#no major character deaths no major character deaths no ma

[sunnybunnybabs]

FTFO chapter 40, spoilers

HOW IS EVERYONE DOING ON THIS FINE DAY gonna throw up

From themoment I read the title I

I just knew

I'm so glad Nightmare has been saved n the OT has been repaired!!!

YELLING AND SOBBING WHATTHHEFUCK WAHSSTHATH ENDJINGG

ImgonnaSCREAMandSOBandCRYandTHROWUP I'm shAKING as I type this WHATTHEFUCJ

When I SAID INK WAS GONNA LOSE A LEG FROM THE BOMB THIS WAS NOT WHAT I WAS ENVISIONING WHAT TNE H FCUK

DEATH GRIP ON THE NO MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS THIS IS THE ONLY THING KEEPING ME GOING RN WHAYTHE HOLTSHIT

IwANTXGASTEE DEAADDDDD I WANT HI M DEAD AND GONNNNEDEAAAADDDD

[viking-raider]

A Witcher's Soul

Summary: When tragedy strikes, Geralt of Rivia seeks comfort in the arms of one woman.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warning: PG - Abandonment Issues, Child Abandonment, Fluff Parental Loss, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Memories, Bathing, Love Confession, Soft!Geralt, Character's Death

Inspiration: This scene from Season Three of the Witcher! 😭

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy this! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!

Geralt rode Roach hard, only deviating from his path to guide the powerful black horse around a tree or rock. He gripped the worn brown reins tightly, feeling them cut into the top of his bare hands as he urged Roach to move faster, foam already starting to gather around his bit. The Witcher's mind raced, desperately trying to push down the power of the news he received from a good friend, while trying to help someone he'd found on the job. He struggled for a few days, trying to push it down, telling himself it didn't hurt.

She had left him almost a century ago, at this point.

Witchers had no emotions, he told himself, as a means to drive them back. It didn't work however, the emotions continued to smash into him.

So, he left in the dead of night, not a word to Anika, Otto, or even Jaskier, of where he was going or why. Though, he was sure Anika would know why. Geralt covered almost a whole league by the end of morning, cutting through the forest outside of Murivel, until he reached a modest clearing and an even more modest, three-room hut constructed in the middle of it, a stone and clay well on the left side, the bucket swaying softly in the breeze.

Roach came to a hard stop, hooves cutting deep grooves in the grassy earth, with Geralt wasting no time in dismounting the stallion and stomping across the yard to the front door. His sore and broken heart rose up with hope that it would swing open and the face of the one he was seeking would appear, to greet him. But, the door didn't open to him, instead he was greeted another way.

“Geralt!” A soft and confused voice called out.

He swung around on his boot heels, his golden eyes zeroing in on you as you stood just passed the tree-line, a basket of herbs and mushrooms balanced on your hip, as you regarded the Witcher. You hadn't seen Geralt in over a year, since he decided he needed to go to Cintra to make sure Ciri was safe from the sea of black and gold he'd seen on the Amell Pass. After the Dragon Hunt. You had heard the thunder of the new Roach's hooves coming up the path to your home, while you were gathering in the forest, and came to see who it was. You were surprised to see Geralt in general, but you were worried by how rushed he seemed.

“Geralt, what's amiss?” You asked, coming to close the gap between you. “Are you well?” You inquired, seeing the unusually deep crease between his brow and across his forehead, and how his complexion was paler, almost matching his hair.

Geralt took a deep breath through his nose, lips pressed together for a moment, working up the strength to speak. “I need you.” He finally rasped, his expression breaking into something soft and vulnerable.

“You rode all the way from wherever, just for time with me?” You smirked, tisking.

“Please.” Geralt replied, reaching out to grasp your free hand and squeezing it, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, his expression breaking even more.

You frowned at him, all jest dying inside of you, seeing his wall fall before you and the pain he was being crushed underneath. “Let's go inside.” You whispered softly, tilting your head towards your door.

Nodding, Geralt reached out for your basket, but shaking your head and swatting it away gently, you pushed the front door open and put your hand on his arm, guiding him inside. You set your basket on a large table and turned towards the just as large fireplace, grabbing wood from the dog grate and tossed it in. Building it back up, sparks flying up the chimney. You moved to Geralt, who stood motionless beside the table, taking his hand and guided him over to the chair at the head of the table, gently coaxing him to sit down, then knelt before him. Grabbing the heel of his boot and his calf, you tugged the muddy, black leather off and set it underneath the table, followed by its twin. There was dust and mud covering his black clothing. You brushed your palm over his knee and thigh, casting some of it off, before standing up again and starting for the next room, only to have Geralt grasp your wrist and pull you into his lap. His arms wrapped around your shoulders as he buried his face into your chest, and breathed deep.

You frowned at him, sympathetically brushing your fingers through his hair and pulling it free of its usual tie, his white strands cascading over his shoulders. You nosed the top of his head, caressing the back of his hair and squeezing his bicep, still confused as to why he was there and what was ailing him so much.

“Geralt.” You whispered into his strands. “Tell me, what's happened?” You asked, your fingertips brushing the back of his neck. “Did you not make it to Ciri in time? Has something happened to her or Jaskier?” You inquired, licking your lips as your heart thundered against his forehead. “I noticed that isn't the Roach you had the last time you were here.” You pointed out, remembering the sweet Chestnut you used to feed and brush, when Geralt stayed with you, but now there was a sturdy black stallion standing in your dooryard.

He shook his head and cleared his throat. “No, they're both fine.” He rasped, turning his head to rest his temple against your collarbone. “As for the last Roach, she was killed by a Chernobog, a few months ago.” He added, softly.

“Oh, I'm so sorry.” You cooed, tucking his hair behind his ear. “Then, what's the matter with my Wolf?”

He was still and quiet again, for a long time, his fingers restlessly toying with the strings at the back of your bodice, before suddenly standing with you still in his arms, and turning to sit you on the chair in his place. He went out the door, rounding the house to the well and dropped the bucket to the bottom. You watched Geralt come back inside with each bucket, holding it in one hand, like it was the weight of one of his swords. Pausing in the open doorway and giving you a hard stare every time, as if he expected to find you moved off the chair or vanished completely. Only then, did he go to your large cauldron, dumping the full bucket in and returning back outside for another.

“Are you going to tell me, what's the matter, Geralt?” You asked, your concern only mounting with his bizarre behavior and irregular moodiness.

“Nothing.” He grunted harshly, setting the cauldron over the fire to boil.

“That's a lie.” You answered, just as sharply, being one of the few people on the Continent brave enough to talk back to the White Wolf in such a manner; other than Jaskier and Ciri. “You wouldn't have come from the bum fuck of Nilfgaard to see me, if something wasn't bothering you.” You insisted, glaring at his back.

Geralt ignored you, heading towards the back rooms of your home and leaving you more worried and annoyed at his behavior. He came back a few minutes later with no shirt on, and your suspicions on his task were answered. Despite what the people of the great Continent thought of Geralt of Rivia, he did not in fact like smelling of death, blood and horse. When he stopped for the winter at Kaer Morhen or with you, he bathed regularly. He just found it more a nuisance to do so while on the Trail, since the next Contract or sleeping rough would only dirty him up again.

Pulling the roiling cauldron off the fire, Geralt carried it to the large, soaking tub you boosted in your bathroom. He filled it almost to the brim, before adding in Lavender and Sage bath salts to the steaming water. A fragrant haze filled the room as he tugged his pants off and tossed them over a chair in the corner. He strode out of the bathroom, returning to you, still sitting where he'd left you. He took your hand and helped you stand, untying the strings of your bodice and tugging down your dress, so it pooled around your feet, before slipping his arm under your knees and an arm around your shoulders, scooping you up against his chest.

You sighed softly, wrapping your arms around his neck, while he carried you to the bathroom. “I missed you.” You whispered into his ear, as he stepped into the tub, lowering you both into it.

“And I, you.” Geralt replied, holding you in his lap and resting back. “Ciri and Jaskier are well, by the way.” He said, his fingertips stroking the skin of your side, beneath the water. “Ciri is being watched over by Yennefer, who's helping her try and control her magic and Jaskier was with Anika, last I left him.”

“Anika?” You frowned, tilting your head back against his shoulder. “Why is Julian with Anika? If he's well.”

Geralt's thick, scarred arms squeezed around you, almost painfully, making you squirm in his lap. “You remember my mother.” He mumbled, barely audible. “Visenna.” He said so quietly, you had to strain to hear it.

“Yes, I recall you telling me of her, a few years after we met.” You murmured, seeing the strained expression on his face. “And that you'd seen her at Sodden Hill. She healed you, after the ghoul bite.”

“I remember bits of my life with my Ma.” He rasped, his grasp on you loosening, but he still held you close to him. “She smelled like embers, from keeping our measly fires alive during the long nights.” He told you, the crease between his golden eyes slowly vanishing as he went back to that time, tapping into that abandoned little boy, he had never grown out of, but skillfully concealed from those he didn't cherish. “We were quite poor, even though she was skilled as a healer. So, she-” He paused, his voice thickening and his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

You looked up at him, seeing the redness in the whites of his eyes and the unshed tears threatening on his lashes. It frightened you to see the Witcher like this. In the fifteen years you'd known him, you'd seen him in many states, but you had never seen Geralt cry. Reaching up, you cupped his scruffy cheek in your hand and thumbed a droplet away, pressing your lips to his jawline.

“She would use her magic to create the most elaborate meals that we couldn't afford.” He continued, tilting his head into your hand. “There was—I would have done anything to make her smile. And yet,” He voice broke again, this time with more than just hurt and abandonment, but with resentment. “The day she left me, she was sick. She needed some water, so I went to get her some, and when I came back to the road...she was gone.” He croaked, pushing his jaw forward and shaking his head, trying to deny the burn of more tears.

His fingertips pressed into the skin of your side and back. “I called for her.” He said weakly, his golden eyes off in the distance. “But she was gone.” He whimpered, the tears finally winning out, dripping off his jaw and into your hair and the bath water.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead to his neck and hugging your arms around his torso. You had known Visenna had abandoned Geralt. He had told you that bluntly not long after you had met. The torture of her leaving him there, to be taken away to Kaer Morhen, where he'd suffered such agony in his transformation into a Witcher, at just five years old, coupled with the pain he never got over with his mother.

You wondered how Geralt had survived at all.

But no, Geralt was strong, even from a young age.

“She's dead.”

You pulled out of your thoughts, shocked. “She's dead?”

“She was giving aid to some villager and was mistaken as an Elf.” Geralt told you, bringing a hand out of the water to wipe it over his face. “They beat her severely and she later died, at the Temple of Mourning, where Anika was. Which is how I found out.”

“I'm so sorry, Geralt.” You cooed, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, connecting the dots to his arrival. “I hope the two of you were able to make some sort of easement between you, when you last met.”

Geralt pressed his lips together and buried his face into your hair, his throat too tight to speak in the moment. He considered how he and Visenna last met, in the forest outside of Sodden Hill, as he laid feverish and hallucinating from a Ghoul bite to the leg. After saving a poor Merchant, who was trying to bury the dead from a camp Nilfgaard had attacked. At first, she had tried to conceal her identity from him, pretending to be Renfri, Yennefer and finally, you, before he managed to discover who it really was. Triggered by her belief that, People linked by Destiny, will always find each other.

He asked her what she thought of his eyes. Demanding to know, if she knew what they did to improve a Witcher's eyes. Telling her that it didn't always work. She had begged him to stop. Calling him by his name, only for Geralt to reject her right to do so, like she had rejected him. He had begged to know if she knew how many boys actually made it through the Trials. Tears filled both of their eyes as they stared at each other in the darkness.

In the end, his Ma had left him, again, fading into the night, trying to convince him she was just a dream and he would never get the answer he wanted.

So, had he made peace with his mother abandoning him, forcing him on the Path of the Witcher?

No. Geralt decided in the end, he had not.

The only thing Geralt did know was he wanted you. You were the first person he had thought of, upon finding out about his mother's death. Wanting to feel you against him and needing the comfort only you were able to provide. You shifted out of Geralt's lap, moving around him, while reaching over the side of the tub, grabbing the small cup that sat on the foot board there. Dipping it into the water and gently pouring it over Geralt's silvery-white strands, you set aside and took up a round, solid bar of honey and chamomile scented soap, using it to work his hair into a rich lather. Geralt moaned, feeling your fingers massage his scalp, resting forward to prop his elbows on his bent knees, eyes falling shut.

“I love you.” He murmured, quietly.

You stopped, resting your hands on his broad shoulders. “You've never said that before.” You said, looking around at him, mouth softly agape.

“No?” Geralt rasped, cocking a brow over his shoulder at you.

“Not once, in all these years.” You assured him, your hand gently massaging the scarred muscle of his neck.

He turned to you, causing the cooling water to slosh over the edge. “Then, I have a great deal of making up to do.” He cooed, reaching out to cup your face in his rough palm. “Because I do. I love you. Out of everyone, besides perhaps Jaskier and Vesemir, you know me better than anyone, and no one has ever taken better care of me than you have.” He told you, his face betraying the emotions a Witcher truly had, but guarded for their most treasured person, and not those of an abandoned child, rather those of a man in love.

“I love you too, Geralt.” You assured him, turning your head to kiss his hand. “And I will always care for you, me bleidd.” You whispered, picking up the cup to continue washing his hair.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Creating Compelling Character Arcs: A Guide for Fiction Writers

As writers, one of our most important jobs is to craft characters that feel fully realized and three-dimensional. Great characters aren't just names on a page — they're complex beings with arcs that take them on profound journeys of change and growth. A compelling character arc can make the difference between a forgettable story and one that sticks with readers long after they've turned the final page.

Today, I'm going to walk you through the art of crafting character arcs that are as rich and multi-layered as the people you encounter in real life. Whether you're a first-time novelist or a seasoned storyteller, this guide will give you the tools to create character journeys that are equal parts meaningful and unforgettable.

What Is a Character Arc?

Before we go any further, let's make sure we're all on the same page about what a character arc actually is. In the most basic sense, a character arc refers to the internal journey a character undergoes over the course of a story. It's the path they travel, the obstacles they face, and the ways in which their beliefs, mindsets, and core selves evolve through the events of the narrative.

A character arc isn't just about what happens to a character on the outside. Sure, external conflict and plot developments play a major role — but the real meat of a character arc lies in how those external forces shape the character's internal landscape. Do their ideals get shattered? Is their worldview permanently altered? Do they have to confront harsh truths about themselves in order to grow?

The most resonant character arcs dig deep into these universal human experiences of struggle, self-discovery, and change. They mirror the journeys we all go through in our own lives, making characters feel powerfully relatable even in the most imaginative settings.

The Anatomy of an Effective Character Arc

Now that we understand what character arcs are, how do we actually construct one that feels authentic and impactful? Let's break down the key components:

The Inciting Incident

Every great character arc begins with a spark — something that disrupts the status quo of the character's life and sets them on an unexpected path. This inciting incident can take countless forms, be it the death of a loved one, a sudden loss of power or status, an epic betrayal, or a long-held dream finally becoming attainable.

Whatever shape it takes, the inciting incident needs to really shake the character's foundations and push them in a direction they wouldn't have gone otherwise. It opens up new struggles, questions, and internal conflicts that they'll have to grapple with over the course of the story.

Lies They Believe

Tied closely to the inciting incident are the core lies or limiting beliefs that have been holding your character back. Perhaps they've internalized society's body image expectations and believe they're unlovable. Maybe they grew up in poverty and are convinced that they'll never be able to escape that cyclical struggle.

Whatever these lies are, they'll inform how your character reacts and responds to the inciting incident. Their ingrained perceptions about themselves and the world will directly color their choices and emotional journeys — and the more visceral and specific these lies feel, the more compelling opportunities for growth your character will have.

The Struggle

With the stage set by the inciting incident and their deeply-held lies exposed, your character will then have to navigate a profound inner struggle that stems from this setup. This is where the real meat of the character arc takes place as they encounter obstacles, crises of faith, moral dilemmas, and other pivotal moments that start to reshape their core sense of self.

Importantly, this struggle shouldn't be a straight line from Point A to Point B. Just like in real life, people tend to take a messy, non-linear path when it comes to overcoming their limiting mindsets. They'll make progress, backslide into old habits, gain new awareness, then repeat the cycle. Mirroring this meandering but ever-deepening evolution is what makes a character arc feel authentic and relatable.

Moments of Truth

As your character wrestles with their internal demons and existential questions, you'll want to include potent Moments of Truth that shake them to their core. These are the climactic instances where they're forced to finally confront the lies they believe head-on. It could be a painful conversation that shatters their perception of someone they trusted. Or perhaps they realize the fatal flaw in their own logic after hitting a point of no return.

These Moments of Truth pack a visceral punch that catalyzes profound realizations within your character. They're the litmus tests where your protagonist either rises to the occasion and starts radically changing their mindset — or they fail, downing further into delusion or avoiding the insights they need to undergo a full transformation.

The Resolution

After enduring the long, tangled journey of their character arc, your protagonist will ideally arrive at a resolution that feels deeply cathartic and well-earned. This is where all of their struggle pays off and we see them evolve into a fundamentally different version of themselves, leaving their old limiting beliefs behind.

A successfully crafted resolution in a character arc shouldn't just arrive out of nowhere — it should feel completely organic based on everything they've experienced over the course of their thematic journey. We should be able to look back and see how all of the challenges they surmounted ultimately reshaped their perspective and led them to this new awakening. And while not every character needs to find total fulfillment, for an arc to feel truly complete, there needs to be a definitive sense that their internal struggle has reached a meaningful culmination.

Tips for Crafting Resonant Character Arcs

I know that was a lot of ground to cover, so let's recap a few key pointers to keep in mind as you start mapping out your own character's trajectories:

Get Specific With Backstory

To build a robust character arc, a deep understanding of your protagonist's backstory and psychology is indispensable. What childhood wounds do they carry? What belief systems were instilled in them from a young age? The more thoroughly you flesh out their history and inner workings, the more natural their arc will feel.

Strive For Nuance

One of the biggest pitfalls to avoid with character arcs is resorting to oversimplified clichés or unrealistic "redemption" stories. People are endlessly complex — your character's evolution should reflect that intricate messiness and nuance to feel grounded. Embrace moral grays, contradictions, and partial awakenings that upend expectations.

Make the External Match the Internal

While a character arc hinges on interior experiences, it's also crucial that the external plot events actively play a role in driving this inner journey. The inciting incident, the obstacles they face, the climactic Moments of Truth — all of these exterior occurrences should serve as narrative engines that force your character to continually reckon with themselves.

Dig Into Your Own Experiences

Finally, the best way to instill true authenticity into your character arcs is to draw deeply from the personal transformations you've gone through yourself. We all carry with us the scars, growth, and shattered illusions of our real-life arcs — use that raw honesty as fertile soil to birth characters whose journeys will resonate on a soulful level.

Happy Writing!

[guzhufuren]

New posters, message, part of a soundtrack and information about upcoming chinese BL The General's Son, show from the director of Word of Honor

"Green mountains are hidden in the distance, the waters are far away, the bright moon is always shining, the world is full of happiness."

Genres: wuxia; revenge Number of episodes: 24 Episode runtime: 18 minutes

Lead actors: Li Kaiwen as Li Jianwei; Dong Zifan as Chen Xiaoxi

Director and executive producer: Ma Huagan (Word of Honor, The Legend of Anle, Sword Dynasty) Art director: Liu Jingping (Love and Redemption, A Dream of Splendor, Wonderland of Love) Screenwriter and chief producer: Zhou Shucheng Executive producers: Zhuo Zuoqing, Yang Qi Co-producers: Jiang Yuxin, Li Shike, Dong Xinyu Co-director: Wang Xue Producers: Jiang Zhengpeng, Liu Wei, Xu Heni Planning by: Luo Yuting, Luo Gaoqiang

Filming finished this June. Will not be broadcast in mainland China. Original script.

Synopsis: General Li's family were killed on New Year's Eve. Li Jianwei, the youngest son of the Li family, escaped death, but disguised himself as a courtesan and went to Wei Mountain to seek revenge. Chen Xiaoxi, the young master of Guigu, has a lively and eccentric personality, becomes increasingly close to Li Jianwei, who has tried his best to win him over. Chen Xiaoxi's sister, Xiao Hetao, is simple and kind. She discovers that Li Jianwei came for revenge, and dies to resolve the hatred between the two.

Characters:

Li Jianwei. Twenty years old, the youngest son of General Li Fei, he is loved by the whole family, standing like an orchid and a jade tree, smiling like the bright moon. He should have had a bright future, but his fate changed overnight. In order to get revenge, he went undercover to Weishan, enduring humiliation and patiently executing his plan step by step.

Chen Xiaoxi. At the age of twenty, we meet the young master of Weishan Guigu. He was born pure but had evil eyes. Under his lively and sunny appearance, his face looked like that of a devil's. In fact, he was rough but kind, and treated people with sincerity. Unfortunately, fate played a cruel joke on him and his mother died.

Xiao Hetao. At the age of seventeen, Chen Xiaoxi rescued a human child from a wolf pack. Innocent and romantic, she was very simple and naive. Gui Rong and others gave Xiao Hetao the purest and most innocent living environment, but she hoped to resolve the hatred of everyone with her own power.

Princess Qingyuan. Thirty-four years old, a graceful and elegant lady, smart and tenacious. She was in love with Chen Dawang when she was young. After Chen Dawang's death, she firmly refused marriage arranged by the magistrate's office and spent many years in Zhejiang. While helping Li Jianwei to take revenge, Qingyuan, the deputy envoy of the Chang'an Supervisor Zi Ke, has been trying to find out the truth about Jian Jishan from 20 years ago.

Chen Dawang. At the age of 38, we meet the leader of Guigu in Huishan. Twenty years ago, he was a major general in the Loyal and Brave Army led by Chen Weishan. Entrusted by the general, Chen Dawang and his party lived in seclusion in Guigu for twenty years, just to avenge the Loyal and Brave Army and reveal the truth to the world one day.

Sizhou. 24 years old, a descendant of the Loyal and Brave Army, he was a martial arts expert but became blind in two days. Because he was indebted to the Lord of Qingyuan, he stayed by his side and waited for investigation. While helping Li Jianwei to get his revenge, he also hoped to find out the truth of the old case of the Loyal and Brave Army from 20 years ago.

Wan Qianhong. Thirty-eight years old, owner of Baihua Villa, with mysterious martial arts and deceitful tricks. When she was young, she fell in love with Li Pu, who concealed his identity. Later, Li Xifei and Huang Jueda broke off all ties with Wan Qianhong. Since then, Wan Qianhong deeply hated Li Pu and all men in the world. Behind the hatred, Wan Qianhong missed her daughter so much that she mistakenly recognized Xiao Hetao as Zaotian's daughter. In the end, they ended up loving each other but not being able to be together.

Shi Tou. Eighteen years old, a good martial brother of Chen Xiaoxi, grew up in Jianweishan. He is the beloved son of Uncle Hua and Aunt Hua, with a simple and straightforward personality. He was happy and naive until Xiaohe died. The joy he did not even have time to express became the biggest regret in Shi Tou's life.

*text from informational brochures was converted with image to text online programs, translated through google translator and edited by me with some help of online dictionaries. i do not speak chinese, so there are most certainly mistakes in the text. purpose of this translation is to give you the general idea

[droaxa]

the villainesses scheme

✧ tags: yandere haikyuu male leads x villainess reader

✧ warnings: yandere behavior (later on), reader hits her head

✧ a/n: hi guys guess who’s back!! i love the isekai trope where the mc gets reborn a few years before their death and i needed to put my own lil’ twist on it! i’d love to turn this into something longer (like a series or something) so give me your thoughts!! my recent haikyuu obsession led to this one lol, inspired by: the male leads were stolen by an extra

You were a loser, well not exactly. You had a pretty stable job and a nice flat but lacked one major component in your life: friends. But it’s not like you were antisocial! Moving to a new city just a few months ago, you had been busy with moving in and didn’t exactly have enough time to make friends.

Besides you were preoccupied with your favorite web comic of all time: Flower of the Estate! A commoner girl that has three noble men falling for her? This girl really had some crazy cha(rizz)ma. You weren’t really into harem type stories but wow did it keep you coming back to see what happened.

It was another late night reading Flower of the Estate when you decided to head to the kitchen to get some snacks to keep you fueled. However, when you turned to retreat back you slipped on spilled water near the sink and hit your head on the granite counter! You mentally curse yourself for not cleaning it up as you drift into a deep slumber.

When you open your eyes and the lights blind you, quickly slapping a hand over your face you shoot up. Registering the soft plush beneath you you opened your eyes, when did you get in bed? Looking around your jaw drops, who the hell put you in a room like this! The whole room was illuminated by sunlight peaking behind the luxurious navy drapes and you gasped at the sheer size and extravagance of the bedroom. You were… in a castle?

Jumping off the bed you immediately fell to your knees with a thud. How long had you been out for that your legs were this weak? You push yourself up and stumble to the mirror on a vanity next to the bed. The satin fabric of your night gown fell to the ground, revealing the length that had been bunched up while you were sleeping.

In the mirror, the first thing you see is (e/c) eyes and a face eerily similar to yours. It was your face and body for sure but the state of it wasn’t, your hands were usually rough and your knees were scarred from playing as a child but now both were smooth and even. Then your eyes feel on a crest engraved onto the top of the vanity and your heart dropped.

The beautiful family crest of a black fox protected by two swords was a prevalent symbol in Flower of the Estate. It was the crest of the villainess. You, (y/n) Aleria, were the cruel villainess of the story, waking up here and looking like this had no other explanation. To see if it was true you quickly pushed the sleeve of your left arm up, on the wrist was a faint birthmark. A scar in the shape of a half moon, your fate was sealed. You fall back on the bed. ‘Shit.’

You were official the villainess of Flower of the Estate, who bullies the main character, get thrown out of high society, and then dies. You knew the path that the villainess followed and the actions she took, did that mean you could avoid facing the same death as her as well? The first mistake that she had committed that set her on the path of destruction was her bullying of the main character.

The villainess was notorious for her extravagant lifestyle and cruel manner, she didn’t have anyone close to her and the book never showed her point of view. You knew the basics about her but who was (y/n) — really? Was she really just jealous of the commoner girl that had managed to outshine her or was it deeper than that?

No matter why she behaved that way, you knew that following on her footsteps would only lead you to doom. You needed a game plan, plus you read enough reincarnation manga to know what basic things to avoid as the villainess.

Love Interests and Relations:

Tooru Oikawa - Childhood love (One sided) and (y/n)’s main obsession

Tobio Kageyama - Royal knight who pledged their loyalty to (y/n)

Ushijima Wakatoshi - Esteemed scholar who ended up being (y/n)’s tutor for a short period of time

Ok… this would a little harder than you thought. Why were all the love interests involved with the villainess anyway? Oikawa could be avoided easily enough, you just needed to distance yourself from him and considering that Oikawa was keen on getting rid of you. If you remembered correctly he was rather annoyed by the villainess who would cling to his side like a lost puppy. As for Ushijima, you knew that he would only be your tutor for a month, then leave your care to meet the main character who he would eventually fall in love with. Kageyama would be the hardest to get rid of compared to the other two, he would be around the villainesses the longest and somehow fall in love with her. However much like the others, he would fall in love with the female lead and leave (y/n) to be with her, withdrawing his pledge to be by her side.

Ugh. This is going to be a headache isn’t it?

[ichorai]

broken machine ; miles morales.

track four of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; miles morales x mutant!gn!reader

synopsis ; stuck in a time loop, miles had to witness the one thing that he dreaded the most in life over and over again: your death.

words ; 5.1k

themes ; angst, action, mild fluff, mutant au, time loop au, established relationship au

warnings / includes ; repeated major character death, descriptions of injury/blood, cursing, two brief mentions of sex, wolverine & omega red & doctor strange cameos, mentions of x-men & daredevil & wong, set in an alternature universe from the mcu, miles throws up at one point, one (1) reference to spider-man: nwh wink wonk, miles' parents are adorable and i love them

main masterlist.

NOVEMBER SEVEN — TAKE ONE.

Three knocks to his door, in rapid succession. 

“Miles,” barked his dad. “Up and at ‘em, kid!” 

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Miles groaned into his pillow, propping himself up with his elbow and glaring at the closed door. 

Outside, a car honked. A plump pigeon hooted by his windowsill. The sun beamed directly into his narrowed eyes. 

With a muffled yawn, Miles swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He could smell his mom making breakfast quesadillas from the kitchen. 

The day droned on like any other. He brushed his teeth and washed his face, shrugged on the same black hoodie he wore yesterday, snatched a quesadilla from the plate—nearly burning his fingers in doing so, much to his mom’s dismay, and kissed her cheek apologetically when she scolded him for not taking out the trash like she’d asked the day before. His dad was scarfing down the steaming quesadillas by the small kitchen table, eyes scanning over the day’s newspaper. 

“All these so-called ‘heroes’… and yet crime rates are as high as ever. What a joke.” Jefferson pulled a scowl, reading on about the newest debacle with X-Men and mutants in court. 

Miles could feel his stomach twist at his dad’s words, but he pushed it down.

“Miles, come sit down and eat,” said his mom, urging him to the table.

With an apologetic grimace, Miles replied, “Sorry, ma, I gotta meet Y/N at the diner—I promised breakfast with them today. I’ll be back before dinner, okay?” 

“Alright, mijo. I want you back before the sun sets—I don’t want you out and about during the night now,” she huffed, straightening the lopsided collar of his hoodie. “Tell Y/N I said hi. Remember what I told you, Miles—use protection. And don’t forget to take out the trash!”

“Okay, okay, Jeez, mom!” blurted Miles, clearly flustered at the prospect of his mom giving him yet another sex talk. He was already pulling on his shoes and waving goodbye to his dad, who muffled out something unintelligible around a mouthful of his breakfast. Just before he was about to stride out, he remembered to grab the bags of trash and toss them into the bins outside, before hurrying down the street to the diner. 

Knowing you, you were probably already waiting at the diner, halfway done with your milkshake.

Correction, you were well into your second milkshake by the time Miles jogged in.

“You’re late,” you told him, a fond smile on your face. “I ordered for you.”

“Bacon cheeseburger with a side of curly fries? Lemonade with extra ice?” Miles asked, sliding into the seat across from you, the sticky red leather of the booth making him grimace.

You cocked your head at him. “Yup. Extra ketchup on the side, too.”

“See, that’s just telling me we spend too much time together,” said Miles, affectionately kicking at your feet beneath the table. 

Scoffing, you popped a curly fry into your mouth. “You wouldn’t last two seconds without me.”

Before Miles could fit in a scathing remark, a loud crashing resounded from far outside the diner, followed by distant screams. Both you and Miles exchanged worried glances, peering out of the window to see civilians frantically running down the street. 

“Got your suit?” you asked quietly. You had yours on underneath your sweater already, since you had planned to go training with Daredevil after breakfast.

Miles bobbed his head, the light-hearted atmosphere disappearing in an instant. “In my bag. I’ll meet you there?” 

You nodded. “I don’t know what it could be this time—whatever it is, it doesn’t look pretty. Stay safe, Miles.” 

With that, you slid out of your booth, planting a quick kiss to his cheek, before dashing out of the restaurant, running against the current of the panicked crowd. Squaring his jaw, Miles darted into the diner’s bathroom, hurriedly changing into the suit May Parker had gifted him, and hopped right out the small, rectangular window. 

The fight was about two blocks from the diner. He swung down onto a streetlamp, eyes widening when he caught sight of a bloodied Wolverine pinned against the asphalt—Omega Red not too far from him, his carbonadium coils wrapped around Logan’s biceps and neck. 

Wolverine let out a growl, his adamantium claws slashing out, but not long enough to reach his attacker. 

Miles shot a web out to get closer. Though he wasn’t all that close to the infamous Wolverine, Miles knew he was a halfway decent guy, and deserved a bit of help. 

Mid-air, he blasted web fluid straight into Omega Red’s eyes, blinding him momentarily. Furious, the large man roared out an expletive, letting go of Wolverine in shock and scratching the sticky webs away from his face with one fluid motion, before rounding his angry crimson gaze at Miles. One of the metal tentacles shot out in his direction, but before it could reach him, you came barreling forward out of nowhere, a purple blade of energy stemming from your clenched fist. 

“No, kid, wait—!” gruffed Wolverine, a warning about Omega’s death spores just on the tip of his tongue.

It was too late.

Omega Red chuckled darkly as your blade of energy sunk into his abdomen with a sickly squelch. To Miles’ horror, he seemed practically unfazed by this. You snarled up at him when he wrapped one of his burly hands around your neck, the other coming up to lay over your skull. Miles scrambled forward, shouting your name, but Wolverine held him away, frantically telling him to stay back—something about deadly pheromones.

But Miles wasn’t listening. All he could see was you, and the final second of your expression shifting from determined rage, to raw fear.

A misty fog began surrounding Omega Red—his death spores. Your eyelids fluttered and you fell limp in his grasp. He was feeding off of your life energy. 

A sick crack of bone as he effortlessly crushed your head in his palm.

A raw, blood-curdling scream tore from Miles’ lungs.

Wolverine wouldn't let him go.

And then, it all went black.

NOVEMBER SEVEN — TAKE TWO.

Three knocks to his door, in rapid succession. 

“Miles,” the muffled voice of his dad drifted from beneath the doorway. “Up and at ‘em, kid!” 

Outside, a car honked. A plump pigeon hooted by his windowsill. The sun beamed directly into his narrowed eyes. 

He immediately sat up on his bed, breathing heavy and labored. A tear fell down his cheek and Miles hurriedly wiped it away with the back of his palm.

“What the…?” he muttered beneath his breath, glancing at his phone to see that it was November seventh. 

Huh. So it must’ve all been a dream. Wolverine, that weird metal-tentacle dude, you dying…

It was all a dream.

Huffing out a sigh of relief, Miles swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He could smell his mom making breakfast quesadillas from the kitchen. Funny, his dream-mom had made quesadillas as well.

The day droned on like any other. He brushed his teeth and washed his face, shrugged on the same black hoodie he wore yesterday, snatched a quesadilla from the plate—nearly burning his fingers in doing so, much to his mom’s dismay.

“Miles, I told you to take out the trash!” she scolded, crossing her arms expectantly.

For a second, Miles froze. This was… eerily similar to his dream.

Realizing that he had yet to reply, Miles hastily choked out, “Sorry, ma. I’ll take it out when I leave.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Diner. Meeting Y/N there for breakfast,” Miles responded. “I’ll be back before dinner, okay?”

From the small kitchen table, his dad glanced away from the day’s newspaper. “All these so-called ‘heroes’… and yet crime rates are as high as ever. What a joke.” Jefferson pulled a scowl, before reading on about the newest debacle with X-Men and mutants in court.

Huh. Miles could swear his dad said the exact same thing in his dream…

“Alright, mijo. I want you back before the sun sets—I don’t want you out and about during the night now,” she huffed, coming forward to straighten the lopsided collar of his hoodie. “Tell Y/N I said hi. Remember what I told you, Miles—use protection. And don’t forget to take out the trash!”

“Alright, alright, Jeez, mom!” blurted Miles, flustered at the prospect of his mom giving him yet another sex talk. He was already pulling on his shoes and waving goodbye to his dad, who muffled out something unintelligible around a mouthful of his breakfast. Just before he was about to stride out, he remembered to grab the bags of trash and toss them into the bins outside, before hurrying down the street to the diner.

“You’re late,” you told him, a fond smile on your face. Cupped in your hands was your second milkshake, already half-empty. “I ordered for you.”

“Thanks,” said Miles as he slid into the seat across from you, the sticky red leather of the booth making him grimace. “Hey, something really weird happened this morning. It’s like—deja vu, but in my dream? Like everything I saw in my dream felt weirdly real and then when I woke up, the exact same things started to happen—”

Before he could continue explaining, a loud crashing resounded from far outside the diner, followed by distant screams. Both you and Miles exchanged worried glances, peering out of the window to see civilians frantically running.

This happened in my dream! thought Miles. Unless… unless it wasn’t a dream…

“Got your suit?” you asked quietly. You had yours on underneath your sweater already, since you had planned to go training with Daredevil after breakfast.

Miles opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water.

You blinked at him, miffed. “Miles? We gotta go help them.”

Head feeling stuffed full with cotton, Miles bobbed his head hesitantly. “It’s, uh, it’s in my bag. I’ll meet you there?” 

You nodded. “I don’t know what it could be this time—whatever it is, it doesn’t look pretty. Stay safe, Miles.” 

With that, you slid out of your booth, planting a quick kiss to his cheek, before dashing out of the restaurant before he could even begin to think to stop you, running against the current of the panicked crowd. Squaring his jaw, Miles blew out a deep exhale and ran into the diner’s bathroom, hurriedly changing into the suit May Parker had gifted him, and hopped right out the small, rectangular window. 

As soon as Miles saw Wolverine and Omega Red a couple blocks down the diner, he knew whatever he had seen in his quote-unquote ‘dream’ hadn’t actually been a dream. Maybe he was in an alternate dimension? Or could it have been time travel of some sorts?

Whatever it was, Miles had to find you.

He swung down onto the road, ready to stop you from getting too close to Omega Red. Swiftly, he shot out web fluid straight into Omega Red’s eyes, blinding him momentarily. Furious, the large man roared out an expletive, letting go of Wolverine in shock and scratching the sticky webs away from his face with one fluid motion, before rounding his angry crimson gaze at Miles.

One of the metal tentacles shot out in his direction, but before it could reach him, you came barreling forward out of nowhere, a purple blade of energy stemming from your clenched fist. 

“No, kid, wait—!” gruffed Wolverine, a warning about Omega’s death spores just on the tip of his tongue.

Prepared, Miles pushed you out of the way, frantically yelling out, “Stay back, he’s got killer pheromones!”

But it was too late.

The long, spindly carbonadium cords darted forward and snaked around both of your ankles, sweeping you off your feet and dangling you upside down in a matter of seconds. Desperately, you tried to hack away at the metal with your energy blades. The determined snarl on your face began to wane into one of fear when it proved to be fruitless.

Omega Red grinned manically, eyeing you like a wolf would a hare. 

A misty fog began surrounding Omega Red—his death spores. Your eyelids fluttered and you fell limp in his grasp. He was feeding off of your life energy.

Miles yelled out your name, but Wolverine held him back, telling him it was for his own safety. 

“They’re long gone, kid,” the X-Man gruffed, grip unrelenting. “I’m sorry.”

A raw, blood-curdling scream tore from Miles’ lungs.

“Let me go!” he cried. It wasn’t a dream. None of this was a dream—it couldn’t be.

Wolverine wouldn't let him go, no matter how much Miles struggled.

And then, it all went black.

NOVEMBER SEVEN — TAKE THREE.

Three knocks to his door, in rapid succession. 

“Miles,” said his dad from the other side of the closed door. “Up and at ‘em, kid!” 

He shot up from the bed, breathing ragged. 

Miles swiped at his watery eyes, burying his face into his palms. If that hadn’t been a dream… what was it?

Car honk. Pigeon hoot. The sun beamed directly into his tired eyes. Right. This was the third time he’d lived through today. He must’ve been stuck in a time loop of some sorts. 

But how was he supposed to get out?

Swallowing heavily, Miles slipped out of bed, changing out of his pajamas, and got ready for the day. He had to get to the diner.

The mouth-watering aroma of his mom’s quesadillas wafted from the kitchen. 

“Miles, come have breakfast!” she called out just as she noticed Miles pulling on his shoes, tilting her head. “And just where do you think you’re going?”

“Out. Diner. Y/N,” said Miles, rushing. “Sorry, ma. I’ll be back soon!”

“Wait—!” she exclaimed, but he was already dashing out the door and sprinting down the block.

You were just starting on your second milkshake, brows raising when Miles stumbled into the diner, nearly ripping the door off its hinges in his haste.

“Hey, you’re not late for once!” you proclaimed, clearly amused at his haggard state. But your humored expression melted away when you saw that Miles was in no smiling mood. “What’s going on? God, Miles, you need to sit down.”

Blowing out a breath, Miles slid into the booth and began to explain. It was a terrible explanation, one that made no sense at all—but Miles was desperate and clearly not thinking straight.

“Right, so, I’ve been living today for the past two days. And I’ve seen you die before—twice! I wake up every time you die. It must be like, uh, like—”

“Miles,” you said, brows furrowed. “I’m so confused right now. You’ve seen me die? Like… like a vision or something?”

“No! Uhm, yes? Wait, no, I don’t think so, at least. I—”

Before he could finish, the loud crashing resounded from far outside the diner, followed by distant screams. Your concern skyrocketed, and you glanced out the window to see what was going on. Miles pulled at the skin of his face, frustrated. 

Civilians were screaming and running every which way like headless chickens. A woman with a baby stroller tripped over the curb and you sprang up to your feet, immediately breaking out of the diner to help her.

“Y/N, wait, you can’t go—!” exclaimed Miles, rushing out after you.

“Holy shit,” you mumbled under your breath as the both of you caught sight of Omega Red and Wolverine barreling down the street in their altercation.

With no time to change into your suit, you clenched your fist, purple energy blade crackling to life around your skin, mildly burning at the cuffs of your hoodie sleeves.

“No, Y/N, listen to me, you can’t go, you’ll die!” Miles exclaimed, grabbing your forearm to stop you.

Rounding on him with a heated gaze, you shook your head. “Miles, hundreds of people are going to die! That’s Omega Red. He can kill anyone in a close vicinity. I can’t just stand back and let him do it. I need to go help Logan.”

With that, you shoved away from him, leaving Miles to stumble after you. He cursed under his breath, shooting out his webs to swing after you.

Omega Red caught sight of the both of you from afar, the red of his eyes gleaming hungrily.

The carbonadium tentacles curled around Miles first, crushing his lungs until he struggled to breath and black dots danced about his vision. He could only helplessly watch as you dived down and slashed at his legs, but were dragged out by the other coil, lifting you up by your head as if you were a ragdoll. 

To his horror, Omega Red flung you hard across the street. So hard that you crashed clean through the windows of the opposite building, and straight into three consecutive plaster walls after that.

And then everything went dark.

NOVEMBER SEVEN — TAKE FOUR.

“Up and at ‘em, kid!” 

Car. Pigeon. Sun.

Diner.

This time, Omega Red threw a car at you.

NOVEMBER SEVEN — TAKE FIVE.

Quesadilla. Newspaper. Trash.

Diner.

Miles was helplessly pinned to the street as Omega Red used Wolverine’s adamantium claws to slice you to pieces.

NOVEMBER SEVEN — TAKE SIX.

Running down the street. Your milkshake spilled all over the diner table. Miles frantically trying to tell you not to go out. He was so tired.

You went out anyway.

Omega Red picked you up and ripped you clean in half with his bare hands.

Bending at the stomach, Miles threw up all over the sidewalk.

NOVEMBER SEVEN — TAKE SEVEN.

Miles didn’t go to the diner this time. He stayed in bed, eyes unblinking and wide, his stomach roiling nauseously. 

“Miles!” came the muffled shriek of his mom. “Miles, it’s Y/N!”

Legs trembling, Miles stepped out of his room and slowly shuffled down the hall to see his mom and dad standing in front of the television. Rio’s eyes were quick to water, tears dripping down her cheek at the sight. His dad bowed his head and rubbed her shoulder comfortingly.

The news was on. 

It was you, being recorded on a shaky camera—barely visible behind Omega Red, with his burly hands wrapped around your throat as he squeezed, squeezed, squeezed—

NOVEMBER SEVEN — TAKE EIGHT.

Three quick knocks to his door.

“Up and at ‘em, kid!” 

Miles threw himself out of bed just as the car honked. He was so very tired, eyes bloodshot and limbs weary. But he couldn’t give up. 

Hastily, not even bothering to change out of his pajamas, he ran out of his room after grabbing his web shooters, barely acknowledging his baffled parents. He bolted out the door at lightning speed, using his shooters to hurl himself down the street, to the diner.

People gawked and stared at him with wide eyes. They all gawked and pointed fingers, exclaiming, “Hey, it’s knock-off Spider-Man!” 

Miles couldn’t bring himself to care.

Not wasting any time, he barged into the diner, making his way to your booth. Before you could fit in any comments about how he was late, or how he looked like he’d just gotten run over by a bulldozer, he grabbed you by the shoulders, looking you straight in the eye.

“Listen to me. I’ve been stuck in a time loop, watching you die over and over and over again. You cannot leave this diner, Y/N. I’m being serious. Omega Red is going to come rolling down the street any second now—but you can’t help in any way, no matter how much you want to, or you’ll die and it just resets the loop for me. I need to keep you alive. Do you understand?”

With wide, unblinking eyes, you stared at your boyfriend as if he’d gone mad. A part of you thought this was just some elaborate joke—but the longer you looked into his eyes—his tired, weary eyes, the more you could see how sincere he was being. He was telling the truth.

“Time loop… like groundhog day?” 

Miles nodded.

“Do you know how to fix it?”

Crestfallen, Miles blew out a shaky breath. “No. Every time you die, the day just resets and I wake up back in my room—your death is basically… inevitable.”

A sick feeling twisted in your gut. Not really at the fact that you were fated to die in this loop, but at the idea of Miles having to watch and relive that over and over again.

“Oh, Miles, I’m so sorry…” you began, unsure of what else to say. Eyes softening, Miles released your shoulders, sliding his hands down your arms to thread his fingers with yours. 

A tentative idea sprung forth when your friend and vigilante mentor, Daredevil, once mentioned in passing a certain sorcerer living in New York that specialized in all things time-related.

“I think I might know someone that can help,” you said, squeezing his hands with a hopeful grin.

The Sanctum Sanctorum was a large, spacious building that remained suspiciously clean despite having only two ‘cleaners’ that looked far younger than you—Wong liked to call them apprentices, though. You’d passed by the building before twice—but never actually had any reason to come inside.

For such an important place, you were surprised there weren’t any guards by the door. You and Miles exchanged nervous glances, before stepping in. 

Stephen Strange was by the fireplace to the right, nursing a mug of a thick purple liquid. Draped over his shoulders was the infamous red Cloak of Levitation, which seemed to perk upwards in the presence of guests.

“Y/N L/N,” he greeted, narrowing his eyes at you, as if he’d known you were going to come. “Miles Morales—what brings the two of you to the Sanctum Sanctorum?”

How the peculiar sorcerer knew your names, neither of you had a clue.

“Hello, uh… doctor, er, sir—uhm, I’m—I think I might be stuck in a time loop?” Heat flushed over Miles’ face as he stumbled over his words, clearly overwhelmed that he was standing in front of an Avenger.

One of Strange’s eyebrows arched closer to his hairline. “You think?”

Clearing his throat, Miles winced as he replied, “I know I’m in a time loop. I’ve been living the same day over and over again more than half a dozen times.”

The sorcerer tilted his head, free hand coming up to stroke his well-groomed goatee. “Yep… that’s a time loop, alright. I’ve been stuck in one before—nasty thing it is.” The unpleasant memory of Dormammu made a grimace pull his lips thin. With that, he began striding away, leaving the two of you awkwardly standing by the Sanctum's entrance. 

After a second, Strange glanced back, rolling his eyes. “Come on, what are you two standing there dilly-dallying for?”

The two of you scampered along behind him, making your way further into the large building. Down a winding staircase you went, one that seemed to go on for ages. You peered over the railings, blanching upon seeing nothing but darkness for as far as the eye could see. Nervous, you reached out for Miles’ hand, which he gladly took.

Once the three of you had arrived by the floor, torches by the walls magically burst aflame, bathing the room in a warm clementine glow.

“Something incredibly wrong must have messed up your stream of reality’s timeline for it to fall back upon itself. Something that isn’t supposed to happen. Usually time loops occur when alternate realities collide into one another, thereby permanently damaging both realities’ time continuum—but it can sometimes happen on its own to prevent incursions from occurring in the first place. Like a safety net of sorts. It’s the universe’s way of giving you a second chance. Or… seven, in your case,” explained Strange, waving his hand in front of the Eye of Agamotto that rested just above his chest. The golden platelets pulled back to reveal a glowing emerald gem—the infamous time stone. Most of what he said had flown right over your head, but you nodded as if you understood anyway. “What is it that resets the loop each time, kid?”

Miles shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly feeling queasy. “Y/N dies,” he mumbled.

The sorcerer’s eyebrows twitched up in surprise. 

“Ah,” he said, his usually stoic demeanor melting into one of stiff, uncomfortable sympathy. “My condolences.”

“Thanks—uh, condolences… taken? Received? Yeah,” Miles awkwardly choked out. If it weren’t the dire situation at hand, you would’ve laughed at your boyfriend’s inability to just keep his mouth shut.

A glimmer of amusement danced behind Strange’s irises, but it disappeared just as quickly as it came. 

“Alright, kid, I can fix it for you—just promise not to talk during the spell. You’re not the only person who’s come to me asking to make life-altering changes to the time continuum.”

Neither of you really knew what he was talking about, but you stiffly bobbed your heads up and down nonetheless. 

With that, Stephen clapped his hands together, chanting lowly underneath his breath. The time stone began to emit a bright, lime-hued light—one that nearly hurt if you stared directly at it. 

And then��� it all stopped.

Strange stopped murmuring in his foreign tongue, the stone stopped glowing, and everything felt eerily still.

Confused, Miles asked, “That’s it?”

A ghost of a smile traced the corner of Doctor Strange’s lips. “Yeah, kid. That’s it. It should all be over now—you’ll wake up in the real tomorrow, tomorrow. Now get outta here—before Wong mistakes you guys for his apprentices.”

“Thank you, Doctor Strange. This means the world to us,” you said, genuine gratitude shining through your expression as you squeezed Miles’ hand.

“Yeah, thanks Mr—Doctor—Sir… uh…” Miles began stumbling over his own tongue again, and this time, you couldn’t help but huff out a laugh. Strange cracked an actual smile as well, jerking his head towards the staircase.

The two of you began walking back up the steps, a weight settled off both of your chests. Miles more so than you—having to watch you die over and over again had taken a serious toll on him.

In a blink of an eye, the stairs disappeared beneath your feet, and the two of you found yourself right outside the Sanctum. Bewildered, the two of you glanced back, only to see a golden-ringed portal just behind you. Strange saluted with two fingers, raising his mug to slurp at the mysterious mauve sludge within his mug. 

The portal closed a second later. 

You and Miles stood in a fragile silence for a long moment.

“Miles… what you had to go through… I’m so sorry, it must’ve been a living nightmare. I can’t possibly imagine what that’s like. Are you sure you’re okay? Because I’m here to listen if you want to talk about it,” you whispered, glancing his way. Your expression had softened with raw concern, practically bleeding with affection for the young man beside you.

Instead of answering your question, Miles just shook his head, tightly winding his arms around you and squeezing. His nose rested against the crown of your head as he inhaled the homely scent of your shampoo. After recovering from your initial shock, you returned the embrace, the fabric of his shirt crumpling beneath your grip. His shoulders began to tremble.

“Are you crying?” you asked when he sniffled quietly.

“No,” he replied, voice thick. “Doctor Strange just has… dusty magical carpets, is all.”

A peal of laughter fell from your lips, and you fondly knocked your forehead against his. “Careful now, wouldn’t want Wong to fire his ‘apprentices’ now, would you?”

Miles gave you a watery smile, before pulling away, holding you at arm’s length. “Can you stay with me tonight? I just… I don’t wanna lose you again. I wanna make sure I wake up in the real tomorrow—where you’d still be alive.”

Leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek, you gave him a gentle grin. “Sure, Miles. Oh, we can watch the new season of Yellowjackets together!”

“Okay,” Miles said, watching you with a lovesick gaze as the two of you began walking down the street, one that made his dark irises all molten and doe-like. “Anything you want.”

NOVEMBER EIGHT.

Miles’ eyes cracked open blearily. A ray of sun was glaring through his window, shining directly into his face. From outside, he could hear cars honking and the flutter of a pigeons’ wings as it flew away from his windowsill.

Memories of yesterday—or rather—several yesterdays, came rushing to the front of his mind. Immediately, Miles sat up in bed, his foot accidentally knocking against the laptop sitting on top of his blanket.

Initial panic beginning to wane away, Miles looked to his side, relief flooding his veins upon seeing you splayed out on the other end of his bed, cheek smushed into his pillow as you slept. You groggily mumbled something unintelligible at his sudden movement, but slipped back into a peaceful sleep not two seconds later.

You startled back awake when Miles let out a sudden whoop of unrestrained joy, loud enough to alert his parents in the kitchen.

“Ugh, Miles,” you groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow. “Shut up.”

Wincing, Miles eased back into bed, patting your shoulder while whispering, “Sorry, sorry. Go back to sleep.”

He tugged you close into his side, finding solace in your warmth—a physical reminder that you were real. 

This was real.

Miles grinned into your hairline, and clutched you all the closer.

By the time his mom and dad peeked their heads into his room to check that you two were alright, they were not at all surprised to see the kids fast asleep, limbs tangled and softly snoring away, with Miles taking up most of the space while you were squished against the wall.

The door softly shut once more, and Rio casted an amused glance at her husband, who also had the habit of taking up too much space in bed. “Like father, like son.”

Affronted, Jefferson followed after his wife as she strode away, thinking she was talking about his loud unconscious mannerisms (snoring, and, on occasion, talking in his sleep). “What? What do you mean by that? I told you, I don’t snore! Not anymore, at least…”

[technicallyfriendly]

I promised a while ago I would make a fanfiction rec list for lucemond, so here we go:

Star-crossed by DominaReginald

I have to say this is my all-time favourite lucemond fic. If you like the Lucerys-gets-kidnapped-instead-of-eaten-at-Storm's-End-trope, then this one is already worth a read, but what I love about this story is that it shows how the conflict really impacts lucemond's relationship, which is the focus of the plot. Much happens, of course, but the story focuses on how the war and Aemond's subsequent participation in it impacts his relationship with Lucerys. It's also very interesting how this story handles the marriage pact with the Baratheons. But really, a short summary will not do this master piece justice, so I urge you to go and read it yourself! For anyone who is hesitant due to the major character death warning: It's not the main couple, though the deaths occurring are tragic and happen to beloved characters.

the beast you've made of me by MotherMaidenCrone

I don't think anyone has walked past this amazing and beautiful fic in this fandom, but it still deserves its mention on this list as well. No other story has ever done a Team Neutral approach this well and nuanced. If you wanna see Lucerys girilboss his way through King's Landing politics and beat everyone at the Game of Thrones in a desperate bid to save his family from self-destruction, this is for you!

the tragic evolution of desire by toraophim

So I debated long and hard before I added this on because, boy, does this one make you feel stuff, and a lot of it is not great. It's an amazingly written story, and since I enjoy dark themes, I did like it a lot. Though, and this is important, the warnings are there for a reason, this dove is deader than dead. Also, none of the characters are having a good time here aside from Aegon for a time, which is why you should not read this if you are an Aegon stan. The author really turned him into a monster. If you are like me and enjoy an emotional rollercoaster with a somewhat happy ending, I say proceed with caution ;).

Set fire to the rain by baby345

This is a collection of a few short stories about lucemond. I really enjoy the writing and its variety!

Blood for Blood by GoddessofRoyalty

The way the author puts it in the summary is actually the best way to describe this fic: Aemond is not cruel, but he is also not kind (and Lucerys has both none of and all the power). And that is also how I like their dynamic. The story is told in snippets of their life together before and after the marriage, and the writing is really enjoyable!

all I had to give by monkkeyslut

This one starts out as one-sided love despite Aemond trying really hard, in his own way of course, but it's not just about their relationship but also about dealing with the aftermath of the war and the current unstable position of Lucerys due to the continued absence of an heir. This fanfiction is not only well written and a great ride, but the author also has an interesting take on Alys before we got even got introduced to her in HotD.

Office Lucemond by Avonne

This is a collection of ModernAU!Lucemond fanfiction about lucemond matching each other's freak told through the eyes of their stunned and slightly terrified coworkers and through the eyes of a very unimpressed Vharga.

Borros and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by lucerysinthesky

This is the funniest lucemond fanfiction I've ever read, which is why it gets a place on this list despite being tragically unfinished, but I have not given up hope quite yet! Maybe one day we'll get the last chapter. Still even unfinished, it is awesome, and it'll make you cry laughing, I promise. The title says it all already, and Borro's does suffer a lot while also having a full character arc and all while trying unsuccessfully not to die.

For now, I'll finish this rec list here, but there are still many more great stories out there that I haven't mentioned. Maybe I'll update it in the future or make another one for the once that I did not include here. For the ones reading this, I wish you a lot of fun reading the stories!

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

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

Chapter Eighty-Four

The large hall in Dragonstone was an imposing space, with high ceilings and walls of dark stone that bore the weight of centuries. A massive hearth dominated one end of the hall, its fire blazing warmly, tended by diligent stewards. Lamps hung from iron sconces along the walls, casting a soft, golden glow that flickered as the evening settled in. The sun was setting outside, painting the sky with hues of deep orange and pink, visible through the tall, narrow windows.

In the center of the room stood a long stone table, adorned with an array of food. Platters of roasted vegetables , fresh bread, pies, and soup a were laid out invitingly. The abundance and variety were meant to impress, but to Maera, the smell was overwhelming. Her pregnancy had heightened her sensitivity, and the rich aromas of the feast threatened to turn her stomach. She took a deep breath, steadying herself and attempting to conceal her nausea.

As Maera observed, Hugh and Ulf took their seats at the table. It quickly became apparent they were not of highborn blood. They handled the cutlery with a lack of familiarity, their movements awkward and unsure. Instead of waiting for servants to serve them, they filled their own plates, heaping food onto them with a casualness that spoke of their common origins. There was no pretense of decorum or the polished manners of the nobility, just a straightforward approach to the meal that contrasted sharply with what Maera was accustomed to.

Aemond was the first of the couple to approach the table, his movements precise and deliberate. He pulled out a chair and gestured for Maera to sit, ensuring she was two seats away from Hugh and Ulf. Maera smiled to herself at his slight jealousy, limping slightly as she made her way to the chair. She sat down carefully, grateful for Aemond’s assistance as he pushed the chair in for her.

The Prince then began to serve Maera’s plate before even taking his own seat. He selected a slice of pie and placed it on her plate, but the minute it touched the dish, Maera quietly wretched. Aemond’s concern was immediate, his eye locking onto hers with worry. She shook her head slightly, prompting him to remove the food from her plate quickly.

As her husband took his seat beside her, his posture rigid and formal, Maera picked at the items on her golden plate, choosing the least aromatic items to merely nibble on. She kept a careful eye on Aemond, who was similarly restrained, his wariness evident in the way he handled his knife and fork.

Hugh jumped a seat closer to Maera, his eyes twinkling with interest despite Aemond's efforts to maintain the space between them. He cocked his head, noticing Maera's lack of appetite. “Is the food not to your liking, Princess?” he asked with a teasing smile.

Maera laughed softly, shaking her head. “No, no, forgive my rudeness,” she apologised, rubbing her belly soothingly as she felt the child move beneath her leather dragon riding skirts. Hugh’s gaze lingered on her hand, captivated by the sight. Aemond's glare was sharp and protective, his jaw tightening as he watched the interaction. “The child makes it difficult to stomach certain foods,” Maera added, her tone light but her eyes flicking cautiously towards her husband.

Ulf, seated across the table, leaned forward slightly. “We wouldn’t be very good hosts if the Princess did not eat,” he remarked with a slight exasperation in his voice. “If you could have anything, what would you like?”

Maera’s eyes lit up. “Raspberry tart with custard is my current favorite,” she said almost instantly, a genuine smile spreading across her face.

Ulf nodded, and Hugh rudely barked across the room, “Bring the Princess a bowl!” The servants complied immediately, though Maera noticed a subtle eye roll and a huff from the steward as he exited the room, as well as some glaring at the men from the serving girls. It was clear these dragonseeds were not well liked.

A short while later, a bowl containing the tart and custard was brought in. The tart looked delicious, its golden crust perfectly flaky, while the custard was rich and creamy, its sweet aroma mingling with the tartness of the raspberries. Maera licked her lips, anticipation in her eyes as she picked up her silver spoon to take a bite.

But before the first spoonful could reach her mouth, Aemond’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist firmly. His warning glare spoke volumes, his distrust palpable. Maera looked at him, confused at first, but then understanding his wariness. What if the food was poisoned?

“Oh, for Gods’ sake,” Ulf groaned, rising from his seat and striding over to Maera’s side. He snatched the spoon from her hand and ate the contents, swallowing it down to prove there was no foul play. “See? No poison,” he said, his tone edged with frustration.

Maera sighed, offering an apologetic smile. “Forgive my husband’s reaction. He is just very protective,” she explained, trying to ease the tension.

Ulf nodded curtly, glaring at the one-eyed prince before returning to his seat. “A loyal husband you have there,” he muttered, though the atmosphere in the room had shifted, an awkward tension settling over the table as they continued their meal.

Maera could feel Aemond’s anger simmering beside her, but she forced herself to focus on her food, determined to glean whatever information she could from their hosts.

She knew speaking with Hugh would be more productive than trying to break through the soured demeanor of Ulf. With a warm smile, she turned her attention to the giant and politely inquired about his upbringing. He responded with a hearty laugh, explaining he was raised by blacksmiths and joked how he might have passed for the blacksmith’s true-born son if it hadn’t been for his violet irises.

Ulf scoffed, his expression bitter. He muttered something under his breath about how at least Hugh didn’t have white hair in a family where the seven other children had red hair. Maera chuckled at this, remembering her own upbringing with many siblings, and began to share her past. She spoke of the chaos and camaraderie of growing up in Rain House, recounting funny stories and playful rivalries among her brothers and sisters. Ulf seemed to warm to her, a flicker of understanding in his eyes as he realized she too had been inundated with siblings to compete with.

The atmosphere at the table gradually relaxed as Maera continued her tales. Hugh and Ulf’s rough edges were evident: they talked with their mouths full, reached across the table without hesitation, and displayed a certain honesty in their manner that intrigued her. How freeing it must have been to live without the constraints of highborn etiquette.

Aemond observed the interactions quietly, not uttering a word or eating any food but sipping every so often on his wine. His presence was a silent sentinel, his sharp gaze assessing every move and every word exchanged.

Maera noted the brutish behavior in Hugh, particularly in the way he spoke to the castle staff, barking orders with little regard for their feelings. Ulf, on the other hand, indulged a little too much in the wine, his laughter growing louder and more raucous as the evening wore on. Maera knew these men controlled dragons, and to have them as enemies with nothing to lose would be dangerous indeed.

Once the meal had finished, the wine continued to flow. Hugh and Ulf indulged themselves, their cups never empty as they settled by the hearth. The guests, Maera and Aemond, were invited to join them, but they merely sipped on their cups, keeping their wits about them amidst the increasingly loose-lipped dragonseeds.

As the wine made their tongues more liberal, Hugh and Ulf revealed much about the Blacks’ plans and their own roles in the war. Ulf spoke with a certain pride about how Rhaenyra had encouraged Targaryen bastards to her service, offering them the opportunity to tame dragons and support her claim to the throne. In return, she promised them land and titles once the war was won.

Hugh laughed darkly, recalling how many of those recruited had been burned, killed, or eaten by the wild dragons, leaving only a few bastards still alive. His laughter sent a shudder through Maera. The gruesome fate of those unfortunate enough to fail at taming the dragons highlighted the perilous nature of Rhaenyra’s plan.

The pale-haired bastard continued, revealing that the recent invasion of King’s Landing had been prompted by the death of Jacaerys. Maera’s heart sank with guilt, knowing she had inadvertently contributed to his demise. As a future mother, she couldn’t help but sympathize with Rhaenyra’s pain to an extent.

The giant then explained that Rhaenyra’s strategy to conquer the city included her husband Daemon, her step-daughter Baela, and two dragonseeds, Nettles and Addam, along with all of their dragons. He added that the gold-cloaks remained loyal to Daemon and would assist in claiming the capital. King’s Landing, he boasted, did not stand a chance against such a formidable force.

Maera listened intently, piecing together the gravity of the situation. The hearth’s warmth contrasted sharply with the chilling revelations being laid bare before them. The two dragonseeds, with their uncouth manners and harsh laughter, painted a vivid picture of the brutal reality of the war. Maera’s mind raced, contemplating the dire implications of the Blacks’ plans and the peril that lay ahead.

As the fire crackled in the hearth, Aemond broke his silence with a sharp question. "What did my cunt half-sister ask you to do once I arrived?"

Ulf chuckled darkly, leaning back in his chair. "She asked us to behead you and fly your body to King's Landing to be displayed before the Realm."

Maera felt a chill run down her spine, but she drank deeply from her cup to mask her discomfort. The pale-haired man continued on, explaining once the job was done, he and Hugh were to fly to the town of Tumbleton, a region in the Reach that supported Rhaenyra’s cause.

The giant man, sipping his wine, added, "Rhaenyra sees us as pawns, blindly following orders. She did not anticipate your wife arriving on her own dragon with you, Prince Aemond. Nor was she aware of her grace and charm."

Maera smiled, raising her cup in Hugh's direction. She decided to massage their egos further in order to get more information. Leaning sideways in her seat, she reached out with her hand and danced her fingers along Hugh’s arm. He welcomed the touch, a smirk forming on his lips, while Aemond boiled with rage beside her.

"Why did you not kill us then?" Maera asked, her voice soft and curious.

Ulf scoffed, "It's best to keep our options open."

Hugh nodded in agreement. "Especially after Rhaenyra kept breaking her promises."

Maera noted the bitterness in their voices, recognizing a potential advantage. She maintained her charm, hoping to extract more valuable information. The tension in the room was palpable, but Maera's calm demeanor and strategic flattery kept the situation under control, even as Aemond seethed quietly at her side.

The Princess swilled the wine around in her cup thoughtfully before commenting, "A good queen should not break promises to her subjects without good reason. What was promised to you both?"

Ulf leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips. "I was promised a marriage to Lady Stokeworth and Storm's End, while Hugh was promised a marriage to Lady Rosby and Casterly Rock. But Rhaenyra rescinded the offers after Lord Corlys advised against it."

Hugh scoffed, his expression darkening. "The only reason Rhaenyra gives a shit about the Sea Snake’s opinion is because he threatened to leave after learning of his wife’s death." Maera raised a brow as the giant man took a swig from his cup and then slammed it down in anger. "Not only did Rhaenyra elevate Corlys to Hand of the Queen, but she even legitimized his bastards so he would have heirs to inherit Driftmark. And what did Ulf and I get? Mere knighthoods."

Maera glanced at Aemond, who looked back at her with understanding. There was a clear disgruntled attitude from the men towards Rhaenyra, and both Ulf and Hugh struck them as men motivated by payment rather than honor. This presented a potential opportunity to secure their allegiance.

She smiled gently at the men, her mind working quickly. She needed to tread carefully, but if she could turn their dissatisfaction to her advantage, it could shift the balance of power in their favor. "Promises should be kept, especially to men of your valor and strength," she said, her voice smooth and persuasive.

The Princess heard her husband hum in agreement beside her, his gaze fixed on the flames of the large hearth. He very matter-of-factly told the men, "You were fools to think bastards could hold such kingdoms as the Westerlands and Stormlands."

Ulf glared at the one-eyed prince, his anger palpable, but before he could argue, Maera interjected. "Bastards can rise to high stations in this world," she said, her voice calm yet firm. Hugh cocked his head to the side in curiosity, and Maera continued, "Lord Unwin's bastard brother, Meryn, is a knight. And my uncle Friedrick’s bastard son has become a Maester. And in Dorne…” Leaning closer to Hugh she added in a low voice, "Bastards become kings."

Ulf scoffed, his skepticism evident. "Do you truly believe bastards are worthy of such honors?"

Maera countered quickly, "I believe a good queen should make good on her promises."

Aemond couldn't help but add another dig, "The lords of Westeros would never have accepted you to have claim over Casterly Rock and Storm's End. Mayhaps it was the Blacks' fault for offering such large prizes in the first place."

Maera nodded in agreement, her tone conciliatory yet strategic. "But a more realistic offering with the promise of a secure future? I think that is indeed possible.”

Hugh's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he considered her words, while Ulf's expression remained guarded. Maera knew she had planted a seed of doubt about Rhaenyra's character, and now it was time to nurture it into something more beneficial for their cause.

The pale-haired dragonseed raised a brow and asked, “What are you suggesting?”

Maera turned her head to look at her husband, catching the subtle signs of his irritation—the way his tongue swiped across his teeth, his jaw clenched tightly. She knew Aemond well enough to anticipate that his pride would get in the way of offering the men something they would actually accept.

As Aemond opened his mouth, Maera butted in first, her tone confident. “The war is sure to wipe out many noble houses who have fought against us. When our dragons burn their lords, there will be plenty to offer.”

Aemond’s glare was intense, but Maera ignored it. She pointed at each of the men in turn. “Lord Ulf the White of Horn Hill,” she said, then moved her finger across to the giant. “And Lord Hugh Hammer of Harrenhal.” Maera giggled, adding, “I like how those both sound.”

Hugh’s eyes lit up with interest, a greedy glint in his violet irises. Ulf’s demeanor softened as he considered the offer, the tension in his shoulders easing. Maera could see that the seed she had planted was taking root.

She felt a hand on her leg, lightly squeezing her thigh. Turning, she met Aemond’s stern gaze. He said her name with a warning tone, “Maera.”

She responded calmly, “Even you cannot deny that Vermithor, Silverwing, and their riders would make a great addition to our cause.”

Hugh’s broad face split into a grin, his brutish features momentarily softened by the prospect of power and wealth. “Lord Hugh Hammer of Harrenhal,” he repeated, savoring the title.

Aemond’s expression was unreadable, but Maera could feel the tension in his grip. She had taken a bold step, one that could either secure their allies or incite their wrath. But she believed in the strength of their position and the allure of the promises she made. After a moment, the one-eyed Prince nodded in agreement, indicating his support for her plan.

A contemplative silence settled over the hall, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant calls of Ēbrion and Vhagar. The flickering flames cast long shadows, adding to the heavy atmosphere.

Ulf, still guarded in demeanor, finally broke the silence. "You present a generous offer," he said, leaning forward in his seat, his tone suspicious. "But would you truly entrust such estates to bastards who would betray their original cause?"

Maera was momentarily speechless. He had a good point, and her mask of confidence slipped slightly. Before she could embarrass herself by stumbling over her words, Aemond interjected. "The Realm will never accept a Queen," he stated matter-of-factly. "Rhaenyra will not last long." He tilted his head to the side, his gaze piercing. “Better to be on the winning side with a legitimate claim to the throne, is it not?” He took another sip of his drink, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

Ulf and Hugh exchanged a look, their expressions hard to read. The tension in the room was palpable, each side weighing the implications of the conversation.

Maera promptly rose from her seat, her hand resting protectively on her bump. Aemond stood as well, helping her to stand fully. "We will not trouble you to come to a decision tonight, my Lords," Maera said light-heartedly, trying to ease the tension. "The hour is late."

She politely asked the servants across the room to lead them to a chamber where they could spend the night. The maid and steward nodded, and the guards moved to open the doors of the hall. As they departed, Aemond looked back at the dragonseeds. "I expect an answer on the morrow," he stated firmly.

The dragonseeds watched them leave, the flickering firelight reflecting in their eyes. Maera and Aemond stepped out of the hall, the weight of the night's negotiations still hanging heavily in the air.

“Daor dokimarves pāsagon zirȳ?” You cannot seriously trust them?

The room Aemond and Maera were shown to was modest yet comfortable. A large, canopied bed dominated the space, its dark wooden frame intricately carved with dragon motifs. Rich tapestries depicting scenes of dragon battles hung on the stone walls, adding warmth and a sense of history to the chamber. A fireplace was already lit, casting a soft glow and gentle warmth throughout the room. A small table with a pair of chairs was set near a window, offering a view of the now darkened sea.

Maera assumed this was not Rhaenyra’s or Daemon’s chamber due to its size and simplicity. It lacked the grandeur and opulence expected of the ruling couple’s quarters. Instead, she surmised it was either Prince Jacaerys’s or Prince Lucerys’s old room. This realization made Maera’s heart sink; she had inadvertently caused the death of Jacaerys, and her husband, Aemond, had directly killed Lucerys. The weight of these past actions settled heavily upon her as she moved further into the room. The shadows seemed deeper, and the room, though warm and welcoming, felt tinged with sorrow.

Aemond remained guarded, even as the servants of the castle helped the couple prepare for bed. His watchful eye followed the serving girls closely as they attended to Maera, his posture tense and alert. He was insistent on staying nearby, as if he did not trust the women. After everything they had been through, Maera could not blame him for his wariness.

The One-Eyed Prince did not even wish to speak the common tongue in front of the servants, fearing they might relay any information to the dragonseeds. Instead, he chose to converse with his wife in High Valyrian, confident that the bastards would only know the basic dragon commands and not understand their private discourse.

As he sat on the edge of the bed, his violet eye remained sharp, Maera laughed softly in response to his question as one of the serving girls began to undo her hair, the dark strands falling loose around her shoulders. “Jaesi daor,” Gods no, she replied, her voice light yet tinged with pragmatism.

The other serving girl worked on loosening the strings at the front of Maera's dragon riding gear, careful with each movement. Maera looked at Aemond, her green eyes meeting his intensely. “Yn nyke zoklākogon zirȳ lo īlva skoros īlon jaelagon,” But I shall indulge them if it gets us what we want, she added, her tone firm and resolute.

Aemond's jaw tightened, and he gave a single nod, acknowledging her strategy. The servants continued their tasks, oblivious to the deeper meaning behind the words spoken in the ancient tongue.

As the serving girl undid the final lace at the front of her leather bodice, Maera let out a sigh of relief. Her tender, swollen breasts from the pregnancy had been constrained for too long, and the release brought immediate comfort. The serving girls then guided her to a stool in front of a dressing table. One brushed her hair with gentle, rhythmic strokes, while the other began to carefully remove her boots.

Maera glanced at Aemond, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and determination. Speaking softly in High Valyrian, she said, “Se oktio iksos ojūdan, Aemond. Nyke gaomagon daor gīmigon se vējes hen aōha lentor. Isse nūmāzma nyke daor naejot pendagon bē.” The Capital is gone, Aemond. I do not know the fate of your family. In truth I am trying not to think about it.

She winced as the servant accidentally knocked her upper arm, before she offered her sincere apologies. Maera nodded with a sad smile before looking at her reflection in the mirror. Her heart ached in that moment, unable to suppress the vivid images that came to her mind. She could almost see the horror on Helaena’s and Jaehaera’s faces, hear the sound of Maelor’s cries, much like the night Jaehaerys was murdered. Silently, she prayed that Thena had managed to get them out safely, sparing them from further horror.

Aemond's face remained stoic, but his eye betrayed a flicker of shared pain at his wife’s words Once her hair was brushed, the serving girl set down the comb and retrieved a folded white nightgown, its delicate fabric a stark contrast to the tension and sorrow in the room. It might have been Rhaenyra’s, adding a layer of irony to the moment.

Maera sighed, the exhaustion of the day and the weight of her burdens pressing down on her. "“Yn lanta tolī zaldrīzoti naejot dohaeragon īlva ērinis sagon beldan.” But two more dragons to help us claim it would be advantageous, she murmured, the pragmatism in her voice a thin veil over her underlying despair.

The Prince nodded, his expression hardening with resolve. “Xaldrīzes kipagīrosi bona daor hen īlva ānogar hinittan naejot emagon sōvegon dāero.” Dragon riders that are not of our blood are dangerous to have flying freely. Before Maera could reply, she yelped out in pain. As the servants peeled off her black leather coat, it quickly became clear that the healing wounds on Maera’s arm had split. The skin was raised and red, her arm and underdress stained with dried blood.

Maera raised her eyes from her wounds to her husband. She could not help but scowl at him; the wounds would not be there in the first place if he had not been so foolish to entertain the witch of Harrenhal. But instead of verbalizing this, Maera hissed in pain before suggesting, “Pār mazverdagon zirȳ hen īlva ānogar?” Then why not make them of our blood?

The servants moved with practiced efficiency, carefully removing her skirts, leaving Maera in her blood-stained underdress, her enormous belly protruding under the fabric. The sight of her wounds reopening filled her with a mix of pain and helplessness, but she refused to let it show too much. She groaned in frustration, noticing the healing wound on her leg had also split open, the blood seeping through the fabric.

The servants moved quickly and efficiently, bringing forth a bowl of warm salted water and setting it aside on the dressing table. Maera sat down, carefully shifting her weight to avoid aggravating her wounds further. The servants began to prepare to tend to her, but Aemond intervened, snatching the rag from one of the serving girls. He submerged it in the water and approached Maera to clean her arm. She flinched, stepping back, refusing to let Aemond touch her. After a moment of tense silence, he handed her the rag, and Maera hissed as she cleaned her arm herself, the salt stinging her wounds.

“Skori se vīlībāzma iksos ērinagon, lo pazavor umbagon, īlon se ābri Baela se Rhaena, se emagon Ulf se Hugh dīnagon.” When the war is won, and if they remain loyal, we should spare the ladies Baela and Rhaena, and have Ulf and Hugh wed them, Maera suggested through gritted teeth as she scrubbed at the skin of her left arm.

She pulled her white dress to the side, rinsing out the rag and dipping it back in the bowl before scrubbing harshly at her left thigh. Aemond watched on, captivated by the sight of her, his gaze intense and unwavering. The firelight cast a warm glow on her figure, highlighting the strength in her movements despite the pain she was enduring. But Maera looked away from him, focusing on the task at hand.

The servants offered her the new nightgown, a soft, white garment that seemed almost out of place in the harsh setting of Dragonstone. As Maera attempted to lift her arms and pull off her underdress, she screeched in pain. One of the serving girls tried to assist in pulling it over her head, but Maera could not cope. She was sweating from the jolts of pain, her breath coming in sharp gasps.

She then felt a strong, warm presence behind her, followed by the unmistakable sound of a dagger being unsheathed. Aemond’s calloused palm rubbed gently down her right arm, a touch that was welcome in this moment of vulnerability. With his dagger, Aemond gently cut the back of her underdress, the fabric falling to the floor in a heap, leaving her curvaceous body bare. He asked her, while remaining behind her, “Ao pendagon Corlys Velaryon mazōregon lī irūdan syt zȳhon jorrāelagon talanni?” You think Corlys Velaryon would accept those terms for his dear granddaughters?

The servants helped Maera into her nightgown, gently putting it over her head and guiding her arms through the holes. The fabric was cool and soothing against her skin, and Maera sighed in relief as the pain subsided slightly. She then turned to her husband and raised her brow, stating with a determined edge, “Konīr kōrī gūrotir syt qrimpālegon.” There are worse fates for traitors.

Aemond’s gaze met hers, a mixture of pride and concern in his eye. The servants offered to assist Aemond in readying for bed, but he merely looked at them with a look that could kill, a low growl escaping his throat. They jumped, quickly bowing their heads to both him and Maera before scurrying out of the room, their footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Aemond dragged one of the chaises across the room to the foot of the bed as Maera sat on the bed, watching him. He removed his long black leather coat, his movements deliberate and precise. “Nyke pendagon se rōva mēre vaoresagon dīnagon ao,” I think the big one would rather wed you, he remarked sarcastically, his tone dripping with jealousy. Maera couldn't help but smile to herself, sensing the bitterness behind his words.

As she settled against the pillows, she watched Aemond slowly unbuckle his doublet. His fingers worked deftly, loosening the clasps one by one. The flickering light from the hearth highlighted the hard lines of his body, the scars that told stories of past battles. Maera bit her lip, feeling a familiar ache. She was mad at him, she hated him, yet she could not help but want him. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer before she tore her gaze away, adding with a touch of sarcasm, "Kostilus nyke ojenilla zirȳla jorarghutan zȳhon pazavorve,” Mayhaps I should bed him to ensure his loyalty.

She giggled to herself, stroking her swollen belly as the child within her kicked out, a small reminder of the life they had created. When no other laughter came, Maera looked up to see Aemond staring at her, his expression as stoic as ever. An awkward atmosphere settled into the room, the air thick with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. Maera picked at the sheets nervously, her fingers tracing the delicate patterns embroidered into the fabric. The silence was heavy, the only sounds the distant crackle of the fire and the soft rustle of fabric as the one-eyed Prince slipped into a night shirt.

Maera heard the wind rustling through the curtains and glanced out the gap to see the black sky adorned with a canopy of stars. The night was quiet, save for the occasional whisper of the breeze. Turning her gaze back to Aemond, who had settled onto the chaise, she voiced her concern softly, “Lo pōnta gaomagon daor obūljagon, pār skoros īlon gaomagon?” If they do not bend the knee, then what shall we do?

Aemond's response was blunt, his voice carrying a weight of resolve tinged with frustration. “Skoros īlon emagon gaomagon mirros,” What we should have done anyway, he replied, his tone steady but edged with a hint of bitterness. He met Maera's gaze evenly as he continued, “Ossēnagon zirȳ.” Kill them

Maera nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful as she processed his words. It struck her how straightforward it was for Aemond. To him, it seemed, the solution was clear-cut—kill or be killed. It was a mentality that had defined his actions throughout the escalating conflict, a testament to his uncompromising nature. She adjusted her position on the bed, her brown and silver curls cascading over her shoulder, framing her face as she cocked her head slightly to the side.

In that moment, Maera realized anew the stark differences between herself and her husband, particularly in their approach to resolving conflicts and securing alliances. For Aemond, the path forward often seemed paved with swords and bloodshed, driven by a fierce loyalty to his cause and an unwavering determination to uphold his family's honor. As she looked at him, she couldn't help but wonder if there could be another way, one that didn't always lead to violence and death.

During Maera's contemplative silence, Aemond finally broke it, speaking in the common tongue. "I will not find sleep this night," he stated, his voice a quiet rumble in the room. Maera stared at him from the bed, her gaze unwavering. It had been two moons since he had laid beside her, and she still did not feel ready to offer him an invitation to share her bed.

Aemond seemed to understand her unspoken message. He nodded slightly, accepting her silence as a response. "Rest," he told her, his tone softening a fraction. "I will stand watch." With that, he picked up his sword and procured a sharpening stone from his pocket. Settling on the chaise, he began to sharpen the blade with slow, methodical strokes.

Maera lay down against the pillows, pulling the sheet high up to her chin. She watched Aemond for a while, his movements hypnotic in their rhythm. The sound of the blade being honed was strangely soothing, a constant reminder of his presence and his protection. Gradually, the tension in her body eased, her eyelids growing heavy. The steady rasp of the sharpening stone became a lullaby, and soon, Maera's eyes shut, and she drifted into a deep, much-needed sleep.

Notes: Hello! How we all feeling? 🖤 Did we watch episode one? I have many emotions about it 😅 some parts I loved, some parts I did not, and others I thought were not needed. It also kinda felt a bit rushed, and we missed out on so many different scenes I would’ve loved to see (this is coming from the girl who’s written a 100 chapters on a fanfic like 🫠)! But I’m taking it as a positive. I thought seeing the new series would make it hard to write as I would have a difficult time distinguishing the two, but so far so good 👌 and remember friends; it’s 👏 not 👏 real 👏 we don’t need to hate on each other for having different opinions, we don’t need to hate on the actors for how the show is different to the books. If it makes you unhappy, don’t watch it. Same with my fic! You are in control of your own destiny and should let fiction on the internet or TV shows dictate your life 💅🏼

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[hellinistical]

fem! reader x rafayel. royal! au. sea horror! au. heavy angst. minor and major character death. slow burn. romance. fluff. explicit smut. trauma. religious themes. gore; hinted torture, cannibalism, decapitation, self-cannibalism. violence. wc: 4796 | status: on-going

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II: GOLD STRUCK

The wagon wheels were obviously wobbly, the axles needing immediate tightening, not that anyone would care to repair them, though. The rainy season was in full effect, and the roads were the sky’s first victim. A dog chased after a squirrel, it’s barking annoying the merchant nearby. He cursed the dog and his bloodline. 

“To hell with Linkon! To hell with this damned town!” His broom thwacked at the wood sign on his stall. “When I catch you, you damned dog, why, you’ll be roasted with your litter!”

“Oh Mr. Heggins, relax! It’s just a dog!” “Just a dog? Why you- you let him out, didn’t you, Caleb? I should get you fired from the mines for this!”

Caleb laughed, crow's feet forming by his eyes as he smiled big. His hands held orchids. He had picked them from his mother's garden earlier that morning, meticulously picking the best ones without her knowing. In his pocket, a small box rested.

Mr. Heggins eyes note the flowers and the small lump in his pocket. 

“Today's the day, eh?”

Caleb nodded, his cheeks tinging with red. 

“Yes, sir. I plan to ask tonight.”

“Ah, before the king's carriages come? Bad timing, no?”

“No, sir.”

It's quiet for a moment before the old man speaks up. 

“And out of everyone you could have, you chose the L/n's daughter.” He lets out a pitiful chuckle. “I won't question it, but to each their own.” 

As the old man walked off, Caleb hummed, his hand going to his pocket, patting it affectionately as he walked on through the streets.

He grabbed some pumpkin bread, the honey, and roasted almonds on it making it smell heavenly. 

He collected some gifts. A doll, a kite, perfumes, and a watch. 

And then he headed off towards Linkon's hill village. 

*** Hot water splashed onto the weathered wood floorboards, the basin full to the brim. Sprigs of lavender, rosemary, and orange slices floated on the water, and Mrs. L/n poured fresh milk into the tub. 

“Is this really necessary?” Y/n huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not getting in there- I won’t even be selected.” “Yes, you are. And I’m tired of you not listening to me.” “Mother- owowowowowowow!” 

The older woman grabbed her ear, pinching it lightly as she pulled her daughter towards the tub. Y/n held onto the wall, protesting. “I’m not going in there you; put milk in there! It’ll feel weird!” “Take the damn bath, child! Eva! Call your sisters and come here!”

“Coming, Mother!”

In moments, Y/n’s sisters came into the room. Eva smiled cheekily. “Today’s the day~!” “Like hell it is.” She shot back, wriggling in her mother’s grip. “You all act like you want me to get picked! Does Gran even know what you’re doing? Ma?” Her mother looked away, her hands going to the clasp on the back of Y/n’s dress. She undid it quickly, and the fabric pooled at her feet, ignoring her question.

“Strip out of your garments- Gods, you reek- is this wool? Y/n! You messed with the sheep again!” “I did not! I was with the ram- hey!” She placed her hand on the back of her head, the sting from her mother’s popping strong.

Lucy laughed, her chubby hands taking the stripped clothes to the wash.

“You’ve all gone mad. I hope you know that.” It comes out as a grumble, but she goes into the tub. But as soon as she stepped in, she complained. “The water’s freezing!” “That’s what you get for talking so long.” Her mother quipped. Her face sours as an orange slice touches her knee.

Raising her leg, Eva takes it, scrubbing it down as her mother starts to work on her hair. She hisses, her scalp tender as it gets scrubbed as well. 

“The weather is lovely, isn’t it?” “Just dandy.”

“What time is it?” “Half after 12, mother.” “Lord! We need to hurry then.” “Did you always have such a strawberry complexion, sister?” Y/n kicks water at her sister. “Quiet, you-”

She’s interrupted by her mother pouring a bucket of water over her head. Her hair gets thrown in her face, and she swallows some soapy, milky water, sputtering and coughing.

“Both of you, quiet. I’ll be damned if our good name is tarnished because you both decide to act like Neanderthals.

Y/n coughed out some more water. “I think calling me a Neanderthal isn’t fair- but Eva on the other hand- Oh my fucki- can you stop getting soap in my eyes?!”

“Language!”

***

Y/n shivers as she steps out of the basin, her arms crossed, knees turned, and locked. 

Some of the rosemary was tangled in her hair, but she paid it no mind.

Wrapping a towel around her body, Eva grabbed a comb, getting to work on untangling the knots and rosemary in her hair.

“This is ridiculous.”

“You would still get picked if you were covered in cow shit, so cease your bitching,” her mother shot back, not missing a beat as she scrubbed her daughter’s hair with renewed vigor.

Y/n's mouth dropped open, and she groaned. “You’re impossible!”

But her mother only raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here you are, complaining like always.”

Lucy waddled into the room, her small arms bundled up with a light blue chemise gown, the fabric soft and worn from years of storage. The short sleeves were cuffed, and though the dress had once been elegant, it was now out of date- the gaudy stitching showing the era it was from. Y/n’s eyes widened in horror as she realized what Lucy was holding.

“You can’t seriously expect me to—” Y/n began, her voice rising in protest.

But before she could finish, her mother yanked the towel off her body with practiced efficiency. “Of course not,” Mrs. L/n replied, her tone calm and unwavering. “Not until you’ve been plucked.”

Eva stepped forward, smirking as she handed her mother a razor, her grin mischievous. Y/n stared at it, her lips parting in disbelief. “Oh, come on...”

Mrs. L/n motioned for the sisters to leave. Eva, Lucy, and the others filed out, whispering and giggling amongst themselves as they shut the door behind them, leaving the room unusually still. The bright daylight streaming through the window seemed too cheerful for what was about to happen.

Y/n sighed heavily and sat on the small stool, arms wrapped around herself in half-hearted defiance. Her mother wordlessly knelt beside her, taking the razor and beginning the task of smoothing over her skin with slow, deliberate strokes.

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was the quiet scrape of the blade against her skin, the soft splash of water, and the occasional sigh from Y/n. It was a silence filled with things left unsaid, the weight of what was coming pressing on both of them.

Y/n looked down at her hands, picking at a loose thread on the towel. "I still don't think this is going to work. They'll want someone else," she murmured, not meeting her mother's eyes.

Her mother didn't respond immediately, her hands steady as she worked. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer than before. "It’s not about what they want, Y/n. It’s about what you’re worth. Remember, the better you do, the better we all do."

“Why do you want me to get picked so badly?” Y/n asked quietly, her voice trembling despite her attempts to sound nonchalant. “You know I’ll mess up.”

Mrs. L/n paused mid-stroke, her hands hovering for a moment before continuing, the razor gently gliding over her daughter's skin. She didn't meet Y/n’s gaze, but her words were firm.

“I don’t want you to go. What gave you that idea?”

Y/n blinked, caught off guard by the blunt response. Her throat tightened, but she said nothing, the silence suddenly heavy between them. 

Her mother’s eyes were fixed on her task, but the strain in her voice betrayed her emotions. “You think I want to see you paraded around like livestock? Gods know I don’t.” She set the razor aside for a moment, finally looking up at Y/n. “But if you’re chosen… at least you’ll be safe.”

Y/n swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. For once, she had no sharp retort.

"...They'll smell the farm on me," Y/n tried to joke, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "And it's not like the town doesn't have a reputation for me."

Mrs. L/n froze, her brow furrowing before she snapped, "Y/n M/n L/n. You will stop talking this instant!" She threw her hands up in exasperation, the razor clattering against the basin. “Ugh, by the Gods, you will jinx yourself, and no amount of rosemary will be able to fix it!”

Y/n bit her lip, stifling a laugh despite the tension in the air. She knew her mother meant well, but the whole situation still felt so surreal—so out of place for someone like her.

There was a knock on the door. Y/n's head snapped toward it, her brows knitting in confusion. Her father’s voice called through the wooden frame, calm and warm as always. 

“The boy is here, my loves.”

Y/n frowned. "Caleb? What’s he doing here?"

Mrs. L/n didn’t answer, her focus entirely on finishing the task at hand. She ignored Y/n’s questioning gaze and continued to move the razor carefully, finishing her legs before working up to her cunt.

"Never mind that," her mother finally said, her tone clipped. "We need to finish."

She turned toward the door, calling out in her usual brisk, commanding voice, “There’s a roast in the oven! Check it for me, please!”

“Aye, I will,” her father replied, the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hall.

Y/n slouched slightly on the stool, still puzzled. “He does know today is the collection, right?” Y/n asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping into her voice.

“Perhaps he’s wishing to bid you good luck. But it will have to wait,” her mother replied, still focused on her work.

“Oh.”

Y/n sighed, the thought lingering in her mind. It made sense enough. They had talked about their plans—what they would do if she didn’t get picked. Caleb would take his father’s horse, and they’d ride out of Linkon together. A smile tugged at her lips as she recalled the silly memory of him telling her the same thing every year. 

But she hadn’t seen him lately; he was always busy with family matters, tending to the farm, or preparing for whatever life awaited him. 

Once Y/n was dressed, she stood stiffly, adjusting the light blue gown that felt foreign against her skin. “I can feel every stitch, Mama.”

“It’s because your skin’s bare. It’s a good feeling. A good thing,” her mother replied, a hint of pride in her voice.

“I’ll get cold easier.”

“Oh please. You weren’t even furry,” her mother teased.

Y/n let out an unexpected laugh, the tension breaking for just a moment. But then the door swung open, and her father stepped in, whistling a cheerful tune.

“There she is. My darlings!” He kissed his wife and then pressed a warm kiss to Y/n’s cheek. He pauses. “You smell like the farm.”

Y/n shot a look at her mother. “Told you so.”

“He's messing with you,” her mother said, rolling her eyes.

Just then, Caleb ducked his head under the doorframe, a bright smile on his face. “Good evening, Mrs. L/n. I’ve brought gifts.”

“Gifts? You shouldn’t have!” her mother exclaimed, a warm smile spreading across her face.

“I wanted to,” Caleb said, his tone sincere.

“Oh, you sweet boy. Come, let’s go talk.” Mrs. L/n took Caleb’s hand, pulling him out of the washroom. 

As their eyes met, Caleb’s purple gaze sparkled with a kind of mischief that made Y/n’s heart race. She felt her cheeks heat up but managed to wave, a shy smile breaking through her earlier worries.

Once they left, Y/n found herself alone with her father in the warm, sunlit room. The air was thick with the lingering scents of lavender and rosemary, remnants of her mother’s frantic preparations. Mr. L/n glanced out the door, ensuring it was securely closed before turning to face her, his expression suddenly serious.

“Are you nervous, child?” he asked, his voice low and steady, a contrast to the bustling energy that had just filled the space.

“Nervous?” Y/n echoed, furrowing her brow in confusion. “About today?”

“Hm... no, can’t say I am.” She crossed her arms, trying to project confidence, but the truth was a tangle of emotions lay beneath her surface.

He studied her for a moment, the lines on his face deepening with concern. “You’re a horrible liar. That’s my fault. Should have taught you better.”

“Papa—”

“Listen. You’re no fool. You’ve got a good head on you,” he said, placing a hand on his chin, his thumb tracing the stubble there as he exhaled slowly, the weight of his thoughts pressing down like a storm cloud.

Y/n felt a knot tighten in her stomach, her heart racing as he continued. “That boy is going to propose. And you need to accept.”

Her eyes widened in shock, disbelief flashing across her face. “Huh?”

“That's how you don’t get picked,” he insisted, his tone firm yet gentle, as if trying to shield her from the harsh realities of their world.

“But—”

“Listen to me, child. You need to accept—today. Before it’s too late. Once you’re engaged, they can’t collect you.” 

“To Caleb?” she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of hope and uncertainty. The idea danced in her mind like a flickering flame, both enticing and frightening. Would it truly save her? 

“Yes!” he affirmed, leaning closer, his eyes locking onto hers with a fervent intensity. “You think we have luck when it comes to this sort of thing? We don’t,” Mr. L/n continued, his voice lowering even further as he leaned closer. “We should have married you to him months ago, but there was never an opportunity. We have the papers. You just need to have some witnesses—”

“You cheated the system?!” Y/n whisper-yelled, her eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and indignation.

“Of course I did!” he replied, a hint of pride breaking through his urgency. “I did it to protect you. You have no idea what they do to the girls they collect. We have to outsmart them.”

“I can’t marry Caleb! Are you crazy? I don’t even want to get married—” Y/n protested, her voice rising in disbelief.

“This isn’t about what you want! You love the boy; he loves you!” Mr. L/n countered, his frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“Yeah, but—” she started, her mind racing as she tried to find the right words.

“Listen to me,” he urged, his voice softening as he stepped closer. “This is about survival. The kingdom doesn’t care about your dreams or desires; they only see you as another name on a list. But if you’re engaged, they can’t touch you.”

Y/n took a deep breath, the reality of her situation weighing heavily on her chest. “What if Caleb doesn’t want this? What if he thinks I’m just using him?”

“Caleb knows—he's been helping orchestrate this!” Mr. L/n interjected, a mix of urgency and relief washing over him.

Y/n’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What do you mean he knows? How could you—?”

“I spoke to him. He understands the situation, Y/n. He’s been looking out for you, and he wants to keep you safe.” Her father’s voice softened, but the intensity of his words remained.

“Caleb is in on this?” she asked, her mind racing. The idea that Caleb had been part of this plan, that he had considered her fate alongside his own, sent her heart racing.

“Yes! He cares for you deeply, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to protect you,” Mr. L/n explained, a hint of pride- and something else- in his voice.

She closed her eyes for a moment, envisioning Caleb’s kind smile and the playful banter they shared. Could he really be ready for something so serious? The thought of it both terrified and thrilled her. 

***

Caleb sat in the dingy dining room of the L/n household, his hand absently resting in his pocket. The scent of roasted meat wafted through the air, mingling with the musty smell of the worn furniture. Truthfully, the L/n farmland was rich and fruitful, bursting with potential, but the home itself felt shabby and neglected.

“Once we’re married, I can fix this place up…” he mumbled to himself, envisioning the changes he could make. The walls painted fresh, new furniture, perhaps even a small garden where Y/n could grow flowers. His heart swelled at the thought.

In the corner of the room, her sisters and mother were clustered together, giggling and gushing over the gifts he had brought—colorful ribbons, handmade trinkets, and sweets. Their excitement filled the air, but Caleb was lost in his own thoughts, barely noticing their chatter.

It wasn’t until Y/n emerged from the washroom, her father beside her, that he realized she was near. His heart skipped a beat as she stepped into the room, her vibrant orange hair catching the light. She looked radiant, even in the simple gown she wore, and a smile spread across his face as their eyes met.

“Good evenin', Y/n,” he greeted, warmth flooding his voice. “You look lovely.” 

Y/n’s cheeks flushed as she returned his smile, but there was an uncertainty in her gaze that made him wonder what was going through her mind. He wanted to ask about the selection ceremony, about her feelings, but for now, he simply stood there, hoping the moment would allow for the words to come.

“Er, hello, Caleb,” Y/n replied, her voice slightly shaky but warm.

He chuckled, a playful glint in his purple eyes. “You look like a strawberry.”

Eva snorted from the corner, unable to stifle her laughter. Y/n cleared her throat, determined to hold her ground. “Yes, well, thank you. They’re in season.”

“Are they now?” Caleb’s tone was teasing, and Y/n couldn’t help but smile despite the slight embarrassment. Strawberries weren’t in season, but he enjoyed the banter.

“They are,” she insisted, a spark lighting up her eyes.

“Then I trust you know where the ripe one is?” His gaze was warm, his smile contagious.

Y/n felt her cheeks flush deeper, but before she could respond, he gently took her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. The touch sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. Together, they walked out of the house, the chatter of her family fading behind them.

As they stepped into the sunlit yard, the gentle breeze carried the scent of the sea, mingling with the earthy aromas of the farm. Caleb turned to her, his expression shifting to something more serious. “I’ve been thinking about what’s happening today…”

Y/n’s heart raced. She knew this was the moment to speak up, to share her fears and her father’s plan. But for now, she let the warmth of his hand and the softness of the afternoon settle around them, hoping to find the right words as they moved further from the house and deeper into the lush fields.

“Listen... I wanna marry you—” Caleb began, his tone earnest.

“Yes,” Y/n interrupted, her heart racing.

“What?” His expression shifted, surprise flashing across his face.

“Yes! I’ll marry you,” she declared, her excitement bubbling over.

“Let me finish,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly.

Y/n looked at him, confusion evident in her eyes.

Caleb’s smile faded, replaced by a serious expression. “Y/n. Don’t get me wrong. You’re a beautiful woman. And we’re good friends. But really, it’d be more of an exchange. I’ll marry you. But I want your father’s farm.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it,” he pressed, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. “If we’re going to make this work, we need to secure the land. The L/n farm is rich, and with your hand in marriage, I’d have both a partner and a stake in something that could thrive.”

Y/n felt her heart drop. The warmth of the moment had evaporated, replaced by a chill of realization. “You want to marry me for the farm?” she asked, hurt creeping into her voice.

Caleb’s expression hardened, his jaw set. “You thought this wouldn’t have an exchange? Marriage is a contract. I keep you safe, I get the land.”

“I can’t give you what isn’t mine,” Y/n shot back, her voice rising in disbelief.

“Look, you’re inheriting the farm. Your father is old. When I marry you, I inherit the farm instead. You’ll still have your sheep and goats, but I want you to stay in the gardens with the flowers.” He stepped closer, his eyes earnest. “Think about it. I’ll spruce the place up, combine our land. We can make a name for ourselves!”

Y/n stared at him, the weight of his words settling heavily on her shoulders. “You’re talking about my life as if it’s just an asset, Caleb! What if I don’t want to be tied to the farm? What if I want to travel, to explore beyond Linkon?”

He paused, the intensity in his eyes faltering. “But this is our home! This is where our lives are. We can make it better together.”

Caleb’s expression softened momentarily, but he quickly masked it with determination. “I’m not trying to control you! I just see potential—”

“Potential for what? For you to fulfill your dreams at the expense of mine?” Y/n felt anger bubbling inside her. “You’re reducing our relationship to a business deal!”

“I’m trying to think practically!” he insisted, frustration creeping into his voice. “We live in a harsh world, Y/n. If you get chosen today, it could be the end of everything for us. I just want to protect you!.... I care about you. But this isn’t just about us. It’s about doing what’ll be best.”

Silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken words and emotions. Y/n looked at him.

...Why did it feel scripted?

She ignores the brief thought, letting it slip just as quickly as it had arrived. “I need time to think,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

“You don’t have time to think,” Caleb said suddenly, pulling a small box from his pocket. He opened it to reveal a simple yet elegant ring. “I got the ring. Just wear it.”

“You’re kidding,” Y/n replied, disbelief flooding her voice.

“I’m not,” he insisted, his gaze steady.

“Caleb—” she started, but he interrupted her.

“That farm is precious, and your family doesn’t even see it. Just marry me and let me help you.”

Y/n’s heart raced as she stared at the ring. “You can’t just expect me to decide everything right now! This is my life we’re talking about!”

“I know it is! But we’re out of time. If you don’t make a choice before the selection, you could end up as one of those girls, the ones that don't get anything good!”

The gravity of his words settled in her chest like a stone. She thought of the stories her grandmother had told her, the dark legends woven through the village about the gathering and the sacrifices. The idea of becoming one of those girls made her stomach churn.

“Caleb, this isn’t the way,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t want to feel like I’m being sold off or bartered for land.”

“But you wouldn’t be! You’d be marrying someone who loves you, who wants to protect you!” He took a step closer, desperation flickering in his eyes. “Please, just wear the ring. We can figure everything else out together.”

Scripted. It felt so scripted. But why?

Y/n felt torn, her heart battling against her mind. The prospect of safety and partnership clashed with her desire for freedom and choice. “I… I need to think about it,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Look, if you’re not gonna marry me, I can wait for Eva. Or I’ll marry Lorraine—”

“Eva? Lorraine? Excuse me? Them of all people?” Y/n shot back, incredulous. The idea felt like a slap. Lorraine was the village gossip, always getting into trouble and never taking anything seriously. And her sister? Absolutely.

Caleb shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’m just saying, she wouldn’t mind. If you don’t want me, someone else will step in.”

“Right, because that’s how love works,” Y/n snapped, her frustration boiling over. “You can’t just jump from one sister to another like we’re some kind of game to you!”

“It’s not a game!” he argued, stepping closer, the tension thickening the air between them. “This is about survival, Y/n! Don’t you see? You can either have me fighting for you or risk being taken away, offered to the sea. I don’t want to lose you!”

Y/n’s heart raced as she considered his words again, the weight of the impending selection pressing down on her. The fear of the Dark Sea loomed larger than ever. “But I don’t want to feel trapped,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost pleading.

Caleb softened, his expression earnest. “You won’t be trapped with me. We can make it work, and build a life together. Just think about it—before it’s too late.”

As she looked into his eyes, Y/n felt a swirl of emotions—fear, anger, and- disgust? But the thought of marrying him out of desperation gnawed at her conscience. “I need more time- stop saying we don't have it."

“Time is the one thing we don’t have,” he replied, frustration creeping back into his voice. “Please, just wear the ring. Show me you’ll consider this. I can’t bear the thought of you being chosen—”

“Y/n! Come on, we’re waiting for you!” Eva’s voice called from the house, pulling her back to reality.

Caleb took her hand, his grip firm but gentle, as he slid the ring onto her finger. “Insurance. Just in case,” he said, his voice steady despite the uncertainty swirling around them.

Y/n blinked, her heart racing, but before she could respond, laughter echoed from inside the house. Her family had gathered, and when they saw Caleb placing the ring on her finger, their cheers erupted like a sudden storm.

“Oh, look at that!” her mother exclaimed, beaming. “My darling Y/n is engaged!”

Y/n’s eyes widened in shock. “No! Wait!” But the joyous noise drowned out her protests. Eva clapped her hands, and Lucy jumped up and down, her chubby cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Caleb! You clever boy!” Eva gushed. “We knew you’d come through!”

“But you don’t understand—” Y/n started, but her voice was lost in the commotion.

“Come here, you two!” Mrs. L/n pulled Y/n into a tight embrace, tears of joy glimmering in her eyes. “I’m so proud of you, my sweet girl. You’re all grown up!”

Y/n felt the weight of her mother’s affection, but dread settled heavily in her chest. She glanced at Caleb, searching for a flicker of understanding, but he was caught up in the whirlwind of celebration, a victorious grin plastered across his face.

“Now we can start planning the wedding!” her mother continued, clapping her hands together. “This is wonderful news! The whole village will be thrilled!”

Y/n’s heart sank. The idea of a wedding felt like a chain, tightening around her, and the implications of her father’s words crashed over her again. Marrying Caleb was supposed to be a lifeline, a way to escape the selection—but something was off.

“Are you really happy about this?” she whispered to Caleb, who was now being congratulated by her father.

He turned, his expression earnest. “Of course I am. This is our chance. You’ll see.”

But Y/n could only nod, a forced smile on her lips, as the celebration continued around her. 

And in the distance, carriages were coming, adorned with the rain clouds. 

taglist: @0chemicalwaste0 copyright © 2024 Hellinistical all rights reserved. no part of this story may be reposted, edited, or reproduced without the author’s permission.

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angst buddie fics

all of these are general audience, teen and up or not rated (no smut) make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

a leaf falls on loneliness (highly recommend this fic!!) by: iimpossible_things "buck doesn’t think that if he were to say, “i’m in a bad place”, that anyone would turn him away. really, he doesn’t. the 118 has too many good, kind people for that. but every time he wants to open his mouth, to say something, to reach out to eddie or bobby or hen or chim, he hears eddie yelling, “you’re exhausting.” —you’re exhausting, you’re exhausting, you’re exhausting— so each day he does his job and he laughs and he jokes and he pretends he’s the care-free goofball he’s always been. And each day he packs away his bruises and his worries, takes them home to his empty loft with its quiet rooms, and licks his wounds in silence." word count: 11k important tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, happy ending, original male character catharsis by: rogerzsteven "it only takes one minor inconvenience for buck to have his long overdue breakdown" word count: 5.3k important tags: emotional hurt/comfort, mental/emotional breakdown, bobby nash as evan buckley parent, multiple pov still by: brewsrosemilk "for the first time, buck longs for a bullet wound to treat. dirt to dig at. a door to break through. something. there’s nothing. “your guess was correct, diaz,” the bomb technician tells them, as he gestures to the orange circle. “you’re standing on a large sensor plate, wired to a detonator. It’s incredibly important that you don’t move. don’t shift. when you put your weight down, it was like cocking a gun - you take your weight off, this thing is powerful enough to take the entire house with it." word count: 9.3k important tags: near death experience, love confessions, happy ending, first kiss august by: daisies_and_briar "buck, eddie, natalia, and marisol go on a beach vacation in august of 2023. It gets angsty and gay." word count: 40k important tags: vacation, eddie/mariol, buck/natalia, mariol/natalia, coming out, feelings confession, sexuality, everyone is queer listen to you breathing (is where i wanna be) by: yavilee "the one where buck is presumed dead after a building collapse and eddie has to live through the reminder that tomorrow isn't promised to anyone" word count: 41k important tags: presumed dead, major character injury, mutual pining, grief, panic attacks, friends to lovers all that we intend is scrawled in sand (and slips right through our hands) by: withmeornotatall "buck and eddie get trapped together, time is running out, and eddie doesn't want to die alone" word count: 6.9k important tags: near death experiences, major character injury, whump, love confessions, getting together, first kiss

actually, truly by: milenadaniels "helena (and ramon) tries to find a way back into eddie's life and doesn't know what to make of finding buck around every corner she turns." word count: 14k important tags: multiple pov, season 4/shooting, homophobia, internalized homophobia, recovering from injury, pre-relationship, getting together, team as family, supportive!isabel diaz, coming out i know you're hurting (but so am i) by: justhockey "eddie understands better than maybe anyone else ever could, how it feels to have everything unravel in the palm of your hands. he knows frustration - he knows fury. he’s painfully familiar with that burning rage that crackles in the tips of your fingers, that makes your skin hot and chest tight, and makes you want to punch anyone that dares to even look at you. but that doesn’t give chim the right to lay a damn hand on buck" word count: 3.7k important tags: hurt/comfort, ptsd, feelings realisation, protective!eddie diaz, communication, 5x04 coda i want to reach out by: orphan_account "buck was a very emotional and physically clingy person, he knew this, once he had someone, he held on tight, scared they'd one day leave them. a drunk ana points out that maybe everyone is tired of it, and buck realises: maybe they are." word count: 5.7k important tags: insecure!evan buckley, ana flores bashing, hurt/comfort, touch starved, abandonment issues, love confessions

the aftermath of liberation and love confessions by: elvensorceress "in which eddie comes out, sexuality is complicated but coffee is not, buck makes an excessive salad and is also roasted, everyone has a love confession, and December is the most dramatic time of year." word count: 17k important tags: pining!eddie diaz, idiots to lovers, coming out, love confessions, demisexual!eddie diaz, post 5.09 and this is his life by: shyaudacity "in late june of nineteen ninety-one, mere hours after losing her son to cancer, margaret buckley takes a baby out of the hospital nursery and decides to bring him home" word count: 26k important tags: established relationship, kidnapping, emotional hurt, panic attacks, flashblacks, comforting!eddie diaz mirror, lie to me, tell me you can see by: anonymous "buck struggles with food and his body. it's not new." word count: 20k important tags: TW: eating disorder, established relationship, hurt/comfort, protective!maddie buckley, marriage proposal, sibling love, caring!eddie diaz without you, i'll never be home by: the_forgotten_nobody "after the tsunami, eddie invites buck to stay with him and christopher." word count: 45k important tags: hurt/comfort, post-tsunami/season 3, anxiety, separation anxiety, pining, sharing a bed

[geniousbh]

⸻ 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒆𝒇!𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒐́𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒆

prompt: você é uma pequena ladra vivendo a mais trágica história de amor

obs.: gente o que vocês estão prestes a ler é um suco de melancolia, são desejos inatos que precisam ser reprimidos. minha mãe lana del rey e os incontáveis seriados de missing people e casos arquivados que eu assisti na vida me ajudaram nessa canetada! é uma proposta diferente dos outros hcs que eu postei e eu espero MUITO que vocês não estranhem e gostem! 🥹🤞❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 special thanks pra todas que me incentivaram a lançar algo sem final feliz @imninahchan @idollete @kyuala @svholand

obs.²: não romantizem nenhum dos eventos descritos ok? se você estiver num relacionamento tóxico (ainda que não pareça pelos altos e baixos) converse com alguém e denuncie <3

tw.: no começo da narrativa a reader ainda é menor de idade, consumo de álcool, atividades ilícitas (roubo, estelionato, consumo de álcool por menor de idade), agressão verbal (bem ligeiro), violência gráfica, car sex, manhandling, manipulação, s.h (é implícito e não narrado!), MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, MDNI

thief!simón que você conheceu quando ainda tinha dezessete anos. você dançava num bar a troco de ter uns trocados, a regra era que não te tocassem, mas você podia os tocar, se quisesse, e se aproveitava para surrupiar as pequenas correntes e relógios de pulso quando os homens estavam embriagados o suficiente. reparou no rapaz aos fundos do salão te observando enquanto tomava alguma bebida, era bonito, e ao contrário dos que deliravam na sua figura indecente ele ficava indiferente – o que não te impediu de se aproximar, não se ofereceria, nunca o fazia, mas com muita sutileza e destreza nos dedos abria o fecho de um pequeno terço de ouriço que ele tinha

thief!simón que te encontrou nos fundos da casa de shows nessa mesma noite, você já com as roupas normais e ele encostado na parede de tijolos, te acompanhando, até que você passasse por ele e ele esticasse o pé te fazendo tropeçar e cair de joelhos, o fitando irritada. “algum problema!?”, “nenhum, mas você tem algo que é meu”, “deve estar ficando louco, ou deve estar drogado”, e ele se agachava ao seu lado enfiando a mão nos bolsos do seu moletom tirando de lá um punhado de coisas roubadas junto da correntinha

thief!simón que não disse mais nada ao sair andando, mas depois de duas semanas te encontrou no centro da cidadezinha “panfletando” – por ser tão lindinha e mirrada ninguém desconfiava, mas sempre que se aproximavam para saber mais da falsa promoção você percorria seus dedinhos pelas bolsas e carteiras alheias, arrancando jóias, notas, moedas, o que fosse de valor – e ele observava; mais do que gostaria de admitir

thief!simón que se aproximou e soprou no seu ouvido “eres atrevida, eh?”, sorrindo de canto e te rodeando, mantendo uma distância segura. “não sei porque... se eu tô só trabalhando”, “sei, sabe qual é o seu problema? no puedes mentir a otro mentiroso”, te dando um peteleco na testa, fazendo-a bufar frustrada – era a segunda vez que ele te pegava em flagrante, além de não parecer fazê-lo por uma moral intacta, mas só pelo prazer de atrapalhar

thief!simón que não achava aquela cidade tão pequena, no entanto, começava estranhar que para todos os lugares que ele ia haviam resquícios da pequena ladra, e ele não era devoto de nenhum deus, muito menos acreditava em conexões de vidas passadas, mas numa sexta, antes de se mudar, quis passar na casa de shows. não te assistiu, ficou sentado no bar, de costas, esperando que você viesse até ele. “não gosta de mulheres?”, perguntou provocando o maior, “você é menor de idade”, “não sou”, e tudo o que ele fez foi te olhar de cima a baixo com a mesma expressão do dia na praça, “vou sair da cidade... quando o seu repertório é curto, não da pra ficar no mesmo lugar pra sempre, você vem ou não?”

thief!simón que havia perguntado de forma tão indiferente e estúpida se você queria segui-lo que a situação se tornava cômica quando você se pegou no ford granada marrom que ele tinha, os vidros abertos e o rádio tocando alguma música desconhecida, rumando para qualquer distrito há alguns quilômetros de distância do anterior

thief!simón que via em você uma mina de ouro, principalmente quando tinham acabado de conseguir alugar um quarto e cozinha, e ele aproveitara para te levar para comprar algumas roupas. as palavras o fugiam assim que você saía do provador com um vestido branco solto com uma fita na cintura – a vendedora tinha feito questão de arrumar seu cabelo com um filho no mesmo tom – , estava perfeita, uma boneca

thief!simón que colocou seus planos em ação não muitos dias depois, em um jantar de bancários que haveria na cidade, ele conseguindo convites depois de forjar um cartão e se apresentar como advogado imobiliário recém chegado nos arredores e te apresentando como noiva

thief!simón que não sabia se gostava ou se detestava quando os homens de meia idade te cobiçavam descaradamente - alguns babavam e usavam seus paninhos finos para limpar -, mas que se aguentava até o final da noite, quando você conseguia atrair um dos porcos para o estacionamento dizendo “meu noivo não precisa saber, e eu quero tanto...” enquanto ele observava por detrás de uma árvore esperando o momento certo de agir; esperando o sinal que haviam combinado

thief!simón que não poupou em gastar no mercado depois da pequena fortuna que tinham arrancado do homem, ameaçando-o de contar para a família, filhos e clientes o quão sujo ele era por cobiçar uma jovem prometida. comprou vinhos, doces e charutos – os quais te ensinou a fumar apesar de você preferir os cigarros mentolados normais.

thief!simón que se mudava com você todo mês, gabaritando as cidades costeiras. chegavam, inventavam uma história confiável, faziam alguns álibis aqui e ali e aplicavam os golpes. vocês comemoravam, vivendo uma vida luxuosa, passando a se hospedar nos melhores hotéis, se embebedando em cada final de semana – e por vezes até no meio dela –, ouvindo você contar os mínimos detalhes da infância cruel quando estava completamente alterada, jogada na cama apenas de calcinha e sutiã abraçada à uma garrafa de champanhe

thief!simón que acabou descobrindo seu aniversário ao acaso forjando alguns documentos para as identidades da próxima cidade, e fez questão de comemorar. te levou num mirante de onde, mesmo de dentro do carro, era possível ver a praia, as barraquinhas e o parque de diversões todo aceso pela noite. também te presenteou com uma correntinha, o pingente sendo de uma flor de belladona – apelido que ele passou a usar fielmente contigo

thief!simón que tirou sua virgindade naquele lugar, forrou os fundos do sedan com alguns edredons e te fez dele, beijou cada canto do corpo pequeno e encheu seus seios, costas e coxas de chupões – e não tinha problema porque ninguém mais veria, nem mesmo aqueles em quem aplicavam os golpes, porque o hempe nunca deixava avançarem mais do que a possessividade dele permitia. você era dele

thief!simón que te aninhou no peitoral depois de mais uma noite que terminava em vocês dois fodendo com as luzes do quarto de hotel ligadas e as sacadas escancaradas para quem quisesse ver, você dedilhando o peitoral enquanto ele baforava a fumaça do charuto para cima, amaciando suas costas macias com a mão livre. “você acredita que deus tem um propósito pra nós?”, perguntou curiosa subindo os olhos até o rosto inexpressivo, “não acredito nessas coisas, bella...”, “mas você tem uma biblía no carro”, “era da minha mãe”, “mas você ach-“, “por que você não dorme um pouco? amanhã a gente sai cedo”, e assim te calava como em outras incontáveis vezes

thief!simón que apesar de não demonstrar ficava cada vez mais apegado à sua figura, se sentia doente e nauseado por não conseguir evitar aqueles sentimentos quando você o acordava vestindo as camisas dele, ou então quando te via enrolando os cabelos para um penteado novo – toda delicada de frente ao espelho –, quando o abraçava por trás enquanto ele fazia as contas do quanto precisariam roubar para continuar com o mesmo estilo de vida. sentimentos tão inoportunos que ele se alcoolizava quando se tornava demais para suportar

thief!simón que era diferente quando bebia daquele jeito, como se estivesse fora de si. não te chamava de “belladona”, reprimia suas tentativas de se aproximar, de tocá-lo, te dizia “eres una chica estúpida e ingrata! – as palavras sendo cuspidas - nada te alcanza, ya sea dinero, joyas o todo lo que tengo!”, “simón... eu não entendo, mas por favor não fica as-“, “cállate!”, erguendo a mão na sua direção, mas retesando quando você se encolhia. quando se acalmava a única coisa que dizia era “vou dormir fora hoje”

thief!simón que agia como se nada tivesse acontecido depois, que te deixava sem saber das negociações, que te tratava como burra e nova demais para se envolver nos assuntos que realmente importavam no final das contas, mas justificava dizendo que não queria te dar rugas, e que você podia ficar só com a parte divertida que era gastar e ser uma boa mulher pra ele, “a mais linda”, soprando e segurando seu queixo antes de te beijar

thief!simón que quando se mudaram de novo arranjou uma cartada grande, um político muito influente que era conhecido pelo gosto nefasto por mulheres novas; por corrompê-las. e assim o garoto tinha outro plano em mãos, te introduzindo num bazár beneficente como a irmã mais nova, filha do segundo casamento da mãe, tão pura, te fazendo usar lentes coloridas e uma maquiagem fina e leve que naturalmente fazia com que todos quisessem saber mais sobre você

thief!simón que no entanto, viu tudo ir por água abaixo; a sucessão de acontecimentos sendo muito rápida pra ele sequer digerir. o senador se encantava por você, perguntava tudo, nome, idade, se estava na escola e o que gostava mais de aprender lá, e era respondido, com mentiras, mas não poderia parecer mais satisfeito. assim que conseguiam atraí-lo para o estacionamento, o homem, não tão velho assim, sacava um calibre, colocando o bucal prensado contra a sua lombar, te arrastando para um carro que não conheciam

thief!simón que entrou em estado de frenezi, saindo de sua posição e não dando dois minutos que estavam dentro do veículo, abrindo a porta com violência e puxando o outro pelo colarinho, não dando tempo para que este reagisse, socando o rosto com uma fúria reprimida desde muito, o cigarro preso no canto dos lábios que se apertavam e a pele cobrindo os ossos da mão rasgando com os impactos. um zumbido ensurdecedor o parava quando o disparo acontecia

thief!simón que assistiu com os olhos esbugalhados a camisa do homem ir se encharcando de sangue pouco a pouco, enquanto você trêmula segurava o revólver, o rímel escorrendo pelas bochechas por causa do choro e a expressão de espanto que terminava de deixá-lo sem chão, fazendo-o largar o cadáver e ir até si te tirando o objeto das mãos e a abraçando. os sussurros falhos de desculpa, de pronto já acabou, eu to aqui, enquanto pegava quaisquer vestígios na cena do crime e te levava para o carro, saindo em disparada

thief!simón que evitava olhar para o seu semblante catatônico pelo resto da noite, porque precisava ficar focado em arrumar as malas no hotel e colocar tudo no porta-malas de forma amontoada, porca, pisando no acelerador tão fundo que os pneus cantavam quando estavam na estrada; mas era isso, vocês nunca podiam ficar muito tempo mesmo

thief!simón que dirigiu por seiscentos quilômetros, ignorando o sono, e só parando quando seu choro vinha à tona. um choro tão copioso e doloroso de presenciar, porque antes de ninguém, ele sabia quem era a maior vítima naquela história. parava no acostamento e passava para o seu lado do banco te colocando no colo e te ninando como se faz a um bebê, “sshh, mi belladona, vai ficar tudo bem...”, os beijos espalhados no seu cerne e um em especial na testa, em que ele se demorou porque precisou segurar o choro também

thief!simón que desligou o rádio quando a transmissão começava a falar sobre um casal de jovens golpistas foragidos dando a descrição de cada um, e que não conseguiu dormir pelos próximos três dias assombrado com o fato de que ele tinha estragado mais uma vida, tirado as chances de você se tornar algo melhor e maior... com propósito, talvez

thief!simón que não conseguiu te acalmar quando você viu as notícias pela tv de tubo no motel onde estavam se escondendo – seus rostos estampados nos principais jornais que relatavam o assinato do senador –, apenas acendendo mais um cigarro e ouvindo suas súplicas implorando para ele dizer o que fariam, como escapariam; mas pela primeira vez em muito tempo, simón hempe não tinha um plano, nem truques; tinha gasto todo o tempo pensando em você e em sobre como ele conversaria contigo e diria para mudarem de vida, que poderiam recomeçar em outro país e ter algo normal, com uma casa fixa, empregos, e até filhos.

thief!simón que ouviu as sirenes bem antes de você, e numa última tentativa de salvar ambos te acordava apressado, sem explicações, segurando sua mão e te puxando para o carro – lembrava de pegar uma única mala que não estava desfeita e a bolsa com o dinheiro, sem se importar com mais nada.

thief!simón que ignorou os megafones que davam voz de prisão e o cerco que se formava na rodovia, ainda tentando contornar as viaturas e os homens fardados que empunhavam suas armas

thief!simón que não deixou de segurar sua mão mesmo naquele momento, segredando baixo que vocês tentariam correr quando ele abrisse a porta

thief!simón que tomou a frente quando os oficiais atiraram, o corpo perdendo as forças quando três dos vários disparos o acertavam

thief!simón que sentia mais pelo seu espanto e desespero do que pela dor física que era aliviada pela quantidade de adrenalina correndo nas veias, sussurrando um “belladona...” para que você prestasse atenção – o mundo parando para que vocês tivessem o seu último momento juntos – “você vai dizer que eu te manipulei, sim? vai fazer isso por mim, mi amor...”, “n-não”, vendo-te balançar a cabeça em negação e soluçar com a vista embaçada das lágrimas que caíam em abundância ao passo que suas mãos tentavam inutilmente tampar um dos buracos por onde o líquido vital jorrava. “prométeme que serás mi belladona por mucho más tiempo”, a mão alcançava o pingente que nunca saía do seu pescoço e ele sorria te fitando enquanto os últimos segundos de vida dele se esvaíam

thief!simón que naquela manhã te deixou. você sem saber quantos anos ele tinha de verdade, sem saber de onde ele vinha, sem saber sua história e sem nunca ter ouvido que ele a amava – apesar de sentí-lo com imensidão.

thief!simón que nunca saberia que depois de acatar o último pedido dele você tinha passado pelo júri do caso e sido inocentada

thief!simón que nunca te veria tendo a vida normal que ele sonhara outrora, com um marido que te respeitava e te cuidava e com dois garotinhos lindos que te chamavam de mamãe

thief!simón que apesar de não ter tido isso tudo, ainda tinha vivido sua melhor fase ao seu lado, ao lado de sua belladona.

[bonebrokebuddy]

I’ve been seeing a few folks complain about people writing hcs of DC characters with ooc song preferences, which it’s not that serious. But it gives me an excuse to show off my DC character playlists.

I initially created them as I saw a lot of playlists for Bruce & Jason with just a lot of dad rock.

Which, fair. Not everyone’s into metal.

But since I know it’s not an easy genre to get into, if you want inspiration, feel free to check out these playlists!

My one main rule for making playlists is that a majority, if not all, of the songs need to be in a genre I think the character would listen to based on their canon music taste. This is regardless whether or not it’s a genre I like. I try my best to find fun songs regardless of my personal preference.

The Playlists:

Batman: various genres of metal. I tried to go for more Doom Metal(slow & repetitive vs thrash’s blast beats and fast guitar) but there’s more than one genre of metal that’s characterized by slower instrumentals & I can’t keep up with all the names so it varies. Dad metal. Made sure that there was a sprinkle of Black Metal too (mainly bc I think it’s funny. If you’ve never listened to black metal, it sounds like you chucked the vocalist in a grinder at high speeds then proceeded to mix your instruments & your vocals the worst you could possibly make it. It’s nearly incomprehensible and it’s Perfect for Bruce.)

Bruce Wayne: a touch of old school doom metal, a sprinkle of black metal as you can write a Batman story without Bruce Wayne but not a Bruce Wayne story without Batman. A more chill version of the Batman playlist that I think Bruce would jam out to as not everyone’s into metal and I wanted to give people another option that didn’t have as heavy stuff in it.

Tim Drake: Mostly time accurate with 90s-2010’s punk rock & alt rock influences all the way through with a touch of metal to show his connection to Bruce & a few other off genre songs that represent his YJ98 pals. I tried my best to include as many bands as I could find that he canonically enjoyed as well.

Jason Todd: Jason was introduced in the 80s & is a canonical metalhead, so I think he’d listen to a combination of 80s dad metal, death metal (come on, it’s just too perfect of a genre name to pass up), thrash, & a little black metal (the genre I assigned to Batman).

Clark Kent: Dad metal. He canonically listens to Metallica post-crisis so I just gave him my dad’s taste in music lmao. Made sure to add a few satire ones because Clark is an little shit and would very much enjoy satire songs. Unfortunately, I genuinely could not get my Spotify recs to give me decent country music. I tried. It only gave me modern mainstream artists and after a month of trying to find good pre 2000’s country, I just gave up. So it’s mainly metal:(

If any of y’all want to send me 80s-2000’s country recs, that would be very kind of y’all. (the type of country music ma & pa kent would listen to that Clark would have grown up with)

Kon-El: is full of songs that are, well, time accurate to his original run. Ranging from 1969-2002 [the year his solo run was canceled], this playlist not only has songs he could have theoretically picked up in a record shop or blasted on a boom box during the day but is also full of bands he canonically listens to! This playlist is chalk full of Kon’s canonical alt rock & metal music taste as well as rock and proto-metal hits of the time!

Bart Allen: to be clear, Bart wouldn’t listen to any of these as music is just too slow for him. These are songs that relate to Bart or songs that represent his connections to his friends with no specific genre as I didn’t just want to have playlists full of nothing but metal. (Although I think he’d really like metal concerts as he’d probably enjoy the feeling of the heavy base resonate in his chest.)

[freelancearsonist]

➔ Dieter Bravo x afab!Reader

➔ 10.8k total words (the first person to get all six endings gets a special prize 😌)

➔ It starts with your alarm not going off. It ends with... well, that's up to you and the decisions you make along the way.

➔ Rated MA // dark fic sort of, unprotected piv sex, fingering (reader receiving), oral (reader receiving), pet names, blood and self-inflicted wounds, major character death, one reference to smoking/cigarette use, religious themes kind of (demon possession mostly, it’s a supernatural!au y’all) // reader is afab (female anatomy, no pronouns used), is generally able-bodied, has hair (unspecified length), is mentioned to have curves, has a slight backstory (graduated from the FBI academy), can drive.

➔ START YOUR ADVENTURE

➔ this is my submission for @dieterbravobrainrotclub's may drabble challenge! this definitely isn't a drabble don't look at me jfksflsj

➔ the biggest thank you in the world to @schnarfer and @futuraa-free for beta reading this monster, i love you both so much <3

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

➔ Want to support me? Please reblog this fic! It helps boost it in the algorithm and gives it more circulation no matter what your follower count is :) any feedback or comment is always greatly appreciated!!

[privately-andre]

╰┈➤ TEEN GAYS

- Boys (Jongens)

Two teen runner athletes discover their sexualities while forming a beautiful friendship. IMDb: 7.4 My rating: 7/10

- North Sea Texas

Young Pim experiences his firsts with his best friend / next door Gino. IMDb: 7.1 My own Rating: 9/10

Ps: The end scene is incredible ;)

- The Way He Looks

Leonardo is a blind teen. Everything changes when a new boy arrives at school. They form an amazing bond really fast. IMDb: 7.9 My own Rating: 7/10

Ps: the sweatshirt scene !

- Centre Of My World

Phil is a classic twink. He falls in love with the newbie cool boy. IMDb: 7.2 My own Rating: 5/10

Ps: fuck this newbie to be honest.

- Seashore (Beira-Mar)

Two teens travel to countryside just two of them and question their friendship (or their love?) IMDb: 6 My own Rating: 7/10

- Just Friends

Two young men from different cultural backgrounds try to be together without their mothers approval. IMDb : 7.2 My own Rating: 6/10

- Love, Simon

Simon has a secret. He is gay! And he is also in love with an anonymous guy he met online. IMDb: 7.5 My own Rating: 6/10

- Handsome Devil

Ned is gay and he has to share a bedroom with hot rugby player Conor. (They do not become lovers) IMDb: 7 My own Rating: 7/10

- Summer Storm

Tobi realises he is in love with his best friend. This tests their relationship. IMDb: 7.3 My own Rating: 5/10

- Heartstone

A boy falls in love with his best mate in a very homophobic town in Iceland while his best mate falls in love with a girl. IMDb: 7.4 My own Rating: 6/10

Ps: not enough gayness…

- Sublime

Manuel and his friends have an indie band. Then he starts to fall for his band mate Felipe. They are also best friends… IMDb: 6.6 My own Rating: 7/10

Ps: the song used in this movie is so cool also the movie has an open ending.

- Summer of 85 (Été 85)

Alexis’ boats turns upside down when a storm breaks. He is saved by David. Then they start dating. IMDb: 6.9 My own Rating: 6/10

Ps: this movie was hilariously funny to me as a francophone even though it has major character death!

- I Killed My Mother (J’ai tué ma mère)

Hubert is a teen gay and has MASSIVE problems with his mom.. IMDb: 7.4 My own Rating: 7/10

- Prora

Two young boys decide to visit an abandoned Nazi holiday camp called Prora after a great party night. They test their relationship there. IMDb: 7.2 My own Rating: 9/10

Ps: the only bad thing about this movie is that it’s a short film.

- Departure

Elliot and his horny milf mother goes to their holiday house in france after his parent’s divorce. He meets a young french boy there and fucks a carrot. (I know I don’t sound serious :D) IMDb: 6.6 My own Rating: 2/10

Ps: I have no idea why they filmed this it’s so shit. Alex Lawther’s acting is horrible although I love Phénix Brossard here.

- Punch

Jim is a boxer forced by his father. He meets Whetu a gay Māori boy. He discovers his sexuality in the most beautiful way. IMDb: 6.4 My own Rating: 8/10

Ps: Trigger warning ❗️ Rape. (I wish I knew this before watching so I’m warning you)

- As You Are

Set in 1990’s. Young boy Jack falls in love with his new step brother Mark who is a crack head . They become friends with Sarah. These three kids go through rough times. IMDb: 6.5 My own Rating: 5/10

Ps: Acting is good but the plot is not well build.

[byeaaram]

Take My Hand (Take My Whole Life Too)

Summary: In which death welcomes you in the cruelest way possible, and your girlfriend suffers the same fate. You don't know which hurt more.

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Reader

Warnings: Major Character Death, Light Depictions of Violence, Reincarnation, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, OOC Wednesday Addams(?)

Notes: I don't usually write, but I couldn't get this out of my head. Maybe I'll start to use this space whenever I have an idea. I'm a sucker for reincarnation. Term dictionary at the end.

***

Your vision was tunneling in on you. 

It was a grueling battle. You had fought relentlessly for the place you had called home for years, as it crumbled and shook, threatening to destroy the very core of the Earth with its last gasp.

Droplets of blood cascaded down your face, while your fingers twitched in defiance of your failing body. Amidst the chaos, a voice called out to you, though it sounded distant and muffled. Your senses were drowning, as if struggling to grasp onto the fading presence of your girlfriend, whose lingering sensation barely registered.

Oh. Oh.

Wednesday. Weakly, you called out to her, your voice barely a whisper, as you stretched your trembling hand in a desperate attempt to grasp her attention. To your relief, your plea bore fruit, as she held onto you tightly, her grip firm, and with nimble strength, she pulled you into the shelter of her chest.

“Perdóname, cara mia, for I did not protect you with all my might. I failed you, and now I‘ll have to lose you to whom they call death.” 

Despite her habitual speech that rang through your surroundings, you sensed a break in her tone, one that felt unfamiliar too, as Wednesday Addams never cries. “W-Wednesday…?” 

With a trembling hand, you reached out once more for her hand, desperate for any connection in this moment of turmoil. As your fingers intertwined, you flinched at the unexpected warmth that greeted you, a stark contrast to the usual cold touch of your beloved's hands. Pulling your hand back, you mustered a gasp, realizing that your vision was now clouded by a crimson hue. 

Through the haze, you finally gazed upon your girlfriend, searching for an explanation in her eyes. “W-Wednesday, you’re b-bleeding!”

It was then, you noticed Wednesday’s fallen figure. She too was slumped to the ground, her body twisted at an awkward angle. The room's dim light cast eerie shadows across her fragile form, adding an unsettling aura to the sight. Your heart skipped a beat as you reached to cup her cheek, a mix of concern and dread coursing through your veins.

Despite her failing systems, Wednesday managed to muster a faint smirk, her hands coated in blood finding their way back to yours. With a gentle touch, her thumb circled your hand. Even in the face of adversity, she remained steadfast, providing solace in her touch, despite the grim reality of her condition.  “I’m so sorry, mi sol, but I am horrified to tell you that the both of us are knocking at the reaper's door.” 

Summoning all her strength, she pulled you closer, her lips tenderly brushing against every edge of your face. The sweetness of her touch and the soothing scent of her presence enveloped you, momentarily calming the storm within your mind. With heartfelt reassurance, she consoled your fears, but the bitter irony of the situation overwhelmed you, causing a pathetic sob to escape your lips.

Fading fast, the two of you clung to each other desperately, as if refusing to allow even the tiniest sliver of space between your bodies. The thought of witnessing the look of defeat and anguish on her face was unbearable, as you dreaded the worst outcome. 

Fear gripped your heart, the dread of being torn apart from the girl you cherished above all else. It felt as if the universe was cruelly signaling its intention, delivering a heart-wrenching message that threatened to separate you forever.

The thought shook your entire world. 

A voice pulled you out of your distressed wake.

“Ma non temere, la mia rosa appassita; perché cercherò e distruggerò ogni fessura della Terra finché non ti troverò. Questo universo crudele non ha nulla a che vedere con il mio amore per te, questo è certo. La morte può attenderci, ma non mi separerà mai da te. Ti amo. Tu sei il mio tutto. Il mio sole. La mia luce. La mia rosa. Non abbiate paura.” 

Albeit not understanding a thing she said, you let out a watery laugh, pulling yourself closer and nuzzling your head at the crook of her neck. “…I l-love you too, Wednesday.” 

Time felt slower this way. You wondered, if this was not the end, would this have been your future? Would you have been here, in Wednesday’s arms under the circumstances? Is this how your mornings would start? She would cite a proclamation of her love, adorning the sweet, sweet smile you would mirror, and you would sigh in contentment at the start of your morning. 

You let out a shaky breath, molding yourself closer to your Wednesday’s body. Your eyes began to flit to a close, and before you let sleep consume you, you reminded yourself to wish your girlfriend goodnight. 

“…Wednesday… ‘m tired now. Gonna go sleep…”

You feel her chest shake. She lets out a sigh, “…I will see you soon, l'amore della mia vita.”

In the morning, you'd find the sight of a petite figure racing towards you. Whispers and cries of joy, calling your name, would escape from the most exquisite lips you've ever seen. As your eyes lock, a powerful gaze grounds you to the Earth, and delicate hands reach for yours, gently pulling you into a warm embrace.

“I found you.”

An underlying sense of familiarity greets you in a new life. 

***

Dictionary: Unfortunately, I do not know any other language other than English, so I used Google Translate for these terms.

"Perdóname, cara mia" (Spanish) - "Forgive me, my love"

"Mi sol" (Spanish) - "My sun"

"Ma non temere, la mia rosa appassita; perché cercherò e distruggerò ogni fessura della Terra finché non ti troverò. Questo universo crudele non ha nulla a che vedere con il mio amore per te, questo è certo. La morte può attenderci, ma non mi separerà mai da te. Ti amo. Tu sei il mio tutto. Il mio sole. La mia luce. La mia rosa. Non abbiate paura." (Italian) - "But fear not, my withered rose; for I will seek and destroy every crevice of the Earth until I find you. This cruel universe has nothing to do with my love for you, that's for sure. Death may await us, but it will never separate me from you. I love you. You are my everything. My sun. My light. My rose. Don't be afraid."

"l'amore della mia vita." (Italian) - "Love of my life."

[fallen-gravity]

One Call Away

It's 1982. Somewhere in New Mexico, Stan recieves a phone call from not-quite his brother. Someone is threatening to take his life. Whether Ford himself is desperately reaching out for help, or someone else entirely has him at gunpoint, Stan knows one thing for sure: He needs to find him and fast.

Alternatively: An AU where the payphone Bill used to call Stan while posessing Ford worked, and Stan is actually forced to listen to his "brother" threaten to kill himself.

Notes:

Caution: This fic has MAJOR spoilers for The Book of Bill. Proceed with caution.

Author's Note 2 Electric Boogaloo: God, this book has had a huge grip on my psyche all week. I'm losing my mind. I'm going absolutely feral. I lost my shit at the section of the Missing Journal 3 Pages where Ford revealed that Bill tried to make a phone call in his name to Stan threatening to kill himself. I audibly gasped. I read it three times. God. I'm insane.

No character death tag because nobody dies! This fic ends on a positive note, I promise :')

AO3 Link

Or under the cut:

When you’ve been scamming suckers out of their money as long as Stan has, you come to learn to expect that anything can happen. You learn to tend to your own injuries, you learn the best escape routes, you learn as many languages as you can in case you need to flee the country, you learn to disappear without a trace; when you expect everything, you learn to let nothing surprise you.

When you have a public phone line that anyone can call, you learn to expect that only about half of those calls are gonna be potential new customers eager to try out your products. When you’ve been relying on these new customers to provide the money for your next meal, you tend to pay attention to patterns; you notice when your commercials air, how many customers are likely to call in, and how long it takes for customers to realize they’ve been scammed and call back demanding their money back. To most, it looks like the world’s most elaborately thought out scam they’ve ever seen. To you, it’s survival.

Expect everything so you can be prepared for anything. That’s how Stan sees it, anyway. As long as he’s prepared, nothing can catch him off guard. If he knows what’s coming, he’ll never have to wake up in the trunk of a car with his hands tied behind his back ever again.

Unfortunately for Stan, though, that means being hyper-alert at all times, even in his sleep, so even the most mundane of noises can wake him up. If the couple in the hotel room next to him drops a bottle of shampoo in the shower, he’s gonna hear it and wake up. 

If the phone starts ringing at god-knows-when in the morning, he’s going to shoot up awake, even if it just turns out to be some dumb telemarketer trying to reach him about his car’s extended warranty.

The alarm clock on the hotel nightstand tells him it’s nearing four-thirty in the morning when the complimentary phone in his hotel room starts ringing. 

That’s…strange. There’s no way that could be a customer, because Stan never bothered to buy commercial spots for late night and prime time television. For one, prime time is incredibly expensive and has too many competitors who are selling actual products, and secondly, Stan’s found that he has the most success when he advertises on the daytime soap opera channels, because that’s when all the bored housewives and old folks’ homes are likely watching TV. 

Could it be someone he’s pissed off? No, that doesn’t make any sense either, because they don’t usually have the courtesy to call before they show up with a shotgun or twelve. It can’t be Ma, since she usually calls when Pa goes away on his weekend trips to Atlantic City. 

Nothing’s adding up. Every fiber in his being is telling him not to answer.

And yet… 

He fears more for what will happen to him if he doesn’t answer. 

He pats his hair down, takes a deep breath, and picks up the receiver. 

“You’ve reached Stan-Co! Totally authentic and worthwhile products. If you need it, I have it. Stan’s your man. How can I legitimately help you today?”

“Stanley!” replies an all-too familiar voice, one he hasn’t heard in nearly ten years. “Just the man I wanted to see!” he says, despite not being able to see him and having been the one who called first. 

“Wh- Stanford?!? The hell are you doin’ calling my infomercial line?” Stan splutters, too shocked to even bother trying to keep his voice down. 

“Awww, that’s not a very nice hello for your favorite brother, is it?” Ford’s voice replies, sounding like he’s suppressing hysterical laughter. 

Something’s wrong.

 Stan may not have spoken to his brother in years, but he can instantly tell that something’s wrong.

“Stanford, what the hell is going on?”

There’s a short pause, and then Ford blows a raspberry into the receiver. “You’re no fun! I thought for sure you’d cry like a baby when I called!” 

Yeah, okay, something is definitely wrong. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on, Ford? Why the hell are you calling me so late? Why me? I thought you hated my guts!”

“Oh, I do!” Ford replies without a drop of hesitation, giggling like a madman. “But I don’t have much time, and there’s something really important I need to say, and you’re the only person I want hearing what I’m about to say.” There’s something…off about the way he sounds, not quite the slur of someone who’s drunk and far too energetic to be that of someone lacking sleep. But there’s something almost garbled about it, like he’s not all that aware of what he’s saying, and if Stan listens close enough he’s sure that he can hear an echo.

But Stan can recognize the cheap, static-y sound of someone calling from a payphone anywhere. Wherever Ford is, he’s calling from outside, and the last time Stan checked the only places outside that echoed were either very high up, very dangerous, or both of them put together. Stan does his best to repress the lump forming in his throat trying to imagine what kind of danger he possibly could’ve gotten himself into, especially if he felt the need to call him, rather than the cops, but he still can’t quite shake the tremble in his voice when he replies.

“Not much time? C’mon, Ford, don’t say that! I can help you! Screw this cold shoulder bullshit! I can help you! Just tell me what’s going on so we can figure this out together!”

An eerily long pause, and the next time Ford speaks it’s as if he brought the phone as close to his mouth as he possibly could. 

“You’re too late,” he replies, colder and more dismissive as Stan’s ever heard in his entire life. “I’m going to take a swim in the frozen lake tomorrow, and I might not ever come back, so if you don’t hear from me, I just want you to know that it’s because I never loved you. Buh-Byeeeeee!” 

“WAIT!” Stan screeches, and thankfully it’s enough to stop Ford from hanging up. “Ford, c’mon, there’s gotta be something I can do! You’re acting crazy! I’m not asking anymore, I’m begging! Where the hell are you?”

Another pause. 

Then, a voice that doesn’t sound anything like Ford’s.

“Oh, goody! An audience! You want to watch him die so badly, that’s fine by me! I’ll even hold off just for you!” An ear-shatteringly high pitched cackle. “Gravity Falls, Oregon. If you want him, come and get him.”

“Him?! Who the hell is-” Stan snaps, but before he can ask any more questions, Ford hangs up, and all Stan is left with is the droning buzz of the dial tone.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. Either Ford’s lost his mind and really is planning to off himself, or someone else is threatening to do it for him. Shit. Shit. Stan has to go now. Everything else be damned, if he doesn’t leave before this other maniac gets bored of waiting then Ford’s not gonna be there at all when he finally makes it to Oregon. That’s nearly halfway across the country from his hotel in New Mexico as is, so he already doesn’t have any time to spare.

He leaps out of bed, reaching underneath until he finds his duffle bag, and practically tears the place apart trying to get all of his belongings together. There’s something in his gut telling him he’s not coming back any time soon, and even if Ford had miraculously said he was only one state over, Stan isn’t willing to risk leaving behind anything important, weaponry included. How’s Stan supposed to know what kind of bullshit Ford got himself into? How could he live with himself if he assumed all was well and left his brass knuckles behind, only to find his brother half-dead in an alleyway somewhere? 

He’s not risking it. Even if everything is fine, and Ford had only sounded like that because he was drunk off his ass and had no idea what he was actually saying, Stan’s not risking it.

Even if Ford doesn’t want him in his life, Stan’s not willing to risk losing him. Not again. Not permanently. 

Once he has all his stuff together, Stan scribbles down a half-assed apology for housekeeping and tapes it to the door alongside a twenty dollar bill. He hastily tosses all of his stuff in the back of the car, and speeds off out of the hotel parking lot as if it were his own life on the line. He doesn’t want to think about the worst case scenarios, so for now he focuses only on the road signs for directions to the closest pit stop and hopefully enough energy drinks to last him the twenty-something hour drive he’s about to make. 

Thankfully, the closest one is less than an hour away and open 24/7 to boot, so Stan is sure that his luck is turning around; all he has to do is pop in, grab a few things, and be on his way. He’ll be in Oregon before he knows it.

That is, of course, until he realizes that none of the maps at the place even have a so-called Gravity Falls listed on any of them.

“Uh, hey,” Stan calls out to the worker behind the cash register, who looks like he’s falling asleep where he stands. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Gravity Falls is, do you? Gravity Falls, Oregon?” 

At first Stan’s not entirely sure if the poor guy even heard him, but then the worker eyes him up and down and sighs heavily. “You makin’ fun of me or something?”

Stan blinks. “What? No, A’course not!” he sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Look, I don’t exactly have a lot of time here! I don’t know why I can’t find it on any of your brochure maps, but I’ve got a gut feeling that someone I love is in a lot of danger and I need to get there as fast as I possibly can. Do you know where it is or not?”

For a brief moment the man still doesn’t answer, eyeing him up and down again, before he sighs and leans forward, like the information he’s about to give him is top-secret government information. “Alright,” he whispers, and glances around the store to make sure the two of them are alone. “I’ve heard things. Rumors. Crazy stories about ghouls and goblins and people who come and go without a trace of memory of who they were before they entered that town. I’ve got a general idea of where it is, but I’m not confident. If you’re willing to listen, I’ve got theories.”

Under any other circumstances, Stan would wave him off as insane and book it out of there as fast as he could, but he’s desperate for any information he can get, and he’s not entirely sure when the next time he’ll find anyone even remotely familiar with the town will even be. So Stan agrees, and does his best not to show how insane he thinks this worker is as he starts going off about the supernatural and monsters that sound like they belong in a Saturday morning cartoon. 

If Ford really is anywhere near any kind of place that fits this man’s stories, it’s no wonder he sounded like he was starting to lose his mind. 

After listening to the man ramble on for god knows how long and watching him draw circles in the map where he thinks the town could be, Stan thanks him by actually paying for what he came in for before jumping back into his car and speeding down the highway as fast as he possibly can. 

It’s an agonizing two day drive, only stopped by the times Stan fell asleep at the wheel and forced himself to pull over and take a nap, and the time he was so desperate for food that he pulled off at some truck stop (with admittedly the grossest food he’s eaten since becoming homeless) for a hot meal. If it were up to him, he would’ve done the whole drive in one go, but it was when he nearly careened his car off a cliff trying to stay awake that he realized that he wouldn’t be any good to his brother dead, so he resolved to also take short driving breaks here and there to make sure he kept his energy up; if he really does need to fight someone when he gets there, he’s gonna need all the strength he can get. 

Thankfully, upon arrival at Gravity Falls, Ford’s place of residence is much easier to find than Stan had feared; for a guy who’d been longing for a place he belonged since early childhood, Ford sure likes to stick out like a sore thumb wherever he goes. As soon as Stan goes around town asking townsfolk if anyone had seen anyone who looked like him “except a lot smarter, I guess,” nearly every single person he asks points off in the same direction of the woods and gives him the same confused sort of I think he lives somewhere in there. If he hadn’t gotten it from at least five separate people, Stan would’ve been sure that they were all screwing with him. 

And, as it turns out…every single one of them is right. It doesn’t take that much venturing in the woods for Stan to come across the giant cabin aglow in eerie blue lighting and surrounded by tall fences of barbed wire with pieces of cardboard stapled to it and “KEEP OUT” written on them in shaky handwriting. If Ford is anywhere, it’s here. 

Now…breaking into somewhere he’s not allowed? Stan can do that in his sleep. He’s done it hundreds of times, and he’ll probably do it another hundreds of thousands of times again before he dies.

But… 

Seeing his brother again? 

That terrifies him to his very core. Reason for driving all the way out here aside, there’s still a very real chance Ford’s gonna tell him he still never wants to see him again and slam the door in his face, and then Stan’s really gonna have nowhere to go. After everything, if Stan rescues Ford from whatever’s after him and he still tells him to leave and never come back?

What then?

…No. That’s not what matters right now. He can worry about that later.

With a shake of his head to brush off his thoughts, Stan rams his car into the fence hard and fast enough to topple it to the ground. He drives down the path until he’s close enough to the front entrance that he can hop out of his car as quickly as he can, but hidden enough that he won’t be seen if someone (or something) tries to escape.

Stan takes a deep breath as he exits his car and makes his way to the front door, and finds himself hesitating to knock the door as soon as he’s on the porch steps.

It’s for his own good, Stan tells himself. It’s for his own good. I’m just trying to help. It’s for his own good. 

He stamps down on any last remnants of hesitation and knocks on the door, loud enough for Ford to hear but gently enough to hopefully assure him that it isn’t anyone who wants to hurt him. Almost instantaneously, Stan can hear the sound of objects falling and glass shattering from inside, like a spooked deer trying to dodge the headlights of an oncoming truck. Stan’s sure he can hear the sound of someone muttering, and he’s relieved beyond comparison that it’s the only voice he can hear coming from inside.  

Because he can tell that it’s Ford’s voice. 

Which means he’s still alive.

Stan huffs out a huge sigh of relief, and subconsciously begins patting down the wrinkles in his clothes to make himself more presentable. He waits, and he waits, but despite Stan knowing he heard Ford stumbling around inside, he never comes to answer the door. 

Stan frowns. This is going to be even harder than he thought. Stan tries again, this time knocking exactly six times in the hopes that it’ll clue Ford in on the fact that it’s just him at the door.

As it turns out, though, that seems to be an even bigger mistake than knocking normally, because now the noises coming from inside sound even more frightened. From inside, Stan can hear a muffled string of curse words, followed by the sound of some piece of furniture being knocked over, and finally, the sound of feet trying and failing to sneakily run across a squeaky hardwood floor.  Stan’s about to give up, head into town, and try reaching Ford from a payphone instead, but the door slowly starts to creak open before Stan has the chance to step down from the porch and get back in his car. 

“Stay back!” Ford shrieks, his voice trembling. Stan still can’t quite see him, because he’s too distracted by the crossbow being shoved in his face. “I don’t care who you’re pretending to be, I will shoot if you try anything!”

Ford finally steps out into view, and Stan’s heart falls to his stomach. Sweet Moses, he looks so much worse than Stan ever could’ve imagined. His hair is a wreck, sticking up in some places and sticking to the side of his face in others. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, which Stan can only hope is from crying and not something…worse. There’s a dried streak of blood running down from his right eye, and there’s scratches and cuts splattered around his face. He’s wearing a ratty trench coat, and the white shirt underneath is practically falling off of his body, concerningly torn to bits at the chest area. And from what’s left of the poor shirt, there’s splotches of vomit mixed with some other…unrecognizable liquids.

Stan can feel a foul-tasting bile rising in his throat at the sight of him. Surely anyone else would flee, thinking him to be clinically insane, but Stan refuses to sit around and ignore whatever caused his brother to turn out like…this. 

“Stanford?” Stan splutters, failing to keep the shock out of his voice. “What the ever-loving  fuck is going on?” 

Somehow, that of all things is what seems to snap Ford out of his trance. He’s still clinging to his crossbow, but his fingers aren’t on the trigger anymore and his eyes are already looking less foggy than when he’d opened the door a minute prior. He blinks and rubs at his eyes, and takes a cautious, shaky step forward, like he’s afraid the ground will shatter like glass under his feet if he moves too quickly. 

“S-Stanley?” Ford whispers, more to himself than to Stan, but Stan can’t help the sigh of relief that escapes him. 

He’s not too far gone. There’s still hope. Stan goes to take another step forward, but before he has the chance, all the color drains from Ford’s face.

“Oh no,” Ford whispers, and the crossbow slips from his hand. “Oh no no no no no no no,” he mumbles, retreating back inside without closing the door. He comes back out moments later, gripping a flashlight in one hand and a VHS tape in the other. 

Out of nowhere, Ford grabs Stan by the shoulders, prompting a surprised yelp out of him, and even more out of nowhere, Ford takes the flashlight and flashes it in his eyes. 

“Ow! What gives!?” Stan exclaims, pulling himself out of Ford’s grip and rubbing at his eyes with his wrist. When his vision finally readjusts from the assault, he’s surprised to see that Ford’s whole posture has relaxed significantly. Sure, he still looks frightened out of his mind, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to shatter to pieces anymore. 

“How long have you been here?” Ford asks, completely ignoring Stan’s previous questions. 

“Uhh…” Stan pauses, admittedly taken aback by the question. “About an hour, I think?” he shrugs. “Had some trouble finding you, since some of the folks I asked around town didn’t seem to know who I was talking about when I asked about you.”

Ford’s eyes widen in horror. “You asked around town about me?” He splutters, but then clears his throat to regain his composure. “Did anyone try to get anything out of you? Were you followed?” 

Stan snorts. “Puh-lease. The most dangerous person around here is probably me, and I haven’t eaten a healthy meal in weeks.” He shakes his head. “Nobody said anything. And if I was followed, I’d know. It’s something you learn to look out for when you’ve been living on the streets for ten years.” There’s a shred more resentment in his tone than he meant for it to be, but it seems to get the message across well enough. Ford sighs, and gestures inside. 

“Come in,” Ford mumbles, his gaze falling to the ground. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time.” Without waiting for Stan, Ford turns heel and hastily returns inside. Stan does his best to follow close behind, but stops dead in his tracks as soon as he steps foot inside. 

The whole place is trashed. 

Trashed far beyond what Stan thought a single human could ever be capable of. There’s papers scattered everywhere, bottles of ink spilled and pooling everywhere, cupboards with holes smashed into the doors, broken plates and twisted rusty nails scattered all over the floor, a concerningly bloodied hammer on the kitchen countertop, multiple windows boarded up with splintered wood, and empty boxes of instant coffee mix strewn all around the kitchen.

Most concerningly of all, there’s a door that leads somewhere that’s covered with scratches and dripping with blood, and Stan’s not entirely sure whether that means something wanted in or if something was desperate to get out. 

Stan’s not entirely sure which thought he prefers. 

He doesn’t have too much time to stew on that, though, because he’s pulled from his thoughts by the loud thwack of plastic being smacked against the wall. He turns to the source of the noise, and he’s surprised to find Ford desperately trying to break the VHS tape in half. When that doesn’t work, he groans in frustration and resolves to throwing it on the ground. 

“Uh…Stanford?” Stan tries, and reaches out to place a gentle hand on his shoulder, but Ford moves swiftly in another direction before he can reach him.

“I can’t do it,” Ford’s voice wavers with emotion. His head droops in defeat, and though his back is turned, Stan can see him cover his face with his hands. “I can’t do it. I’m too late. I can’t do it.”  He starts to shake even harder, like his body wants him to cry but he’s forcing it not to happen because he needs to stay strong.

For who? Himself? For Stan? For someone else?

“Hey, hey…” Stan drops his voice to a whisper, hoping a calmer tone of voice will be more likely to get a proper reply out of Ford. Stan is one-hundred percent not calm, and is in fact getting more and more freaked out the longer he doesn’t get a reply, but the last thing he needs is to stress Ford out even more than he already is. “S’alright. I’m here, okay? Whatever it is I can help you with. I don’t even care if it involves any nerdy-smarts stuff. I can learn it for you. I can help you.”

For a few brief moments, Ford’s heavy breathing pauses. He turns to look at Stan, and it’s hard not to flinch at the fact that he’s looking more and more like a kicked, abused puppy. He looks like he’s genuinely considering replying, even goes to open his mouth, but clamps down on that moments later when another thought seemingly comes to him. 

“I…” he stammers, and violently shakes his head again. “I can’t. I could never.” He starts pacing back and forth in place, rubbing his arms up and down together in a failed attempt to self-sooth. “I wish I could, but…” he trails off, but stops before he can allow himself to finish. He violently shakes his head again, like he’s not allowing himself to even think that things could possibly get better. 

Stan scowls. That’s the last straw. 

“Stanford.” Stan speaks firmly, and grabs at both of his brother’s shoulders. His grip is gentle enough not to hurt him, but strong enough to prevent him from squirming away. As it turns out, though, the strength isn’t very necessary, since Ford practically goes limp in his arms at the touch. 

“Stanford,” Stan repeats as he turns Ford around to force him to look him in the eyes. “I’m not asking anymore. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. I know for a fact that I didn’t just haul my ass all the way out to Oregon from New Mexico worried sick to death that my brother was going to kill himself just for him to push me away again. I don’t know if something happened to you after you got rejected from that fancy nerd school, or if someone’s after you, or if you really are thinking about killing yourself. I don’t care if that phone call from the other day was a threat or just a drunk dial you made after watching too much Galaxy Sci-Fi Wars, or what, but I don’t need any of that to see how much trouble you’re in! You’re shaking! You’re hurt! Your house looks like it was hit by every single natural disaster all at once! I don’t care how it happened, I care that it happened. Talk to me, Stanford. I’m not leaving until you talk.”

There’s a heavy pause. Ford’s eyes are darting all around Stan’s face, and Stan’s not quite sure what he’s looking for. He doesn’t look angry or offended, but he doesn’t look all that convinced, either. It’s almost as if there’s a deep-rooted sadness in his gaze, like Ford’s not fully convinced of his honesty, and that breaks Stan’s heart more than anything else.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Ford finally replies, breaking eye contact but not bothering to break out of Stan’s grip.

Stan wants to laugh. If the situation were less dire, he would laugh. “Wouldn’t understand?” he replies, gently shaking Ford’s shoulders. “Wouldn’t understand what? Having a target on your back wherever you go? An expensive bounty on your head? You think I don’t understand having to sleep with one eye open? With having to pack everything up as soon as possible because you might not survive the night if you don’t leave? Or do you think I don’t understand being too scared to try leaving, because you feel like the moment you’re out of a so-called ‘safe zone’ is the moment someone’s gonna kidnap you? Or throw you in the trunk of their car? Or do something much, much worse to you? Just because you pissed off the wrong guy? Do y’really think I don’t understand that, Ford? I understand that better than anybody. I understand that better than I’m willing to admit.” 

One final pause, and then Ford sighs heavily enough that Stan can feel the tension slumping off of his body.  Stan finally releases his grip on him, and Stan is hugely relieved to notice that Ford’s posture already looks significantly more relaxed. 

“You’re right,” Ford mumbles, and stretches his arms into the air to try and release any extra remaining tension. “You’re right,” he repeats, and nervously scratches at his chin. “Plus, uh…it probably would be easier to deal with this alongside someone else. I’ve…” he trails off, as if too embarrassed to finish. “I’ve been alone with my…thoughts for far too long. Some human company might do me some good.” 

Stan snorts. “Ha! Listen to yourself. Human company might do me some good. If I’d shown up any later you would’ve turned into a full-time nerd robot!”

Ford cracks the tiniest of smiles at that, whether he’s aware of it or not, and then it’s right back to business as usual. “Alright, fine. You got me.” He rubs at the back of his head. “There’s…someone after me. Someone who wants me dead. I don’t really know how to explain it to you, but it wasn’t exactly…me that called you the other night. I mean, it technically was, since I was the one who was speaking, but it was more like…he was forcing me to say those things. There’s something of mine that he wants, but I’m afraid that if he gets his hands on it, it’s going to hurt a lot of people. No, scratch that, I know it’s going to hurt a lot of people. I know that, and he knows that, and that’s why he wants it. But that’s also why I refuse to give it to him. It’s a big vicious game of cat and mouse. He wants it, I don’t give it to him, he retaliates with violence. There’s no winning.” He takes a deep breath, clearly trying his damn hardest not to spiral again. “Either I give him what he wants or he kills me taking it by force.” He buries his face into his hands. “I can’t do it.” He whimpers. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“...Bullshit.” 

Stan doesn’t even realize he’d blurted that out loud until Ford pulls his face from his hands to stare at him slack-jawed. “Come again?” 

“I said that’s total bullshit.” Stan replies, firmly standing his ground. “Listen, Ford, I’ve been dealing with his type for a lot longer than I’m willing to admit, and lemme tell you something; that’s just what he wants you to think. He wants you to give up and assume everything’s hopeless, because the moment you lose hope and stop fighting is the moment he’ll strike. He wants you to think he’s got no weakness, because that makes it so much easier to exploit yours. Everyone’s got ‘em, Sixer, but only the cockiest and most powerful aren’t willing to admit that they’ve got ‘em, too. And you wanna know a secret? They don’t like to admit they’ve got weaknesses because they know what it does to them. They know the second anyone finds out about their weakness that they’re just like the rest of us. If we know their weaknesses, we can fight back, and that terrifies those suckers to their very core. That’s the kind of stuff that sends them running home to their mamas. If there’s even an inkling of a chance that someone’s gonna knock them off of their pedestal, or that nobody’s afraid of them anymore because we’ve got ‘em figured out, that’s what gets them. They get so obsessed over the power they have on others that they forget to stop and consider that others can have power over them.”

“I’m telling you, Sixer, no matter what this guy tries to convince you, he’s just sayin’ it to keep you complacent. He wants you to think he’s got no weakness because he’s terrified at the idea of losing his power over you. Once you stop letting him control you, he’ll have nowhere else to stand. Once he loses you, he loses everything. It’s not about whether or not you can fight back, it’s about how you’re gonna fight back. Because once you fight back and you take control, he’s gonna have nowhere to run, and then he’s gonna be the one backed into a corner. You can fight back. You can tell him no.”

“B-but-” 

“Up up up, I don’t wanna hear it” Stan waggles a finger in his face. “If I’m still alive after all I’ve been through, I sure as hell know that you’re gonna make it, too. If I can chew my way out of the trunk of a car and tunnel my way out of a Colombian prison using nothing but cheap plastic cutlery, you can break away from whatever hold this guy has on you. Don’t sit around and wait for this guy to strike, you gotta stand up and strike first. He’ll never see it coming.” He slaps Ford on the back. “You’re a smart guy, Sixer, I’m sure that you of all people could figure out how to outsmart this guy. 

Ford looks like he wants to believe him, like he wants to hope that things are gonna be okay, but there’s something that’s still tethering him to his fears. There’s the briefest spark of hope in his eyes, but it’s gone just as quickly as it arrived.

“I wish I could believe you, Stanley, but Bill, he’s-” Ford starts, but flinches like he’s been shot when he accidentally uses this other guy’s name. It breaks Stan’s heart to see his brother so fearful for his life, but it also makes his blood boil over with rage thinking about the power this guy’s got over him.

 What, is saying his name gonna summon him or something? Did this Bill guy plant bugged cameras all over the house so he could keep a constant eye on Ford so he’ll know if he’s ever thinking of pulling something over his eyes? Is that why Ford’s place is so trashed? Did he tear the place apart looking for secret cameras and hidden microphones? What gives?  

Ford freezes, as if he’s actually expecting this guy to kick his door in, and when nothing happens he audibly sighs in relief. 

Stan crosses his arms. “But what? This Bill guy’s supposed to be different? More powerful? I’m tellin’ ya, he’s no different than any of the other jerks I’ve had to deal with.” He jabs another finger in Ford’s direction. “And even if he was, by some chance? Even if this guy is somehow the most powerful and feared dictator in the whole universe, what’s the first thing I said when I got here?”

Ford goes to respond, but then his cheeks burn red and stops, a clear sign that he’s forgotten. 

“I said I’m here for you. I’m here because I want to help you. I could stand here and lecture you about crime lords all day, but nothing’s ever going to change if you don’t let me help you. I don’t care how big and tough this guy thinks he is! You’re my brother, Stanford. Nothing else matters more to me than my family. You even said it yourself earlier!” Stan throws his arms into the air in an exasperated manner. “Two heads are always gonna be better than one. Two pairs of fists are also always gonna be better in a fight. You don’t have to magically stop being afraid of this guy, but I’m telling you that it’s gonna be a lot easier if you have someone fightin’ the good fight with you. I wish I had someone when I was on the run from Rico and his gang.” 

Ford frowns. “Stanley…” 

“Point is,” Stan waves him off before he can go down a guilt-ridden spiral. “I’m not leaving. Matter of fact, I’m not asking you anymore. I’m telling you. I’m staying. Until we get this whole thing sorted out and send this Bill guy running for the hills, I’m not leaving. Protest all you want, but I’m gonna stay right here by your side until you feel safe again. Hell, I’ll even sleep on the front porch as lookout if you need me to! I’m tellin’ ya, I’m done asking nicely. I won’t let you kick me out this time, Ford. I’m here for ya through thick and thin.” 

For a few painstakingly long moments, Ford doesn’t respond. But he does look like he’s deep in thought, which is a hell of a lot better than all of the flinching and nervous pacing he’s been doing since Stan arrived. If nothing else, that in itself is a huge improvement. But before Stan can start again, Ford pulls a polaroid out of his trench coat pocket, and despite a gentle tear at the corner seemingly from age, it’s looking like the most well-kept object in the entire house. Stan doesn’t bother sneaking a peek out of fear of breaking what little trust he seems to successfully be rebuilding with Ford, but whatever it is seems to bring him a lot of comfort; he only looks at it for a moment, but those few moments are enough to sneak a soft, nostalgic sort of smile onto his face.

“You’re right,” Ford finally says, the calmest he’s sounded all day. “I don’t think there’s any way I could tackle this on my own. But with some help?” He smiles sheepishly. “I think there’s something we could do.”

“There he is!” Stan exclaims, grabbing his brother in a chokehold and giving his hair a rough noogie. “I knew my brother was still in there somewhere!” he grins, and tussles him up one more time before letting go. “And hey, maybe after all this is over you can give Ma a call, eh? She’s worried sick about you, I just know it.”

“Hah!” Ford laughs, tiny sparks of confidence returning to his tone and posture. “Now that’s someone I’m really afraid of upsetting.”

Stan grins, and gives Ford a gentle slug on the shoulder. As hard as Ford’s trying not to show it, Stan can tell he’s starting to enjoy the company. As much as Stan really doesn’t want to admit it, he was desperate for this kind of company again. He watches for a moment as Ford starts to go around cleaning some things off the floor, and Stan can’t help but crack a smile as he goes to join him.

If there’s one thing Stan does want to admit, it’s that he never wants to lose this sort of companionship ever again. Situation be damned, he has his brother back, and that’s more than any material goods he could ever ask for.

Given the situation?

Well, he said he’d stay until Ford wasn’t afraid of this Bill character anymore. But if things were completely up to Stan?

Stan won’t stop until the guy’s dead for daring to mess with his family.