonna keep paying you to give me nonsense. Either you're in, or you're dead."

[paintersknife]

Oblivion

!! MAJOR SPIRIT WORLD LARS ROUTE SPOILERS !!

I was a little unsatisfied with some story threads they never really explored or utilised fully, so I'm here to fix that

Also ty to mello and my husband for letting me bounce ideas off them and with editing

Nihil. Void. Nothingness. It is the absence of everything. It is all he will ever be.

Here at the end of all things, it is fitting that only he remains. 

With every fibre of his rapidly unravelling will, he holds down that cursed God. For the first time in his life, he is glad to have been created as he was; a hollow, empty shell, that he had now turned into the perfect cage. The God’s resentment and hatred mingles with his own and he lifts a tired hand to shade his eyes and chuckles. Was he wrong? Was all this not enough? It is a God after all, perhaps it will still be able to break free, leaving him alone in the fading ruins of the world that was never truly his. Perhaps all he can do is buy her enough time to save the others. But that is enough.

He remembers how the other Lords had grappled with the God that wore his body, just as he fought with fang and claw to wrest back control of what was rightfully his. He remembers the smiles they wore as they welcomed their end with open arms and the overwhelming envy that welled up within him. Death for them is forgiveness. Is peace. Is freedom. It is absolution for him too, but for him, it is only an end. In death, their burdens are lifted, but even the Void will never be able to consume his.

So as the world around him dissolves, all he can do is smile.

The memory of the way she still tried to reach for him as he sent her off sets off an ache, deep within him. It is just like her to endeavour to see the good in everything, to be avaricious enough to want to save all that she can, despite the times she’s failed to do so in those futures now lost to the void. Unlike her, he isn’t altruistic enough to sacrifice himself for the world that rejected him, not even for an airy concept such as atonement. She will figure it out for herself, when she goes on to breathe new life into the spirits that they have sent off together. He knows that her boundless kindness means she will try to bring him to that world, but he also knows that she never will be able to, no matter how many times she tries to recreate it. Not when  he was never a part of the world to begin with.

He had spent hours studying the grains of sand in the now shattered hourglass, observing each crystalised possibility, watching her struggle to achieve the futures that she wants, always fearless and determined, even when faced with the unwinnable. There was beauty to be discovered in all of them, even the ones that end in tragedy. He was even able to find a twisted sense of peace in the fact that he had never seen himself in a single one of them.

There is no possible future with him in it.

Emptiness starts to consume the last remnants of all that he ever was, and his thoughts turn to the kiss he shared with her. It had taken him by surprise, how warm a human touch could be. The borrowed Light he wielded had always felt wrong, always too sharp and cool or too scorchingly hot, never the soothing comfort that others had described his brother to be. But perhaps his Sun had never been his brother, but her all along. If this was so, he would gladly be her shadow, if it meant that he could at least bask in her light.

In the grains of sand, he had seen her impart her warmth to countless others. Sometimes they look like what his brother would, if he hadn’t stolen his future. None of them resemble him. Even so, he holds on to those cherished memories that don’t belong to him, unwilling to part with them until finally, he’s forced to.

As the last fragments of his consciousness are finally unwound, all he wishes is that he could have felt that gentle warmth for just a moment longer. But in the end, all that welcomes him is endless oblivion.

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Twenty-Four

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: I hope y'all like this chapter. It's an interesting one. Just remember to stay with me and that everything will be alright. Well, as okay as an ending within this fandom can be. xD Just a quick FYI, this chapter takes place over a few months. Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter Warnings: violence, blood, technically SA but it's very blurry, the reader is in her revenge era. 

"You remember too much, my mother said to me recently.

Why hold onto all that? And I said,

where can I put it down?

She said,

When you see these horrible images, why do you stay with them?

Why keep watching? Why not

go away? I was amazed.

Go away where? I said.

This seems to me a good question." - Anne Carson, The Glass Essay.

You fastened the last button of your gown, having already dismissed your maids for the day after your midday meal. It was an easy slip-on dress that didn't require assistance, and they bid you "good day" after nodding their heads once you assured them you would summon them for supper.

The council had adjourned for the day, the meeting ending with your ideas redirected and brushed aside. The Lords only cared for thoughts of war, taxes, and whether the scheduled shipments of Dornish wine had made it unharmed. It was not your first time bringing the impoverished inhabitants of Kings Landing to the table. More than once, you had suggested diverting the crown's frivolous spending habits toward a food program for those in need or gathering an entourage of the castle Maesters to provide medical care for the sick.

Ser Otto hadn't shot your ideas down per se; he did not see them worthy enough of a thought to decline. His priorities lay elsewhere, ensuring his lordlings and courtly allies were well satisfied. He did not need the support of the small folk, for when he supplanted Aegon on the throne, only those willing to die and sacrifice themselves for the inevitable war of succession.

You debated, bringing Viserys to the chambers again, but his health was finally on the mend, and you needn't put more stress on him than he was in.

With the passing of Grand Maester Mellos in the winter, Orwyle took his place. You had nothing against the deceased man other than his treatments. They were popular in the older generations of the Citadel, Orwyle told you, but the younger Maester explained different techniques, herbs, and potions brought over from Essos that he had seen work on Lepers. However, he refused to say the disease out loud. Lepers were only found in the slums of the poorest sections of Westeros, not within the land's nobility, let alone the King himself.

You observed your reflection in the vanity mirror, inhaling a calming breath that deliciously stretched the muscles of your abdomen. Your outfit was simple and purposely so. No pearls sewn into the fabric, no gemstones decorating the bodice. You need not be dripping in opulence as you typically were. For once, you wanted to avoid being seen, or at least not attract any more attention than you would already gather with your presence.

Slipping two golden hoop earrings into your ears, you stood, grabbing the embroidery loom you had asked your maids to get a few days prior. You knew how to sew before it was engrained into your head by your Septa. It was expensive to take the whores dresses to a sewist when you could barely even afford food, so you learned the essential art out of necessity rather than as a hobby like all the other noble women. However, you last picked up a needle and thread nearly three years ago. There were more important things than sewing.

You traveled along the carpeted halls of the Red Keep, your buckled shoes softly thudding over the imported rugs. Your noiseless footfalls soon turned into a light rapping on the red rock steps to the training yard, stopping your movements on the last landing to rest on a chiseled sandstone bench, the circlet and thread placed in your lap.

All that was left now was to wait and be patient, which came naturally. You were a lion flattened within the tall grass, lean muscles rippling as it crept closer and stalked lower, learning the patterns and movements of its prey to know the right moment to pounce.

***

The royal library was something unfrequented by the inhabitants of the Keep save for a few Maesters and Lords. You immensely enjoyed the silence of it. The only sounds heard were occasional deep inhaleings when you realized you hadn't taken a breath and the flipping of pages. Ser Arryk sat at a simple carved wooden table between the aisles of tomes, polishing his longsword as you rested against a cushioned window seat with a book.

It was just past high noon, and your stomach was full of soft cheeses, meats, and pastries after your luncheon with Helaena. It was an excellent start to your day and left an elated feeling in your stomach as you finished your chapter on Constitutional Laws of The Crown, your mind thoroughly bored with the plain prose of the text.

Your sworn shield turned to face you at the light sound of your book closing, doing one last swipe of cloth to metal as he put his sword in its sheath.

"You are dismissed for the day, Ser Arryk," you announced in silence. He stared, his hazelnut brows furrowed in confusion. "Ser Cargyll, I am giving you the afternoon to yourself. Take it."

The knight was unsure what to do, stunned by his unusual dismissal. He had nothing else planned. His days were filled endlessly with protecting the Princess, forever by her side and only away when it was time to rest. Arryk was her sworn protector and was required to be in her presence to do that. She couldn't dismiss him... Could she?

"If it will ease your conscious, Ser, I will be in the training yard with countless Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard. Should anything happen to me I am certain a dozen men could handle it," you offered with a crooked smile, hoping to appease his overprotective nature.

Arryk felt his heart skip in his chest, your perfect lips sending him a grin he had seen reserved for familial letters and Princess Helaena. He knew he should protest. Explain that men at arms can be just as dangerous as those with lower morals and values, but his will soften at your sweet expression. Ser Arryk would do anything for you if he saw that same look.

"As you wish, Princess," he acquiesced, standing from his seat with a bow and slight flush hidden under his facial hair.

You hid your smirk until he was no longer in eyesight, rolling your eyes and shaking your head.

That was easier than you expected. Usually, the kingsguardmen would put up a resistance to your desire to be alone. It annoyed you to no end, but you understood it was Arryk's duty, which you felt was unnecessary when you already knew how to defend yourself, but he didn't know. No one did in King's Landing beside the Queen and Ser Criston, and they only heard it when you brought the Prince back. Aegon was the only one who knew the true extent of your capabilities, having regularly attended your late-night training sessions.

A sudden stabbing struck through your chest, your fingers white-knuckling the window seat as your palm began to rub the affected area. You shook your head as if that would rid you of the sting, letting a sharp breath through your nose as you stood. You needed to focus on the task, grunting and ignoring the ache within your ribcage as you trekked to the training grounds.

***

Today, you decided to move from your usual spot on the landing, ensuring your presence was known to all who spared on the packed dirt of the yard. There was another bench of sandstone resting against the wall of the high steps, far enough away that you wouldn't be intruding but close enough to be seen.

Your fingers busied themselves with your current project of a dragon black as coal and piercing green eyes. You were sure the Cannibal would be proud of how you portrayed his likeness once you were finished, holding the taught square of fabric to the blazing sun.

"The training yard is no place for a Lady such as yourself, your Grace," a voice sneered from above.

You finished your last stitch, pulling the dark thread with a harsh tug and placing the circle in your lap. Looking up at the tall Dornish man, you smiled, though it was strained and did not meet your eyes.

"I am not training, Ser Cole. Simply observing. It gets rather boring sitting in council meetings all day." He hummed, glancing at your work before returning to your snarky expression.

"I see. Enjoy your observations. I hope the men are to your liking," Ser Criston said stiffly, bowing his head in farewell.

Your smile dropped as soon as he turned, unable to hide your exasperation for the man. You knew Cole would be here, but you hadn't thought the man brazen to approach you in front of his fellow men. He should've learned you were a woman, not so easily scared. However, the knight's little display did show to be advantageous. Every man had turned to see where he went, each countenance staring at the only person wearing a dress in a sea of trousers.

Your eyes danced across as many as you could, halting as you spotted one you would never forget. Withholding a searing gaze, you smiled slightly at the man, your brown and violet orbs flitting away as you fluttered your lashes. The man whose name you had yet to find out looked back, a smirk on his face as the whites of his teeth showed, bowing before resuming his tasks.

Unable to find the other one, you returned to your sewing. Initially, it was supposed to be your dragon, a love portrait for your sweet Cannibal, but an idea struck you. It would be much more fitting to display Cannibal's prowess. All were beneath him, even his fellow species, and showcasing his strength in the art felt right. Mentally, you mapped out the type of stitching you would use, the colors silver, cream, black, and gold, and the amount of space it would take up on your canvas.

The embroidery would be your finest work, and once finished, you would display it for all to admire.

***

You returned to the same spot you had yesterday, with all your supplies in tow, but today, you would only spend a little time on your craft. You observed silently as men in varying states of dress fought each other. Some sparring with thin silver breastplates and shin guards, others wrestling their brethren into the dirt.

It was chaos from the outside perspective, but you knew the complexities and talent it took to defeat an opponent. You had to keep your mind sharp, vision dancing across your rivals' forms, plan your moves, anticipate theirs, and ensure each limb was out of striking distance, all while trying to win. Despite what many arrogant Lords believed, swordplay and hand-to-hand combat took time to learn.

Ser Criston was nowhere to be seen today, a welcomed absence. Your plan worked around the knight's presence; it was a given he would be with his fellow men, so it was a relief that today he was not.

You stood from the chiseled bench, walking across the training yard to one of the weapons racks. Your fingers danced over each of them, admiring the dull practice blades, daggers, and flails. It had been some time since you saw the weapons in daylight, having been forced by the Queen to train at the hour of the bat. Unable to have a sparing partner, you had neglected swordplay, focusing more on the sharpened cutlass and archery.

It was so dull to be your only opponent, competing with yourself to see how many bullseyes you could get in a row. At one point, you had resorted to running endless laps around the training yard to at least feel some challenge.

"May I help you, your Grace?" A voice rang above the sounds of clashing swords and grunting men.

You traced the peaked line of a blade with the pad of your finger, slowly turning your head to them. Your expression of indifferent self-satisfaction quickly morphed into surprise, seeing the face of the man who held your Aunt's chains. You swiftly schooled your presentation into a practiced, polite one.

"If you would be so kind," you prompted coyly. The flush of anger on your cheeks was easily mistaken as one of abashment as the Gold Cloak took the sword you were admiring. "What is it?" you asked, feigning ignorance.

"It's called a spatha. 'Tis the most common doubled-edged sword among warriors. Swords have different uses, but this one is perfect for thrusting and slashing." The Watchmen punctuated each word with its respective motion, causing you to jump back and clutch your hands to your breasts.

He explained each weapon as if speaking to a tot, showing the intricate contrasts between a flamberge, a claymore, a seax, and a shamshir and then onto daggers. You hung onto every word like a young squire speaking to its higher-ranking knight, smiling, nodding, and giving small gasps and squeals when necessary. You felt like a fool from smiling so hard, your cheeks burning from the strain until you could no longer bear it.

"I never got your name, Ser." Your feminine voice was like the toll of the city bells in the mass of masculine sounds.

"My apologies, my lady," he said, placing the flail in his grasp onto the wooden rack. "Edder Dalt is what my mother named me, but you may call me Ed, your Grace. "

You plastered on your signature smile, looking up at the man as you repeated his name. "It's nice to meet you, ser. You've been such a pleasure speaking to me about weapons, though I fear your knowledge is far greater than my mind is capable of understanding." You dipped your head sheepishly, hiding the pink on your cheekbones.

"Oh, nonsense, Princess, the pleasure is all mine. Not many ladies desire to learn swordsmanship, and that alone is proof enough that you're brighter than you believe." Your lips turned into a grateful pout as you peered at him from under your thick lashes, taking a step closer to him as you saw his eyes flicker downwards.

"You are too kind, Ser Edder." You placed your fist delicately on his bicep, feeling the muscles ripple underneath your touch. "If it would not be trouble, could I hold one of them?" Your hand slid down to his elbow as you took another step closer, gaze wide and pleading.

Edder swallowed, his throat bobbing as he stared with fidgeting eyes, looking as if he was about to flee at any moment. You knew what you were doing. Touching a man who lacked the caress of a woman, a noble one at that, you let your fist slide just out of his reach, your warmth a whisper without your skin.

"Of course, Princess," he answered shakily, focusing on the armaments beside him.

He picked the lightest sword, the type Daemon made you use at the beginning of your training, and you had to bite back a laugh at the thought. Edder gently placed the feather-like hilt in your fist as if it were still in the process of being cast, supporting it underneath. Flashing him with an exultant grin whenever he relinquished his assistance, he stood back, observing with his fists on his waist as you held the instrument he believed would be too heavy.

As if on queue, your arms shook, and the blade nearly fell to the ground but was stopped by Edder's firm grasp.

"Easy there, my Lady. I fear your Father would have my head if you lost a toe," he jested, though his voice had some worry.

You giggled in what you hoped was a delightful sound, not the forced way you felt, the Gold Cloak shuffling behind you to help distribute the weapon's weight.

"Thank you, Ser Edder. Perhaps I overestimated my strength. I am grateful you are here to help me," you chortled bashfully, adjusting the hilt in your palm. "What is this one for again? There are so many," you questioned airily, turning your head to meet his regard.

His nose was mere centimeters away from yours, and the startled gasp you let out was not deceitful, promptly spinning your face away to look forward. You felt the rumble of his laugh against your back, your breath slightly hitching before you crushed your unease like an insect beneath your pretty boot. You would let him think you were just some hoydenish maiden, wide-eyed and in awe of his masculine knowledge, as you released a nervous giggle.

"This is a rapier, Princess. 'Tis the lightest blade one can carry, and even the common person can use it, especially for dueling." You tilted your crown upward in recognition as he continued. "It's used for fast reactions, slicing and thrusting your opponent down before they can reach their weapon."

Edder punctuated each word with a movement, causing diminutive gasps to leave your mouth as he moved forward with it. Though you were toward the back of the training yard, near the enormous stalwart oak doors, you felt like you were being watched like one of the many butterflies Helaena kept within a glass frame, their wings pinned with needles and on display for all to see. You hastily glanced around, trying to find the source of your tension but seeing the men still within their worlds, punching and swinging at one another.

It did not feel right to let someone watch you freely, their gaze penetrating your skull like a pick, and you decided, partially due to pride and the other apprehension, that you would find who they were and give them the same treatment. Hopefully, you scanned the shadows to spot the specific clubbed foot culprit known for this situation. Still, you did not see him, Ser Edder, continuing his monologue about the history of the rapier.

A glint caught your eyesight, the flash of an ornate metal in the afternoon sun as it moved. Aegon stood above you on the steps to the Keep, staring down his nose at the people before him as he nursed a goblet that seemed to be permanently attached to his hand. You felt your heart stop, your stomach falling to your feet, and momentarily forgetting the act you were putting on. Your bright, carefree expression slipped, a scowl taking place as you clenched the sword's hilt.

It had been nearly a fortnight since you last saw the Prince, and it was only in passing as you witnessed him lead a scullery maid into a secluded alcove. You still had to return to that part of the castle since then, even if it meant taking a longer route to your destinations. You would at least expect him to approach you and attempt to make some feeble apology that you wouldn't accept, but he didn't. He won't, you told yourself. Aegon went back to his old ways of drinking, gambling, and whoring without much thought, like it was his second nature, and perhaps it was.

Aegon was a pathetic excuse of a man, and you loathed yourself for feeling an ounce of anything but hatred for him. He didn't deserve your kindness or your love.

Edder noticed your abrupt shift in mood, following your line of sight to see where it was. You felt the man's grip stiffen over your fists, pulling you closer to his body as if it were a means to protect you. You nearly vomited onto the packed dirt below as if you needed his protection-- as if he needed to protect you. You could kill the Gold Cloak here and now if you choose to. You mentally grimaced.

"You needn't pay him mind, Princess," Ser Edder declared into your hair, causing your eye to twitch unconsciously. "He is a lecher, but his tastes tend to lead more toward the Silk Lanes and poor folk of Flea Bottom." This time, you did not hide how you bristled at his words.

"I am from Flea Bottom," you screamed, but your mouth did not move.

Aegon downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, wiping the remnants that escaped from his lips before throwing his brass goblet to the ground. Your mind lurched to go after him, to rub his brow that creased whenever he was upset, to smooth his sheared hair down his head as you held him close to your chest and whispered nothing but praises to him. You shook the thought, replacing your glare with a delicate gaze as you looked at Ser Edder.

***

Ser Edder introduced you to a few of his fellow men at arms in days past, one so happening to be the man that had given you a wolfish grin the day Ser Criston spoke to you. His name was Lorgan Sunderly, and judging by the fleeting moments you spent with him and the others, you could tell he had an appetite similar to Aegon's but knew better than to act on it. Despite being a bastard, you held a title above him, and if he wanted to keep his cock, he would have to think with his head.

You asked them to show some fighting stances since you 'admired their talents,' and each man was delighted to display them for you. Ser Lorgan was more skilled than Edder between the two City Watchmen, but his ego and brash movements blinded him. Lorgan was the Gold Cloak you would run from in the markets, the one your fellow inhabitants at Flea Bottom would fear, while Edder was fair, the one people would pray to be caught by if they were stealing.

Edder suddenly landed a harsh punch to Lorgan's gut that caused all the men around you to leer. They had removed their breastplates and were left only in their underclothes as they sparred in hand-to-hand combat. It seemed to be more of a pissing contest than training, and if your Father knew this was how his former soldiers acted, you were confident he would whip them literally and figuratively.

There was a break within the two grunting men where Lorgan began to taunt Edder, slightly hunched over as he spouted insults about his mother before shifting to you. You waved an ornate fan to the side of your face; your thin, lilac Myrish lace dress cut just above your ankles to release the trapped summer heat.

"Let's say whoever wins this bout gets a kiss from the Princess," Ser Lorgan announced.

You hid your offense at the unconsented offer behind the raising of your surprised brows, looking between the men. Edder glanced back at you, uncertainty written into the hard lines of his pale face.

"If the Princess agrees, then, yes."

You tilt your head to the side, unable to bite back the snarky remark before it forms. "You think yourself worthy of my kiss?"

Ser Lorgan barks a laugh as he circles his opponent, Edder's cheeks a flaming red.

"I do not need to be a champion to know I am worthy of your lips," Lorgan states, a marauding grin on his face. "Though, I do not believe Ed to be the same." You hum in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"I will decide at the end whether one of you shall receive my affections. A lady's kiss is a thing to be treasured, sers, something not to be taken lightly." The arrogant knight guffaws, pretending to lunge forward to tackle Edder.

In the end, Ser Lorgan is victorious, and you press a chaste kiss to his damp cheek, much to Edder's chagrin. You tell the sulking man that he may have lost to Lorgan today, but there is always a possibility he may earn your lips, a mischievous glint in your eyes, as your nails dug crescents into your palms. He brightened exponentially at the prospect before you bid them a good day, heading to your rooms within the heart of the Red Keep.

***

This morning is like any other, waking to the blinding sun through green curtains and the smell of food. You groan at the sudden brightness louder than necessary, catching the attention of Jeyne and Fiorra. They exchange glances but continue with their early-day tasks until one of the maids pulls a chair, its wooden legs screeching across the stone floor.

"Please, my Ladies," you strain out in what you hope is convincing, "my head aches, and noise only worsens it."

Before you know it, Jeyne is perched on the side of your bed, raising the back of her hand to her forehead. "You do not have a fever, Princess. Is it something you ate?"

"Jeyne, please," you beg like a sickly child, wiggling further into the covers.

The oldest maid sighs, brushing the stands of hair that came loose from your sleep style, her touch as gentle as a mother's. "She's having one of her bouts again. Rain must be coming soon," she said to her counterpart, voice much softer. Jeyne rose from the mattress, the quiet rappings of her footfalls becoming near silent as she reached Fiorra. "You know what we must do. Go to the Maester and gather peppermint oil, lemon oil, and her tea. I'll be sure she eats something."

You don't hear a response from Fiorra, assuming she answered wordlessly as the door to your chambers creaks open and takes longer to shut than usual.

"Come now, Princess, you must eat to regain your strength." Jeyns assists you in leaving the bed, putting more weight on her than required as she plops you down at the wooden table to break your fast.

Once your maids ensure you have everything you need to battle what they believe to be a headache, they leave you with a large pitcher of cool water and a matching basin sitting next to it, promising to return at midday to bring you a light repast. You lay underneath the warm blankets of your bed, enjoying their comfort until you're sure the maids won't suddenly be returning. Seeing you dressed in your black attire, dagger strapped to your shin, and hair plaited to the best of your ability would shock them as you peeked through your chamber doors.

It was too premature for Ser Arryk to be at his post, though you knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the silver and white figure would stand guard. You had to be swift. It was the first rotation in daylight, and you needed to take advantage of the momentary disarray of men walking to different parts of the Keep, some finally going to rest after the night's watch, which Ser Lorgan so happened to be coming off of.

The court had yet to rise, leaving the halls nearly barren except for the few servants adorned in red as they bustled about with their duties. You were still on edge, ducking around every corner, looking left, right, and behind in case you caught a pair of unwanted eyes as you made your way to the White Sword Tower.

You knew Lorgan would be exhausted when he returned to his quarters. On more than one occasion when he had the nightwatch, the man complained relentlessly of how tired he was, how he would be unable to sleep properly for the rest of the sennight because of it. At the time, you answered his gripes with comforting words and hands, soothing the brute's unease as you provided an ear to confide in. It was hard not to roll your eyes as the rant continued throughout your time in the training yard, but you kept your annoyance at bay, beaming and nodding like the good little maiden they believed you to be.

Briefly, you glanced down the halls once more before knocking twice on the crudely carved door of the Gold Cloak's barracks. You could hear scuffling, the unhappy timber of a baritone voice through the wooden door, and the click of a lock unturning as you greeted with a scowling Ser Lorgan Sunderly in only his underclothes. His expression soon changed when he realized it was you, brows shooting to his hairline.

"Princess," he said breathlessly, "what brings you to my door?"

You smiled sheepishly, showing him the tiny bundle of cheese, bread, fruit, and boiled eggs in a large cloth. "I thought I might accompany you in breaking your fast. I know you had the night watch and how you detest it."

He gazed down at you with pleasant surprise, his green eyes widening before he stepped away from the door, wordlessly bidding you to enter. You took in the modest surroundings. For some reason, you envisioned a much more chaotic state of living for Lorgan, but nothing was out of place.

There was a small bookshelf on one end of his room, but no tomes lined it, and instead filled with small trinkets, one would collect over time. A small cot on the other end with wrinkled, scratchy woolen sheets tucked underneath the straw mattress, his sword and shield resting at the end of it.

Lorgan pulled out your chair as you placed the food on his small square table, organizing it on the cloth.

"Princess," he started, tentatively pulling a piece of bread from the loaf. "I must confess, I'm surprised to see you here. I considered you a pious maiden who would not venture to these parts of the Keep unchaperoned. Take no offense, my Lady."

You giggled, following his actions by peeling an egg. "Ser Lorgan, you know I am a bastard, correct? My mere existence is a contradiction of piety."

The Gold Cloak hollered a laugh too loud for the small space, causing you to dig into the delicate shell harder than intended, taking a chunk of the white with it. Lorgan pulled a trunk from the side of his room, having only one seat as he grabbed more food from the cloth. A neutral silence blanketed the knight's quarters, the only sound being his loud chewing.

You swallowed the last bit of the yellow-green yolk, the dry, almost powdery contents getting stuck in your throat. Lorgan looked up at you, concerned, wrinkling his brow as you sputtered and coughed.

"Water," you managed to speak, bringing your fist to your chest.

The Gold Cloak jumped from his lower position, running to the pitcher on his bedside table and pouring you a cup. You down the contents quickly, rubbing your throat as the liquid fell from the sides of your lips, unable to swallow all of it.

"Princess? Princess!" Lorgan called, crouching next to you and placing a comforting hand on your upper back. "Breathe. Do not die on me, my Lady, I could not handle the loss of such a beauty within my chambers."

Gods. Now, you were choking, but this time on your vomit at his nauseating words. You sputtered a few more moments as you held down your bile, clearing your throat and wiping at your chin.

"Thank you, Ser Lorgan. I'm unsure what I would've done if you hadn't been here," you blushed, rubbing at the front of your throat in mock pain.

"No need to thank me, my Lady. It is my duty as a member of the City Watch to protect its inhabitants." You graciously smiled, placing your hand on his shoulder as you faced him.

"But please, ser. Had you not acted as swiftly as you did, I would most certainly be meeting the Stranger." Your legs flushed with his, your palm slowly gliding up his neck and onto his cheek. Lorgan stayed crouched below you, a light dusting of pink blooming on his ears as they brushed against his stubble. "You are most worthy of my kisses," you offered timidly, your lashes fluttering as you leaned closer. "If you'll allow me."

The soldier below you grinned rapaciously, his teeth wet and shining in the candlelight. You took his expression as consent, closing the distance with your lips pressed against his. Unable to hold any longer, you ducked away, only for Lorgan to bring his fist to the back of your head, pulling against him again. Your free hand clenched your skirt, your nails nearly piercing through the fabric as you attempted to ground yourself. This is what you wanted. This is what you planned. It was all a means to an end, and it didn't matter how you went about it, but it did not make things more painless.

Ser Lorgan Sunderly was a horrible kisser, his mouth nearly engulfing your own as he moved his tongue against yours. It was nothing like before, and though you would never admit it to him or yourself, you were glad Aegon was your first kiss. You felt no desire churning in your belly with the Watchmen, no heat and insatiable yearning between your legs as you had with the Prince many times before. And so you proceeded into the recesses of your mind, becoming a spectator to your actions as you rose from your seat and to the small cot, Lorgan following your lead.

You placed the burley man onto the straw mattress and straddled his waist, having met no resistance. His hands went to your waist, and you had to refrain from the instinctual reflex to pry them off as he moved your clothed core along his hardening length. You could see yourself above him, your braids still neatly pinned back as Lorgan began to paw at your breasts. You couldn't stop the way you immediately went to move them but quickly disguised your disgust by placing them back on your hips, leaning down to kiss him again.

"I have never done this before," you whispered against his lips, your arm slowly slinking down your curves. "Will you be gentle with me?"

Lorgan's stomach tensed at your words, nodding feverishly as he chased your mouth with his. "Of course, my Lady." He could feel how your hand hiked up your skirt, his soon following along.

"Thank you."

You smiled against his lips, unsheathing your dagger as you plunged it into his chest. You didn't see the blade break through his skin before you stuck it in again, again, and again. The Gold Cloak watched in horror, his eyes wide and mouth agape as he released involuntary grunts, the air leaking from his punctured lungs. Unable to move and protect himself, you quickly removed the knife from his sternum, his blood flinging from the blade and onto his cheek before it found home in his

throat.

Red sprayed onto your face and dress, darkening the fabric further as you yanked it out. Lorgan's hand immediately pressed on the wound, his mouth opening and closing as words fought to break free. You didn't see his face before you, leaking the crimson liquid from his lips as you sliced through the side of his neck, his essence further showering your exposed skin like fresh spring rain.

The flesh easily split for your dagger as you sawed through muscle and tendons, the sound of your labored breathing covering that of slicing meat. You met resistance when you reached his bones, the tiny circular columns attaching his tissue to the rest of his body. Letting out a displeased grunt, you repeated your actions on the other side, snapping his neck from the nerves with your hands.

You stared at the Gold Cloak's lifeless face, his brown hair tangled between your white and crimson knuckled, his once lively green orbs glassy and looking upwards as blood still leaked from his mouth onto the flat pillow. The desire to place his head atop the same battlements Lyra's and Sara's were crossed your mind. A poetic justice, you thought. But that would be too risky, and it was already dangerous enough being within the apartments of the White Sword Tower. Kingsguard lurked around every corner and slept in every bed, and you wouldn't doubt their loyalty to their ruler outweighed any fear a bastard of Daemon Targaryen could inspire.

Surprisingly, guilt did not consume you as you worried it would at your immoral actions. A vindicated sense of triumph welled in its place as you stared at the decapitated corpse of Ser Lorgan Sunderly, smearing the excess blood from your hands onto his tunic.

You knew Lyra and Sara would not be proud of what you did if they were still here, but they weren't. They couldn't feel or think anything; Otto Hightower and the Queen's inaction ensured that. Lorgan's death was on their hands, and if they had not sentenced two innocents to a cruel fate, the Gold Cloaks would still have their brother.

Walking over to the small table, you sat at the same seat as before, pouring water and popping a slice of cheese into your mouth. You needed to use the cloth the food sat on to clean yourself, and there was no chance that you would place the snacks on a dirty, unvarnished table where a man had put god knows what on it. Besides, you needed to wait until the following guard change. Being caught was not an option, so you stayed, ate, made sure not a speck of blood dusted your skin, and cleaned your dagger while the lifeless pile of man soaked his sheets with red.

Masterlist of Series

I hope you guys liked this chapter. We're getting to the parts of the story where you will either love or hate it. I'm very worked up about this chapter and the next, and that's partially why I had a hard time writing for a little bit. You have no idea how worked up I am about whether y'all will like this, so if you do, pretty please let me know. I live for praise. xD

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @silverslive, @prettykinkysoul, @duesobabe, @djlexi, @ynbutbetter, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @dd122004dd, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfild, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @prettywhenicry4, @daenerysqueenofhearts, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @please-buckme, @pastelorangeskies, @existential-echo, @priyajoyy, @merovingianprincess, @candy12110, @w3ird11, @ruhjkie, @somemydayy, @marikkjj, @zillahvathek, @sunfyresrider, @heavenly1927, @prettylittlelady, @hjgdhghoe, @im-sidney, @aurorathi, @marihoneywk

[handfulxfhearts]

Mello studies Matt's face with curiosity, his frown still embedded deep upon his own. He can't figure out if Matt meant something more by that statement... had Mello reacted in completely the wrong way? No, that's stupid, don't doubt yourself, you idiot. All we've done lately is argue and fall out. But then... the look on Matt's face... maybe there was something more to it.

But then, Matt's nonchalant reaction (whether he's faking or not) makes Mello's lip curl. Can he ever take anything seriously? Why does he have to have such a carefree, blase attitude to everything? Even me?

"Sounds just like you... shits and giggles... never taking anything seriously" Mello replies, coldly. He folds his arms protectively around himself, not liking that Matt, standing there with that look on his face, is somehow making him feel guilty for reacting so icily. Why should he feel guilty? Matt can't manage to get a serious sentence out of his mouth, so why should Mello believe he actually wants him to stay?

"Just once" he says, his tone still cold, and yet there's a vulnerable softness to it. "Can't you just say something meaningful and actually stick with it? Why is everything a joke to you?"

Matt bites his teeth together. The fact that he actually said that was already making him feel like an idiot immediately after. Combine that with the time freezing for what feels like years before Mello's ...less than brilliant reaction and Matt would rather the ground swallowed him yesterday.

Instead, he shrugs, and his nails dig into the palms of his hands.

"I'unno, for shits and giggles?" he asks back, his voice void of any emotion. He's looking straight back at Mello, refuses to give Mello any more ammo. The walls are back up from the momentary slip-up, and Matt will make damn sure they're stronger than ever. He bites the inside of his cheek, attempts to focus on the pain to get his mind away from the mortifying situation he managed to get himself in.

[idkman-ijustwannamakeatournament]

Round 2: Match 12

"Two Sides of the Same Coin"- Two things that are regarded as part of the same thing. Even if they're very different, they have at least one common thread that helps them fit into this trope.

Propaganda:

Catra and Hordak:

"Both are mirrors of each other, having grown up in heavily militarized societies full of propaganda which convinced them that they need to be soldiers even though they clearly are not happy with their lot in life, until they eventually break free over the course of the show."

Mello and Near:

"The angry one who wears all black and works for the mafia. The quiet one who wears all white and works with the government. Both were raised with the same goal: being the next L. Although they adopted drastically different strategies, there are noticeable similarities in how this expectation affected them. They both desire to be the one who holds the cards and are unwaveringly focused on stopping Kira. Mello seems to despise Near; Near seems indifferent to Mello. But there is some care lingering underneath. Near guards Mello’s photograph and Mello has a begrudging respect for Near. Ultimately, both would have lost alone. One is too rash, the other too complacent. But when they finally build off each other, the pieces are able to fall into place. Their differences compliment each other perfectly, and Mello provides Near with the final piece of the puzzle, allowing Kira to be put away once and for all"

[paradisepoisoned]

Okay I need to ask... what the hell is 💊💒💊The Ecstasy of our Virgin Mother Saint Mandy 💊💒💊 ???

*Rafiki voice* : It is time.

*CUE VIOLENT KAZOO MUSIC*

The Ecstasy of Our Virgin Mother Saint Mandy is my Eldritch baby, a grotesque abomination, and my first attempt at writing anything seriously. I will not say much as I’m hoping to post it by the end of November, but I will say It's a Mello/Near fanfic analyzing their relationship from wammy's till Kira's death. I will also say that if you plan to read it, prepare to be abandoned and forsaken by God just as these orphans have.

Enjoy the opening under the cut and don't be shy lemme know what you think even if you hate it I guess lolll💒

As so the old proverb goes…

“For want of a nail the shoe was lost.

For want of the shoe the horse was lost.

For want of a horse the rider was lost.

For want of a rider the message was lost.

For want of a message the battle was lost.

For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.

And all for the want of a nail.”

_________________________________________

Proverbially enough, all his life, Near has wanted for nothing. It's not that he’s never been hungry or in need but rather he is simply content without. Near can do without. Hunger is a need, it's biological; but want— want is a desire, a want is a wish and wishes to Near are nothing but storybook nonsense and consequently a waste of time.

Wanting is a choice, a choice that unavoidably leads to demise. Want breeds attachment, attachment breeds love and with love comes blindness,weakness, and vulnerability. All things Near would happily rather choose to live without. 

If wanting is a choice and if Near ever had a choice in anything at all, Near would—

Well, …quite frankly, Near would rather choose to starve and die.

But Near never had a choice; —in any of this. Which is fine because Near knows how to do without.

Near can do without choices. He can do without hobbies and interests. He can do without having dreams or true aspirations. Near can do without having friends or family. He can do without comforting conversations and the warmth of someone’s company. He can do without knowing what his mother’s embrace would feel like, without knowing what they might have had in common, —without knowing if she ever loved him. 

Near can do without love. Near doesnt want love. He doesn't want any of these things because none of these things make a good detective and Near is a rational person and there is no rationality in wanting what you can’t have. 

It’s sound enough logic Near thinks, it's just unfortunate that sound logic does nothing to combat the irony of the number one person on top of the ‘Things Near Can Never Have’ list, was blessed with the God given hands of a virtuoso that liked to thrum and pluck the delicate, nylon, thin, threaded cords holding together all the seraphim-disguised boy’s principles of logic and sanity.

 Mello never needed the permission of logic. Mello has never had a problem doing whatever he wants and while it's always elusive what the blonde boy really wants, the sadistic musician nonetheless plays him like a theremin. Without even touching him he seizes control of the humming neurons inside the young orphan’s brain, commanding full attention just being in the room and sends Near’s brain humming. conducting and coercing out Philharmonic Orchestra grade symphonies that drown out all sound of rational thought. 

But what’s far worse however is when those sunlight kissed hands do touch his moonlight cursed body, they play him as steady, knowing, fingers on harp strings do. He plays him patiently and determined, until the poisoning devotion in every bite and bruise and kiss has Near gasping and writhing, singing out of key like a small wounded animal in the woods, bleeding to death in the middle of the night. 

He plays him until his heartbeat is a loud ticking metronome, until he forgets he’s breathing on his own. He plays with him until all forty seven harp strings of Near’s self restraint snap from the tension. He plays with him until he breaks. 

If he was truly a rational person he would push Mello away. He would stop. He should stop. He needs to stop…

He feebly clutches at the rosary around the older boy’s neck out of instinct and pulls him down closer for another desperate kiss instead. Near quietly reminds himself he wants for nothing.