#not letting the war torn them apart from each other

[gay-dorito-dust]

hugs i think each thunderbolts would give.

Yelena's hugs were reassuring and made you feel like you had someone with you, it made you feel as though you could let those tears you have been witholding out, free without judgment. Her hugs were also ones that made you feel as though you were attempting to heal together, patching up old wounds that had yet to be taken care of but were pushed aside to heal on it's own. Yelena's hugs were also a source of reassurance for you in letting you know that your worries, struggles and pain were recagnised and that you weren't alone.

Yelena's hugs were like the words that you've always needed to hear for a very long time, like you were finally getting the closure that you needed but never got. Her hugs were were reminders that she was there whenever you needed her, someone to confide in, someone to expose your darkest secrete to and have her return the favour in kind. They told you that she would gladly be the comfort you needed, never once lying to you about what you meant to each other, never once giving off the impression that whatever bond you had was a fabricated lie. Yelena's hugs was enough to have you hug her back twice as tight, letting her know that she wasn't alone either.

John gives almost awkward but firm hugs, never having much affection given to him by others other then the brotherly affection from Lemar Hoskins. So his hugs were lacking the reassurance that he needed but was firm enough to ground you if you felt like you were floating away from yourself. John's hug was like being given an akward pat on the back by someone who was emotionally at war with himself, someone who didn't understand how to comfort someone when he couldn't comfort himself but he still tried nonetheless.

So while his hugs were clunky and awkward but there was a grounding weight to it regardless, one where you could anchor yourself to him and let him bring you back to reality. Letting him drag you back to yourself as he gives your back a few strong pats, a code if you will from him to let you knew that he was there even if he might not be there for himself. He could often times be a dick that's not to be dispuited, it was fact, but John could be good when he wants to be when not in the public eye for scrutiney, public opinion and whatnot. His hugs were something to get use to but when you do, that was were you'll find some sembelence of comfort within them.

Alexei gives you bear hugs, hugs that lift you off the ground in fits of excitement as his strong hold on you in his crushing embrace, it's warm and strong and made you feel as prone to laughter as Alexei was in that moment. His full belly laughter was contagious, his grip was strong like steel, almost like your being embraced by a father figure who was actually proud of you.

His hugs were enough to lift that weight off of your shoulders, you felt as though you had someone who -despite his intimidating appearence- would gladly bring you aside and calm you down when seeing that you were not okay. Alexei's hugs were what you needed when you felt as though on a verge of a panic attack, or anything to give you that sence of belonging and acceptance of who you were no matter what. His hugs were non judemental and his hugs were accepting and encouraging of whatever it was that you did or wanted to do.

Ava is not use to touch, having spent her whole life having her body basically torn apart and put back together again. So don't be offended when she rejects any sort of physical affection from you, she's just weary of it and fears what toucing her in any capacity would feel like on her skin. would it be like static? Would it be as painful to her like the undescribable feelings she was forced to endure before? But whatever the feeling Ava was scared to endure it.

So when she does actually hug you, it's quick and missable, like something had brushed passed you faster then your mind could comprehend becuase it was over the second it started. Ava's hugs were like she was scared of burning herslef in your embrace, as though if she held you longer she would feel her atoms forcibly torn apart again, she was brief with it but the second she allowed herself to hold you and realise that she wasn't in any physical pain of which she wished to forget, she might tempt the idea of hugging you again for a little bit longer.

Bob's hugs were everything you could ever ask for, literally. it was warm, comforting, sweet and it was made you feel like you were being held together by this man. He was caucious of his strength in how he held you but the moment his arms held you against his chest, you let out a sigh of relief that you didn't know that you were holding in, melting into his warmth and almost drifting asleep within his arms becuase his hands had begun to rub up and down your back soothingly.

Nothing could reach you when you were in Bob's hug, almost as though he was protecting you from the dark thoughts within your mind, guarding you as best as he could. Everything was quiet, everything was normal and you didn't want to leave his arms, his hug was single handedly saving you in ways you didn't think possible, almost as though his hugs were magic. Bob's hugs brought about peace, security and a place to rest your weary head and cease all thinking and just feel instead, you could breath and let Bob take care of the rest.

[hufflepuffsandghosts]

To Be known. To Be Needed

Summary:

Y/N was supposed to be the best. Sharp, deadly, unstoppable — until a mission went wrong, a serum changed everything, and her body became her greatest betrayal.

Bucky Barnes wasn’t supposed to care. He didn’t trust easily — especially not someone he once called an enemy. But something about Y/N, wounded and furious and so damn stubborn, won’t let him walk away.

Forced into hiding together after the mission falls apart, what begins as tense silence slowly shifts into something neither of them expected: trust. Comfort. Maybe even peace.

But healing comes at a price, and when the past comes clawing back with blood and fire, they’ll have to fight for more than survival — they’ll have to fight for each other.

Tags/TW: 

Enemies to Lovers, Graphic Violence, Medical Trauma, Chronic Illness / Chronic Pain, Serum Experimentation, Temporary Blindness, Mental Health Themes, Panic Attack / Anxiety Attack, Discussion of Identity Loss, Discussion of Self-Worth / Depressive Thoughts, Mild Language / Swearing, Canon-Typical Violence 

Authors Note:

Hello everyone!

This is my FIRST multi chapter fanfic! I'm so excited and I hope you all like it. (AKA: My chronic pain was being SO bad to the point I needed to make myself happy)

A huge thank you to my best friend @zero00kiryu00 for supporting me throughout my writing journey. Without you I wouldn't be as brave to write. (Please go check our their work! <3)

Playlist for this work can be found here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/148LgibEoFUeT6Hvs1JjUp?si=ad7abf4c31b045bb

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65739508/chapters/169297000

As always; If I miss any tags or if there's any errors please let me know! (I'm truly just a little guy)

Chapter One: War

The night hung heavy with tension as explosions punctuated the air, a somber symphony of war echoing through the battlefield. Bucky Barnes, the elusive Winter Soldier, moved with ghostly grace through the shadows, his eyes sharp and senses heightened. His steps were silent, each movement calculated as he navigated the chaos with an eerie calm.

On the other end of the spectrum was Y/N, a skilled agent with a fire that clashed with Bucky's stoic demeanor. Their interactions were a constant clash of wills, the animosity between them palpable in the charged atmosphere. As Bucky silently moved through the chaos, Y/N, determined to prove themselves, followed closely behind, their steps more erratic, filled with a raw determination that bordered on recklessness.

The mission was a high-stakes extraction in a war-torn city, a hotbed of conflict between rival factions. A high-profile target, a political figure with valuable intel, was trapped in the heart of the chaos. The team, consisting of Bucky, Y/N, and other skilled operatives, was tasked with infiltrating the heavily guarded compound, extracting the target, and making a swift exit.

The plan was intricate, relying on each member's unique skills. Bucky, with his enhanced strength and stealth, was designated for covert recon and eliminating potential threats. Y/N, known for their agility and sharpshooting, was tasked with providing cover and securing a safe escape route. The tension among the team was palpable as they moved through the war-torn streets, each step a potential trigger for violence.  Bucky's voice cut through the tense air, sharp and authoritative. "Stay close, Y/N. We need to adapt to the situation."

Y/N gritted their teeth, pain evident in their strained voice. "I'm not slowing down, Barnes. I can still handle myself."

Bucky's metal arm shot out, blocking Y/N's path. "Handle yourself? You can barely walk through the woods without stepping on a branch. You'll get us killed.``

A bitter laugh escaped Y/N's lips. "Coming from the guy with a metal arm and a penchant for playing lone wolf. I'm not backing down now."

The team's leader, a grizzled veteran named Rodriguez, intervened. "Enough. We've got a job to do, and bickering won't get us out of here. Barnes, cover Y/N. Y/N, trust Barnes's lead."

Bucky's gaze lingered on Y/N for a moment, a flicker of concern beneath his stoic exterior. "Stay close, and follow my lead."

Y/N clenched their jaw but nodded, acknowledging the unspoken agreement. As they moved through the war-torn streets, the chaos intensified. Bucky scanned the area, his heightened senses on high alert.

A distant explosion echoed, and Y/N stumbled, disoriented. Bucky's firm grip steadied them. "Keep it together, Y/N. We're almost there."

Y/N's frustration boiled over. "I don't need your help, Barnes. I can—"

Bucky cut them off with a sharp whisper. "Save it. We're not alone."

A group of armed mercenaries emerged from the shadows, weapons trained on the team. Bucky's hand instinctively reached for his sidearm, and Y/N fumbled for their own, hands shaking.

Rodriguez's voice echoed through the chaos. "Hold your fire! We're here for the extraction. We can negotiate."

The tension hung thick as the two groups faced off. Bucky exchanged a glance with Y/N, a silent understanding passing between them. The dynamic had shifted – it was no longer just about the mission; it was about survival in a city consumed by conflict.

The skirmish erupted with gunfire and chaos as the opposing forces clashed in the dimly lit streets. Bucky's metal arm swung with lethal precision, dispatching enemies with calculated brutality. Y/N, fought with a tenacity that could only be proven by years of service. Bullets whizzed past, and explosions reverberated through the air.

Y/N fired their gun, dodging bullets at will. A sudden impact slammed into their side, and a searing pain radiated through their abdomen. They stumbled, disoriented, as they looked at their abdomen, a small syringe logged inside, Y/N swiftly took it out before the enemy closed in. Bucky, sensing the danger, swiftly dispatched the immediate threats.

"Y/N!" he called out, but his voice was drowned out by the chaos.

Desperation fueled Y/N's movements. They fought on, gritting their teeth against the pain. The world around them blurred, shadows dancing in an ominous ballet. Another explosion rocked the area, disorienting Y/N even further. Panic set in as darkness enveloped Y/N's vision. They staggered, hands reaching out blindly to find something, anything, for support. Bucky, sensing the shift, abandoned his relentless assault on the enemy and swiftly made his way to Y/N's side.

"Y/N, can you hear me?" Bucky's voice was urgent, a rare note of concern cutting through his usual stoicism.

"I can't see, Barnes," Y/N admitted, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Bucky's gaze tightened, his expression hidden beneath the shadows of his hair. "We need to get out of here. Can you walk?"

Y/N nodded, though uncertainty clouded their features. Bucky guided them through the chaotic battleground, his metal arm offering a steady anchor for Y/N to lean on. The sounds of gunfire and explosions echoed around them, a grim symphony of war.

As they navigated the war-torn streets, Y/N's other senses heightened, compensating for the loss of vision. The team's leader, Rodriguez, radioed in, "Extraction point is compromised. Head for the secondary rendezvous."

Bucky adjusted his grip on Y/N. "We're changing the plan. Stick close, and trust me."

Y/N swore under their breath, vulnerable and blinded, she had no choice but to rely on Bucky's guidance. In the shadows of the conflict, the Winter Soldier and the wounded agent moved as one, a testament to the unspoken trust forged in the crucible of battle.

As the dust settled and the team regrouped, the realization struck - their mission had just become exponentially more challenging, and the once turbulent dynamic between Bucky and Y/N took an unexpected turn into uncharted territory. Now, in the shadows of a city torn apart by conflict, the Winter Soldier and the blinded agent faced a mission that would not only test their abilities but also force them to confront the vulnerabilities that lingered beneath the surface.

Next Chapter: Coming soon

All content © hufflepuffsandghosts 2025. Do not repost, modify, or claim my work as your own.

[peregrineggsandham]

So... I have some thoughts on a superpower for Marco.

Have him able to make copies of himself. Endless cloning. Let's say he can do it once per day, just to give it a reasonable limit.

(Please bear with me. This speculation got, shall we say, a bit out of hand.)

Countless jokes are possible with this, of course. On a fun note, he can help everyone else with their homework. Multi-tasking, keeping them from falling behind. Calls himself the Utility Animorph. Swiss-army man. Keeping things together. Being every extra pair of hands they need.

And then... he becomes their army. Of course. A one-man shock troop squad. Each Marco alone doesn't pack much firepower, but the power of sheer numbers cannot be underestimated.

Lots of copies would die in battle.

That's fine. He can always make more.

Now, the Marcos are separate people, but crucially: their memories are recombined on death.

They learn this when Marco Mark III dies on the mission where he first sees Visser One. Immediately, the other Marcos know.

They remember their mother's hand raising the dracon beam.

...I feel like Jake and the others would believe that there was an "original" Marco. That the others were copies. Distant. After all, there was at first. He probably introduced the first one that way: "Hey, guys, look, here's my evil clone! Weird, right? I think we should call him Polo."

Nearly everyone would treat Polo strangely at first, in that "you're not the real Marco" sort of way. (Rachel wouldn't, I think. Couldn't really tell you why.) Cassie would get over it quickly. Jake would continue to be awkward. But (for reasons below), the Marcos would kind of lean into this.

The longer any two Marcos exist as separate, the more subtly different they'd become, sure. Different experiences, after all. At some point very early on, Original Marco and "Polo" would switch places, just to see. No one notices. Only the Marcos can tell apart the members of Marco & Co. They switch back. They consider trading names regularly, just for laughs.

...And then Visser One kills Marco Mark III, and suddenly they know what he knew, and they realize the others just watched him die. He is the team morale guy. The best – the only – thing he can do is convince them there was no reason to mourn.

At the next meeting, two people show up with "Hello, My Name Is" stickers reading [Original Marco] and [More Attractive Marco]. And everyone breathes a sigh of relief, and are able to move on, safe in the reminded that their Marco didn't really die.

The original is the original; the clones are clones. And that's that.

Later-books Jake would eventually start treating the Marcos as effectively expendable, and you know Marco wouldn't say anything. Well, he would. But as a "joke". Because Jake would stop if he knew what it was really like for him, but if they stop, they lose a huge advantage. So he'd laugh about it.

Running streams of updates from the Marco on comms, sports-commentator style: "Whoops, Me #35 just got torn in half. Oooh, that's gonna leave a mark. Nice teamwork from #23 and #24, and... yes, yes it looks like that's another limb down for #77! Poor guy." He resists the urge to scratch his shoulder. It's fine. By the end of the war, in subjective experience, he'll have seen more battle than the others combined a dozen times over.

They use numbers for tactics, but in-between missions, the nametags return. [Other Other Other Marco]. [He-Man]. [Objectively Best Marco]. [Marco 22: Return of Marco]. [Carl].

Jake tries to talk mostly to [Original Marco], and refers to the clones a bit awkwardly, avoiding any names at all. Tobias and Cassie talk to all of them equally as Marco. Rachel uses shortened forms of their nametags.

Ax starts out talking only to [Original Marco]. These powers are Andalite tech, and they seem the sort who would have some cultural idea that superpower clones are not "real" people. But then [Polo] is assigned to be his near-constant "how to be human" guide. They have Marcos to spare, after all. And [Polo] is the one he befriends.

When [Polo] dies, the Marcos convene. Another Marco is made. Several of them make the same joke, at the same time: "It's like when a kid's hamster keels over, and the parent goes to the pet store, and then comes back and is all 'No, don't cry! Look, Mr. Fluffles is right here, he's fine!'"

Like all the others, the newest Marco knows everything [Polo] did. They figure no one will recognize the difference. They never do. He makes a copy of his predecessor's nametag.

Ax notices. They talk. Ax… tries to understand how the Marcos work. Do they mourn? They don't. They can't – it'd drive them a bit mad! Should he mourn? He can, if he wants.

He decides he will consider a friend any Marco who considers him one in turn. But, could the new designated alien ambassador Marco please choose a different nickname? He says, sure. The old one felt wrong, anyway.

Ax's wacky hijinks in human society are henceforth accompanied often by a teenage boy wearing a nametag proudly reading [Mr. Fluffles].

Further thoughts: ENDLESS fun with Marcos who go rogue in one way or another. At some point, a Marco has to do something morally questionable, and the other Marcos just straight-up can't believe that he would do that. Something must be wrong with that "him". He has to be infested, or insane, or… something. (He's not. He's just you, in a situation you haven't been in before.)

The Marcos duplicate under "what counts as 'me' when morphing" rules: skintight clothing, not much more. But Yeerks do count, enough to be considered "part" of the brain of their host. An infested Marco could duplicate himself and his yeerk. And no one would know, until one of them died. So that'd be a fun B-plot.

Tobias goes to visit [Original Marco] after it all ends. He may not be a bird in this world, but his eyes are sharp and his memory is good and he notices things no one else does.

He asks what happened to the real original. The Marco who existed before the war.

Marco can't remember.

Tobias can relate.

Okay... Fun AU ideas... Instead of animal shapeshifting, the not-animorphs ended up being given an experimental piece of Andalite technology that gave them a grab-bag of X-men esque superpowers. (e.g. intangibility, ice generation, psychic abilities, etc, everyone with a different powerset)

This is a fun idea; I just don't know what to do with it. Does anyone else have thoughts?

[varpusvaras]

You know, I'm just as big of a fan of all the angst when it comes to Fox and the Coruscant Guard and their brother's in the GAR, of all the scenarios where their brother's just go "oh, they have changed, they think they are better than us, in their easy posting, war changes everyone, they are not just who they used to be", as everybody else is, but I'm also a bigger fan of all their brother's noticing the change and not being okay with it, but in a way that it makes them realise that something is wrong and they do something about it. They notice the lessening messages and calls, and just call and message more often. They notice how the Guard doesn't seem to have time to come and see them anymore, so they go to them instead.

Cody notices how Fox keeps getting busier and busier, way busier than Cody himself, even though they're supposed to have to same workload, and Cody asks. He asks what Fox is doing, and is confused and angered by what he hears.

Wolffe notices that Fox jokes less and less, that his smiles are becoming more and more rare, and he makes sure that he gives Fox reasons to smile on the double, making sure that absolutely no one mentions anything about work while they are out.

Bly notices that Fox looks even more tired than the last time every time they meet, and if Fox starts to dose off, he pretends he doesn't notice, and let's him take a nap, while making sure that no one can disturb them.

Ponds notices how Fox looks thinner, first from the face and then overall under his armor, and he keeps giving him snacks, taking him out to eat or bringing food to the office or the barracks, and stuffs Fox's desk full of vitamins and sweets.

Rex notices how every time they come across the Chancellor while he is seeing Fox, which happens more often than not, because Rex is waiting for General Skywalker to come back from a meeting with the man, Fox tenses up. It's subtle, like he is trying his hardest not to, but like it has been ingrained in him, like a reflex. And Rex looks harder, and he notices the fading marks on his brother's skin.

And they all sit down together and talk about it, and they realise that something is wrong, and they need to help.

[silver-dragonborn]

Here is another HOTD prompts y'all might find interesting.

The incident at Driftmark exposes the deep rifts between certain members of the Greens. This rift deepens even further when Aegon throws his little brother's plan back in his face by directing blame onto the only person Aemond looks up to the most. In depriving Aemond of his father figure, the flames of hatred between the brothers grow, consuming everything and everyone around them until they burn the Greens from the inside, plunging them all into madness.

"It was him." "Me?" Upon realizing that Aemond set him up to take the fall for the rumors their mother spread about Rhaenyra's children, Aegon panics and in a fit of vengeful rage towards his brother for daring to put him on the spot like this, Aegon points at Ser Criston Cole and shrieks, "I heard it from Ser Criston! It was him! It was him!" Nothing gave him more pleasure than watching the color drain from his twat brother's face as the King whirled on an equally pale Criston Cole, commanding the guards to strip him of his white cloak and cut off his sword hand for spewing such treason. 'Nice try, little brother,' he thought viciously as the guards dragged a screaming Cole out to be thrown into the dungeons, by morning he'll be sent to the Wall and never seen or heard from ever again. 'Nice try, but I've been playing this game far longer than you.' Aegon smirked, but it was immediately wiped off his face when Aemond turned back to stare at him with his sole remaining eye, a look that promised swift retribution. And now that he was the rider of Vhagar, nothing would stop him.

[hisfavegirl]

Veil Of Betrayal - King!Aegon Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Summary : You are safe and sound in the Red Keep, but that's probably what you think. Because after you escaped from the clutches of your father and mother, they did everything they could to bring you back.

Aegon Masterlist.

As Daemon’s figure disappeared from view, the weight of the moment bore down on you like a collapsing tower. Your knees gave out, and you fell to the cold floor, barely aware of Aegon’s arms catching you.

“Aegon…” you whispered, your voice choked with sobs as tears streamed down your face. The sound of your grief filled the room, raw and unrestrained, as you buried your face into his chest.

He knelt with you, holding you tightly, his arms a protective cocoon around your trembling form. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice steady even as his own heart ached at the sight of your despair. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

You clung to him, your fingers gripping his tunic as if letting go would shatter you further. “I didn’t want this,” you managed to say between sobs. “I never wanted to hurt him… or anyone.”

Aegon pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his hand cradling the back of it as he whispered soothing words. “It’s not your fault,” he said firmly. “None of this is your fault. He’s the one who forced this on you, not the other way around.”

The memory of Daemon’s cold stare haunted you, and the weight of his words felt like daggers in your heart. You could see the pain in his eyes, even beneath his anger, and it tore at your soul to know you were the cause of it.

“I just wanted peace,” you said, your voice trembling. “I just wanted my family to be whole.”

“And you will have that,” Aegon said, his tone resolute. “We’ll protect what we have—our children, our future. No one will take that from us.”

His determination steadied you, and for a moment, you found solace in his presence. But the ache in your heart lingered, the guilt of choosing one part of your family over the other an unbearable weight.

As your sobs subsided, you leaned into him, drawing strength from his warmth. “What if he comes back?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Then we’ll face him together,” Aegon promised, his hand tightening around yours. “You’re not alone in this.”

The words were a balm to your shattered heart, and though the pain remained, you knew Aegon’s love would be your anchor in the storm.

You lay silently, feeling the warmth of Aegon’s hand as it gently caressed your hair, each stroke soothing the tension that had coiled within you. For a moment, with him beside you, the world outside seemed distant, the chaos muted by the safety of his presence.

Opening your eyes, you turned your head slightly to meet his gaze. His violet eyes softened as they met yours, filled with concern and unwavering devotion.

“Aegon,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but heavy with emotion. “I don’t want our children to grow up in a world torn apart by war.”

His hand stilled for a moment, resting gently against the side of your face. Aegon’s expression shifted, a flicker of guilt crossing his features before it was replaced by determination.

“I know,” he said softly, his voice steady but tinged with regret. “Neither do I. I never wanted this, for us or for them. But I promise, I’ll do whatever I can to protect them—and you.”

You reached up, placing your hand over his, grounding yourself in his touch. “I just want them to be safe, to be happy. To have the childhood they deserve.”

“They will,” Aegon vowed, his tone firm now. “I’ll make sure of it, no matter what it takes.”

He leaned closer, his forehead pressing gently against yours as he closed his eyes. “You’re my family. You, the children, and the one growing inside you. Nothing else matters more to me than keeping you all safe.”

Your heart clenched at his words, and you allowed yourself to find comfort in his promise. For now, it was enough to hold onto hope, even as the shadows of war loomed on the horizon.

The grand doors of the council chamber opened, and Aegon walked beside you, his hand resting protectively on your lower back. The weight of the moment pressed on your shoulders, but you steeled yourself, knowing this was where you needed to be—beside your husband, at the heart of the storm.

As the two of you entered, the lords and council members rose briefly in acknowledgment of the King. Their eyes flickered toward you, whispers already buzzing about your presence. Some seemed approving, others curious, while a few held unreadable expressions.

Aegon pulled out the chair for you, his hand lingering for a moment on yours as you settled beside him. Alicent sat to his other side, her expression calm and composed, but her gaze betrayed a flicker of relief to see you here.

“My lords,” Aegon began, his voice firm as he addressed the room. “Let us proceed. The matters at hand will not wait.”

As discussions began—strategies, alliances, and whispers of war—you found yourself absorbing every word. Though the conversation revolved around battle plans and the growing tensions with Dragonstone, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of each decision. Every choice they made could shape not just the realm, but your family’s future.

From time to time, Aegon glanced your way, his eyes seeking your reassurance. When his hand found yours beneath the table, you squeezed it gently, a silent promise that you were here with him, through every trial.

Alicent leaned toward you during a lull in the meeting, her voice soft but steady. “Your presence here strengthens him,” she said. “You’ve always been his anchor.”

You nodded slightly, though the weight of it all was not lost on you. Your place here was not just as his wife, but as someone who might help guide him in a time where every decision could mean peace—or destruction.

The council chamber was heavy with tension, the air crackling as Aegon’s voice boomed across the room.

“How in the name of the Seven did this happen?” Aegon roared, his fists clenched on the armrests of his throne. He turned his furious gaze to Ser Criston and Aemond. “Daemon now holds the largest fortress in the Seven Kingdoms, and we allowed it to slip through our fingers? Explain yourselves!”

Ser Criston bowed his head, his tone firm but laced with regret. “Your Grace, the garrison at Harrenhal was undermanned. Daemon arrived swiftly, using Caraxes to instill fear and force a surrender. The men there were overwhelmed before they could mount a defense.”

Aemond, standing stiffly at the side of the room, interjected coldly, “I warned you, brother. We should have acted sooner. I could have dealt with Daemon before this ever came to pass.”

Aegon turned his anger toward Aemond, his expression darkening. “You think I would risk losing you to him? Do you forget who he is? He’s not just our enemy—he’s a monster with no regard for life or loyalty!"

The tension in the room became suffocating, and Alicent, seated beside you, looked between her sons with worry etched on her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but Aegon cut her off, his voice raw and desperate.

“This cannot continue. Harrenhal is a dagger pointed at the heart of our campaign. If Daemon holds it, he can strike us where we are weakest.” He turned his gaze to you, his anger momentarily replaced by a desperate plea. “Tell me, what should I do? How do I fight a man who seems unstoppable?”

You felt all eyes on you, the weight of their expectations pressing down like a physical burden. Taking a deep breath, you met Aegon’s gaze, your voice calm but steady.

“Harrenhal is a strategic loss, but it does not mean defeat,” you began. “Daemon is bold, but his arrogance is his weakness. Let him think he’s gained an unassailable advantage. Meanwhile, we fortify our positions and rally more houses to our cause. Strength in numbers will be the key to outmaneuvering him.”

Aegon listened intently, his jaw tightening as he absorbed your words. “And what of Harrenhal? Do we simply let him keep it?”

You hesitated, then spoke firmly, “For now, yes. Fighting him there would cost too many lives. But he cannot hold it indefinitely—not if we cut off his supply lines and force him into a position of weakness. Let him sit in that castle, isolated and vulnerable. When the time is right, we’ll strike.”

Aegon leaned back, his gaze lingering on you, a mixture of frustration and admiration in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. We’ll do as you suggest—for now.”

The council murmured in agreement, though the tension remained palpable. Aegon reached for your hand beneath the table, gripping it tightly as if drawing strength from your presence. You squeezed his hand in return, silently vowing to stand by him, even as the storm of war loomed ever closer.

Ser Criston’s low murmur cut through the tense silence like a blade. “She thinks like Daemon,” he said, his tone carrying a grudging respect. “And that is to our advantage.”

The words struck you like a physical blow, and your breath hitched. You realized the truth in them—you were helping to craft a strategy that could very well be used to harm your parents, your family. The very people who raised you, who fought to bring you back to their side.

Your hand trembled slightly in Aegon’s grasp, and your gaze faltered. The room felt stifling now, the walls closing in as guilt twisted in your chest.

Aegon noticed your change in demeanor and leaned closer, his voice soft yet concerned. “What is it? Are you unwell?”

You forced a weak smile, shaking your head. “No, I’m fine. Just… overwhelmed.”

Aegon frowned, his free hand brushing over your cheek. “You’re with child. If this is too much, you don’t need to—”

“I’m fine,” you interrupted, a little too quickly, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

The murmurs of the council faded into the background as your mind swirled with conflict. You were supposed to be loyal to your family. You had told yourself that staying with Aegon, with your children, was the right choice. But now, as you sat here among your husband’s council, offering insight that could spell disaster for those you loved, you felt the weight of betrayal pressing down on you.

Could you truly stand by and watch as the two sides of your heart clashed in bloody battle? Or had you already chosen, your actions betraying where your loyalties now lay?

As the council continued to debate strategy, you stared at the table, your thoughts a whirlwind of guilt, love, and fear.

You rose from your seat, your movements slow and deliberate as you addressed Aegon and the council. “I need to excuse myself,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “I’m not feeling well and would like to rest for a while.”

Aegon’s gaze immediately softened, concern etched into his features. “I’ll take you to your chambers,” he offered, already rising from his chair.

You placed a gentle hand on his arm, stopping him. “No, Aegon,” you said softly, shaking your head. “This meeting is more important. You need to be here with the council.”

“But—”

“I’ll be fine,” you assured him, managing a faint smile. “Ser Criston or one of the guards can accompany me.”

Aegon hesitated, his violet eyes searching yours for any sign of deeper distress. But when you held firm, he reluctantly nodded. “If you need anything, send for me immediately,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I will,” you promised, squeezing his arm lightly before stepping away.

Ser Criston moved to escort you, but you shook your head, indicating you wanted to be alone. With a slight bow, he stepped back, allowing you to leave unaccompanied.

As you walked through the halls of the Red Keep, the weight of your emotions pressed down on you. The betrayal you felt—not just toward your family, but toward yourself—gnawed at your soul.

By the time you reached your chambers, tears pricked your eyes. You closed the door behind you, leaning against it as a heavy sigh escaped your lips. The weight of your divided loyalties was becoming unbearable. How long could you walk this fine line before everything crumbled?

Sitting before the mirror, your brush moved gently through your hair as you tried to steady your thoughts. The soft hum of the wind outside was the only sound in the room until faint laughter reached your ears. Your hand froze, and your gaze shifted toward the door.

The laughter grew louder, filling the hallway with its sweet, carefree melody. A small, hesitant smile crept onto your face as the door creaked open.

There they were—Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor, their smiles bright enough to momentarily chase away the weight on your heart. Jaehaerys stood proudly at the front, holding his wooden sword, while Jaehaera clutched her favorite doll, and little Maelor peeked out from behind them with a toy dragon in his hands.

“Mother!” Jaehaera called out, her voice brimming with excitement.

Your heart swelled as you set the brush down and turned fully to face them. “What brings all of you here?” you asked, your voice warm as you opened your arms.

They didn’t hesitate, running toward you with gleeful laughter. Jaehaera was the first to throw her arms around your waist, followed by Maelor, who nestled into your lap. Jaehaerys remained standing tall, declaring, “We’ve come to cheer you up!”

Your laughter, soft and genuine, bubbled forth as you hugged them close. “You’re all doing a wonderful job,” you said, pressing a kiss to the top of Maelor’s silver head.

“Father said you weren’t feeling well,” Jaehaera added, looking up at you with concerned eyes.

“I’m better now that you’re here,” you replied, cupping her cheek gently.

As you held them close, the room seemed lighter, the burden on your heart easing just a little. In their presence, the world’s troubles felt like a distant storm—one that could wait, if only for this moment.

You sat alone in your chambers, the evening light filtering through the windows as the sun began its descent. The faint murmurs of the castle’s activities reached your ears, but none of it could quiet the unease twisting in your chest.

The long hours stretched endlessly, and your gaze flickered toward the door every so often, hoping Aegon would return soon. Yet you knew the council’s discussions were far from over, especially with the looming threat of war.

Your fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on the armrest of your chair as you let out a weary sigh. Thoughts of the impending war plagued your mind, not for the first time. You hated the idea of it—the bloodshed, the division, the destruction it would bring. Most of all, you despised how it forced you into a corner, caught between loyalty to your husband and your birth family.

And then there were your children. Their laughter and innocence were a fragile balm to your fears, but the knowledge that this war could shatter their futures made your heart ache. What kind of world would they inherit if this escalated?

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. Your hand instinctively went to your belly as if to shield your unborn child. “Come in,” you called softly.

One of your ladies-in-waiting entered, bowing slightly. “The king is still in council, your grace, but he has sent word that he will come to you as soon as it concludes.”

You nodded in acknowledgment, offering her a small smile before she left. Alone once more, you leaned back in your chair, your hand still resting on your belly.

“I won’t let this war take you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Any of you.”

The words hung in the air, a promise to yourself and your children. All you could do now was wait—and hope.

The night had fully enveloped the world, and only the soft whispers of the wind could be heard outside the windows. Feeling slightly weary, you took your warm robe and draped it over the nightgown you had already changed into. Your hand instinctively rested on your slightly rounded belly, a comforting warmth filling your heart despite the lingering worry about the impending war.

You made your way to your children’s chambers, walking through the torchlit corridors of the Red Keep. When you opened the door to their room, soft laughter and hushed whispers greeted you. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were quietly talking to each other, while Maelor sat in a corner playing with his toy dragon. The moment they saw you, bright smiles lit up their faces.

“Mother!” Maelor exclaimed, running toward you with enthusiasm.

You chuckled softly and knelt down to embrace him. “It’s time for bed, my love,” you said gently, brushing his hair with your hand. “I wanted to make sure you’re all ready for sweet dreams.”

Jaehaerys and Jaehaera quickly climbed into their beds, each clutching their favorite toys. You settled into the chair between them, opening a storybook they adored. In a soft and soothing voice, you began to read, weaving tales of dragons and knights, stories that had once been shared with you in your own childhood.

Maelor was the first to drift off to sleep, his tiny hands still clutching his dragon toy. Jaehaerys tried to stay awake, his eyes struggling to remain open as he listened intently. Jaehaera, meanwhile, cuddled her doll and watched you with a contented smile until her eyelids grew too heavy.

One by one, their breathing slowed, and peace settled over the room. You leaned down to kiss each of their foreheads, whispering, “Goodnight, my loves.”

A cold shiver ran down your spine as the door to your children's room creaked open unexpectedly. You froze in place, heart racing.

Two figures stood in the doorway, their faces obscured by dark hoods. Before you could react, one of them stepped forward, drawing a blade with a smooth, practiced motion and pressing it against your throat.

"Stay quiet," the figure hissed in a low voice, the threat unmistakable. "We only want one thing from you."

Your breath caught in your chest, and a sharp panic gripped your heart. The intruder's words came next, each one more chilling than the last.

"You must choose one of your children," the voice commanded coldly. "One must be sacrificed. If you do not choose... we will decide for you."

Terror surged through you. Your mind raced, but no coherent thought could form as you stared at the blade, the gleaming edge reflecting the dim light of the room. You wanted to scream, to shout for help, but your throat was dry, your body frozen.

Your eyes darted to the children, peacefully sleeping in their beds, unaware of the nightmare unfolding around them. Maelor's small form curled in sleep, his toy dragon still clutched in his hand. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, their faces serene, seemed so innocent, so far removed from the terror that now threatened to tear their world apart.

"Choose," the second figure said, their voice colder than the first, a menacing echo in the silence. "Or we will!"

Tears welled up in your eyes as the impossible decision loomed before you. No mother should ever have to make such a choice. They were your children-your heart, your everything. The thought of losing any of them, of condemning one to death, was unbearable.

But you had no choice. The threat to your family was all too real, and time was running out. You could feel the desperation clawing at your insides. You had to act. You had to find a way to save them, to protect them from whatever dark force had brought these monsters to your doorstep.

"Please," you whispered, your voice trembling.

"Don't hurt them. Please don't make me choose."

The figure with the blade pressed harder against your neck, causing a sharp sting.

"Choose, or we will."

Your mind raced. A plan began to form, fueled by a fierce determination to save your children.

You wouldn't allow them to suffer. You wouldn't let your family fall apart.

"Let them go," you whispered fiercely, not just to the figures in front of you, but to yourself as well. You needed to outsmart them, to protect your children. Somehow, you would find a way.

Tears streamed down your face as the cold steel of the blade pressed against your throat.

You could feel the weight of the decision crushing you, every heartbeat a reminder of the life-or-death choice that loomed over your children. The figures in front of you were unmoving, their demands clear and unforgiving.

"I'll offer myself," you pleaded, your voice barely a whisper, desperate. "Take me. Please.Spare them."

But the cold, emotionless reply that came back from one of the figures made your stomach drop.

"It must be a son," the voice declared, sharp and uncompromising. "A son must pay the price."

You trembled, feeling your entire body shake under the pressure of the impossible demand.

You could feel the world around you spinning, your mind unable to accept what was being asked of you. The thought of losing one of your children, your precious sons-Maelor or Jaehaerys-was more than you could bear.

"Please," you sobbed, your voice breaking.

"Please, I can't choose. I can't."

But they were relentless, their gaze unwavering, their stance threatening. The second figure, who hadn't spoken yet, stepped closer, looming over you with the blade still pressed at your neck.

"You must choose, or we will."

Your eyes darted desperately toward your sleeping children. Jaehaerys, so brave, even in his sleep, and Maelor, the innocent child with so much life left to live. Your heart shattered at the thought of them being torn from you, of one of them being sacrificed for some twisted reason you couldn't even understand.

The silence felt deafening as the seconds stretched on, the room heavy with the weight of your indecision. You could feel the heat of the tears on your cheeks, the pain of your helplessness building to an unbearable point.

"Please," you whispered once more, the words nearly lost in the depth of your agony. "Please don't take them from me."

You couldn't bring yourself to choose. Your love for them was too deep, too overwhelming. You couldn't bear the thought of losing either of them.

The room spun as you were shoved to the floor, the sharp crack of your head hitting the ground sending a wave of dizzying pain through your skull. For a moment, everything blurred, the edges of your vision darkening, but through it, you could still hear the men’s cold voices and the terrifying calm in their words.

As you lay on the cold floor, the pain from your head throbbing fiercely, you could feel the darkness creeping in at the edges of your vision. The room spun as the men’s words pierced your heart, each one more cruel than the last. Your body trembled with fear and desperation, tears streaming down your face as you tried to make sense of what was happening.

They had pointed to Jaehaera’s bed, and in that moment, you knew. They weren’t asking for someone to be sacrificed—they were demanding the life of your child.

“He’s the eldest,” one of them had said, his voice cold and unforgiving.

Your breath caught in your throat as your heart stopped. No. They couldn’t be serious. They couldn’t.

Then the horrifying sound of Jaehaerys’ scream echoed through the room. A scream filled with pain and terror, and it shattered your soul. He was awake, and he was in pain. He was fighting for his life.

Before you could move, before you could protect him, you heard Maelor’s terrified sobs, his voice panicked, calling out for you. “Mother!” he cried, his voice breaking.

You forced yourself to stand, despite the dizziness, despite the overwhelming fear that threatened to consume you. But just as you reached out, you heard the sickening sound of a blade slicing through flesh, followed by a gasp from Jaehaerys.

“NO!” you screamed, your voice ragged and desperate. “Stop! Please, don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt my children!”

The world spun even faster, the tears blurring your vision. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. The agony of knowing that they were killing your son, that they were tearing your family apart, left you feeling as though you were dying inside.

The sounds of your children’s cries echoed louder in your ears, their voices filled with pain and fear. You reached for them, your arms weak, but your heart cried out for them to be safe. You couldn’t save them. You couldn’t protect them.

“Please, stop! Please!” You begged again, your voice trembling with despair, but all that came in return were the chilling sounds of your children’s pain and the cold laughter of the men who had done this to your family.

Your world was collapsing.

The room seemed to fade away as the cold reality of what had just happened settled in. Jaehaerys’ lifeless head, now sealed away in their bag, was a horrifying reminder of the cruelty they had inflicted upon your family. You were paralyzed by grief and disbelief, unable to process the enormity of what had just transpired. The air around you felt heavy, suffocating, as if the very walls were closing in on you.

Jaehaera and Maelor’s desperate voices pulled you from the abyss of shock. They shook you, their hands gripping your arms as they pleaded for you to hold on. Their voices were fractured, trembling with fear and uncertainty, but their determination was clear. They needed you. They couldn’t bear this alone.

“Please, Mother… stay with us,” Maelor cried, his voice cracking. “We need you.”

Through the haze of your tears, you could hear their panicked cries calling out for help, for anyone who could save them from the nightmare they were trapped in. Their tiny hands clung to you, their innocent faces twisted with confusion and terror. They had witnessed something no child should ever have to see. And yet, they still needed you—still wanted you to fight for them, to protect them.

The sound of their voices, so fragile and filled with pain, cut through the numbness you were enveloped in. You could barely breathe, but somehow you forced yourself to focus on them. You were their mother. You had to be strong for them, even if your heart was shattered, even if your very soul was torn in two.

You mustered every ounce of strength you had left, pushing through the suffocating darkness in your mind, and called out in a trembling voice. “Help! Somebody, please!” But the room remained silent, and the weight of helplessness pressed down on you even harder. You could only hope, pray that someone would hear your desperate cries.

But in this moment of anguish, one thing remained clear—you couldn’t give up. Not now. Not after everything. Your children needed you. And you would find a way to make sure they were safe, no matter the cost.

Your heart felt like it was being ripped from your chest as you lay on the cold floor, the pain in your head now a distant echo compared to the agony consuming you. Jaehaerys’ life had been taken so violently, and the memory of it haunted you, sending waves of grief and guilt crashing over you. How could something so terrible happen to your family? How could you protect them when everything felt like it was falling apart?

Then, through the haze of your despair, you heard them.

Aegon stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide in disbelief as he took in the horrifying scene before him. His gaze flickered between your broken form on the floor, the lifeless body of Jaehaerys, and the missing head, all the while his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. His heart stopped as the magnitude of the tragedy hit him.

“Love…” His voice cracked, barely a whisper as he took a step forward, his eyes never leaving the devastation that surrounded him. “What happened…? What did they do…?”

Tears began to well up in his eyes, his knees threatening to give way beneath him. He wanted to run to you, to hold you, to comfort you, but the horror of the scene kept him rooted to the spot. Jaehaera and Maelor were kneeling by your side, their faces pale, their small hands shaking as they tried to help you, but they were just as lost and broken as he was.

The room seemed to spin around him, every second feeling like an eternity as he struggled to comprehend what had happened. His son, his precious Jaehaerys, was gone. Brutally taken from him. And you, his wife, his love, were injured—physically and emotionally, your body laying broken and helpless on the cold stone floor.

Aegon’s heart shattered in that moment, as his legs finally gave out beneath him, and he collapsed by your side. His hands trembled as he reached for you, pulling you into his arms, cradling your head in his lap with desperate tenderness. His tears fell freely now, his voice ragged as he whispered your name over and over.

“I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry, Love…” he sobbed, his fingers brushing over your bruised and bleeding temple. “I should have been here. I should have protected you, protected him.”

Jaehaera and Maelor clung to him, their tiny bodies shaking with grief. Jaehaera’s voice, choked with tears, was barely audible as she whispered, “Mother… why? Why did they take him?”

Aegon couldn’t answer. The words were stuck in his throat, the sorrow and rage too great to form anything coherent. He could only hold onto you, his family, as the weight of this tragedy settled deep into his bones. The blood on the floor, the silence of the room, the absence of his son—it was all too much. And yet, somehow, he knew one thing.

He would make sure that Jaehaerys’s death was not in vain. Whoever was responsible for this—he would make them pay.

The sound of Alicent's horrified scream echoed through the chamber as her gaze fell upon the lifeless body of Jaehaerys, blood pooling beneath him. She staggered forward, her hand clutching her chest, her face pale with shock. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she knelt beside Aegon, her voice trembling.

"What... what happened? Aegon, who did this?!" Alicent's voice cracked as she turned to her son, desperate for answers, her eyes darting between you and the lifeless form of her grandson.

Aegon's jaw tightened as he held you closer, shielding you from the sight of the carnage.

His face was etched with grief and fury, his tears streaking his pale cheeks. "They came for her... for my wife... and they took him." His voice was raw, filled with agony and seething rage.

Alicent let out another broken sob, her trembling hands reaching to touch Jaehaerys's small, lifeless hand. "No, no, no... my grandson... my sweet boy..." she whispered, her voice hollow as she rocked back and forth in anguish.

Ser Criston stepped forward, his expression grim as he surveyed the horrific scene. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, and he bowed his head briefly in sorrow before speaking. "Your Grace, this was no mere attack. This was a message-a calculated act of terror."

Aegon's eyes burned with fury as he raised his head, glaring at Criston and the guards. "And where were you?! Where were the guards?!" he shouted, his voice thunderous. "This happened in our home, under our watch! My son is dead, and my wife could have been killed!"

Criston looked stricken but held his ground. "I failed you, Your Grace," he said solemnly, his head bowed. "But I will find who did this. I swear it on my life."

Alicent turned back to you, her hands hovering over you as if unsure where to touch, afraid of causing you more pain. "My sweet girl, are you hurt? What did they do to you?"

Your voice was weak, trembling with grief and exhaustion as you spoke, your hand resting protectively over your growing belly. "They came for Jaehaerys... they wanted... one of my sons..." A sob broke free, and you clung to Aegon, tears streaming down your face. "They said it was to pay a debt... I begged them to take me instead, but they wouldn't..."

Alicent gasped, her face crumpling with grief as she brought her hands to her mouth.

"Monsters... vile monsters..." she whispered.

Aegon's arms tightened around you, his voice trembling with raw emotion as he declared, "I'll kill them all. Whoever sent them, whoever dared touch my family-they will pay for this."

His words carried a promise of vengeance, one that echoed through the grief-stricken room, even as Alicent reached out to pull Jaehaera and Maelor into her arms, trying to shield them from the horror that surrounded them. The Red Keep had been stained with blood, and its halls would not rest until justice was served.

Aegon’s steps faltered when Alicent’s trembling voice called out, “Aegon! Wait—there’s blood…”

He froze in place, his breath hitching as he looked down and saw the faint trail of crimson staining the floor beneath you. Panic surged through him, his grip on you tightening as if holding you closer might somehow protect you.

“No… no, no, no,” Aegon muttered, his voice breaking. His eyes darted to Alicent, desperation etched across his face. “Mother, do something! She can’t… the baby…!”

Alicent’s composure, though shaken, returned as she gestured sharply to Ser Criston. “Fetch the maesters! Now!”

Criston nodded and hurried from the room while Alicent stepped closer, her voice firm despite her trembling hands. “Aegon, you need to lay her down. We mustn’t move her further.”

Aegon hesitated, his emotions a storm of fear and anguish, but he finally nodded, carrying you into the nearest room and gently laying you down on the bed. Your face was pale, your breathing shallow, and you clung weakly to his hand, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

“Aegon,” you whispered, your voice fragile, “the baby…”

“Shh, don’t talk,” he pleaded, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “You’re going to be fine. The baby’s going to be fine. Just hold on for me, alright?” His voice cracked as he fought to keep his composure, his free hand gripping yours tightly.

Alicent knelt beside you, her own fear clear in her eyes, but she forced herself to be calm. “My sweet girl, listen to me. The maesters will be here soon. Just breathe, my dear. We’re going to take care of you.”

Moments later, the door burst open as the maesters arrived, their expressions grim but focused. They moved quickly, assessing your condition as Aegon reluctantly stepped back, though he refused to let go of your hand.

One of the maesters turned to Alicent and spoke in a low tone, though Aegon could still hear. “Her Grace is in distress, and there��s a risk of premature labor. We must act swiftly to stabilize her and the child.”

Aegon’s heart plummeted at the words, his knees nearly buckling as he gripped the bedpost for support. “No… you have to save them both. Do you hear me? You will save them both!” His voice was a desperate command, laced with fear and fury.

The maesters nodded, working diligently as Alicent placed a reassuring hand on her son’s shoulder. “Aegon,” she said softly, her own tears threatening to spill, “she’s strong. Your child is strong. Have faith in them.”

Aegon nodded shakily, his gaze fixed on you, willing you to hold on. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Not you, not our baby. Please…”

The room was heavy with tension, the air thick with unspoken prayers, as the maesters worked tirelessly to protect both you and the life growing within you.

You opened your eyes slowly, the soft glow of morning light filtering through the curtains. The familiar surroundings of your chamber brought little comfort. The walls, once a sanctuary, now felt cold and oppressive.

Your body felt weak, as if the weight of the previous night still pressed upon you. Then the memories struck, sharp and unforgiving—Jaeharys, your eldest son, his life taken in a moment of unimaginable brutality. You could still hear his cries, the muffled sobs of Maelor and Jaehaera, and the laughter of the men who had stolen him from you.

Your hand instinctively went to your stomach, where your unborn child still rested. A maester’s words from the night before echoed in your mind: “The babe is safe, for now.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you curled into yourself, grief and guilt battling within. You had nearly lost another child. The thought alone tore at you, guilt whispering that you hadn’t done enough, even though you knew there was nothing more you could have done.

The door creaked open, and Aegon stepped inside, his face pale and worn from sleeplessness. His eyes softened when they met yours, but the pain and anger behind them were unmistakable. He hurried to your side, kneeling beside the bed and taking your hand gently in his.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He pressed a trembling kiss to your knuckles. “I thought—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I thought I might lose you too.”

Your lips trembled as tears began to fall. “Jaeharys…”

Aegon’s face crumpled at the mention of your son’s name. He pulled you into his arms carefully, mindful of your weakened state. “I know,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I know, my love. I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected him.”

You shook your head against his chest. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but theirs.”

“But it’s my duty,” he said fiercely, his grip tightening. “And I failed. I swear to you, I will find the men who did this. They will pay for what they’ve done to our family.”

You looked up at him, his words carrying the weight of a king and a father. But as much as you wanted justice, you also feared what this vow of vengeance would mean for the family you still had.

“Aegon,” you said softly, your hand resting on his cheek. “Please… don’t let anger consume you. I can’t lose you too.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “You won’t,” he promised. “I’ll make sure you and the children are safe. No matter the cost.”

The silence that followed was heavy with grief and determination, the two of you clinging to each other as you tried to find solace in the aftermath of your shared loss.

Aegon held your trembling hand tightly, his face a mixture of sorrow and rage as he guided you toward the room where your children had been sleeping. The faint metallic smell of blood still lingered in the air, and the sight before you made your heart clench painfully.

The servants moved swiftly, carrying out the blood-soaked mattress that had once cradled your eldest son. You stopped in the doorway, unable to take another step. Tears streamed down your face as your knees threatened to give way beneath you.

“No…” you whispered, your voice trembling. “This was his room. His bed.”

Aegon’s grip on your hand tightened, anchoring you as much as himself. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes blazed with fury, but when he looked at you, his expression softened, replaced by heartbreak.

“I should’ve protected him,” you choked out between sobs. “I should’ve protected him, Aegon. I—”

“You did everything you could,” Aegon interrupted, his voice hoarse yet firm. “This isn’t your fault.”

But your grief was insurmountable. Watching the servants remove the last traces of Jaeharys felt like losing him all over again. You turned into Aegon’s chest, clutching his tunic tightly as your sobs grew louder.

“I can’t bear this,” you cried. “I can’t—he was just a boy. Our boy.”

Aegon held you close, his arms strong yet gentle as he whispered words of comfort. His tears mingled with yours as he kissed the top of your head, his own pain mirroring yours.

“We will honor him,” he said softly. “We will make sure no one forgets who he was. And those who did this… they will pay.”

Though his words were meant to comfort, they only made your heart ache more. You thought of Jaehaera and Maelor, the terror they must have felt, and the lingering scars this night would leave on them.

You pulled away slightly, wiping your tears with a shaking hand. “We have to protect them, Aegon. Maelor, Jaehaera, the babe… We can’t let this happen again.”

Aegon nodded, his expression hardening as he placed a hand over your own, resting protectively over your growing belly. “I swear to you, they will be safe. No one will hurt our family again.”

But as you stood in the doorway, staring at the empty room that once held so much life, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of uncertainty pressing down on you. Would your family ever truly be safe?

As one of the servants passed by carrying the embroidered blanket you had painstakingly crafted for Jaehaerys, you froze. The sight of it, a tangible piece of your love and care for your son, brought a fresh wave of pain crashing down on you.

“Wait,” you said, your voice hoarse yet firm.

The servant stopped immediately, looking at you with a mixture of pity and unease. You stepped forward, your trembling hands reaching out.

“Give it to me,” you said softly, almost pleading.

The servant hesitated for a moment before handing you the blanket. The moment it was in your hands, you clutched it tightly to your chest, pressing your face into the soft fabric. It still smelled faintly of him, a mixture of childhood innocence and comfort.

Your knees threatened to buckle as you stood there, hugging the blanket as though it could bring him back. The tears came again, silently streaming down your face as you whispered his name.

Aegon stood by your side, watching you with an expression of utter devastation. He reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch warm and steady.

“You made that for him,” he said, his voice heavy with sorrow.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “I poured my heart into it… Every stitch was for him. He loved it.”

Aegon’s fingers gently traced your arm as he tried to comfort you, though his own grief was evident in the glassiness of his eyes. “He would want you to hold onto it. To remember him.”

You sank into Aegon’s embrace, still clutching the blanket tightly. “I feel like if I let go of this, I’ll lose him forever.”

“You’ll never lose him,” Aegon murmured, his arms wrapping around you protectively. “He’ll always be in your heart, in every memory. No one can take that away from you.”

Despite his words, the ache in your chest remained unbearable. You stood there, holding onto the blanket and the remnants of your son, as the world around you seemed to crumble into sorrow.

Aegon placed a hand gently on your shoulder, his voice tender but firm. “You need to rest. Please, for the baby’s sake.”

You hesitated, your eyes lingering on the room where so much of Jaehaerys still lingered—his favorite toys, the bed he once slept in, now a haunting reminder of his absence. But the weight of exhaustion, both physical and emotional, pressed down on you.

“Alright,” you whispered, your voice trembling. You clutched Jaehaerys’ blanket tightly against your chest, as if it were the only thing anchoring you to reality.

Aegon guided you carefully back to your chambers, his arm steadying you as you walked. The journey felt endless, your legs heavy with grief. Once inside, he helped you to the bed, adjusting the pillows behind your back as you sat down.

You curled up on your side, still holding the blanket close. The soft fabric against your cheek was both a comfort and a torment, reminding you of the warmth and joy that were now gone.

Aegon knelt by the bedside, his hand finding yours. “I’ll stay with you,” he said softly. “You don’t have to face this alone.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked at him. His face was etched with sorrow, his own grief clear despite his attempts to be strong for you.

“I don’t know how to move forward,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

“We’ll figure it out together,” Aegon promised, his thumb brushing gently over your hand. “For him. For the children. And for us.”

You nodded faintly, though the weight in your chest remained unbearable. As the night deepened, you closed your eyes, hoping that sleep might bring even a momentary reprieve from the pain. Through it all, Aegon stayed by your side, his presence a fragile but steady beacon in the overwhelming darkness.

The following morning, the Red Keep felt suffocating, its halls shrouded in an almost tangible darkness. The news spread quickly—Jaehaerys’ head had been discovered by the guards, hidden in a blood-soaked sack strapped to a horse. The culprits had been captured, their guilt undeniable.

You lay in your chambers, the weight of the news crushing you further. The world seemed to spin as you struggled to breathe through the despair. Jaehaerys was gone, and now his mutilated remains were a cruel reminder of the nightmare you had lived.

Aegon had left your side as soon as the guards delivered the report. Consumed by rage and grief, he stormed down to the dungeons. Word soon reached you of his actions—how he had taken the lead in interrogating and torturing the men responsible for your son’s death. His fury was unmatched, his desire for vengeance insatiable.

But you couldn’t move. You couldn’t even bring yourself to feel relief that justice, or what little semblance of it remained, was being sought. All you could do was lie there, staring blankly at the ceiling, clutching Jaehaerys’ blanket close to your chest.

The door creaked open, and Alicent entered quietly, her face pale and drawn. She approached you cautiously, her hands folded tightly before her. “My dear,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “The men who did this… They’ve been captured. Aegon… he’s ensuring they pay for their crimes.”

Her words barely registered. You turned your head slightly to look at her, tears welling in your eyes. “It won’t bring him back” you whispered, your voice hollow.

Alicent knelt beside you, taking your hand in hers. “No, it won’t,” she admitted, tears spilling down her cheeks. “But you still have your other children. You still have Aegon. They need you. We all need you.”

You closed your eyes, trying to summon strength from her words, but the pain was too overwhelming. The only sound in the room was the soft rustling of the blanket in your trembling hands and the muffled sobs of a grieving mother.

Alicent sat quietly beside your bed, the weight of grief heavy in the air. Her hand moved gently through your hair, a comforting rhythm meant to soothe, though she knew it could never truly heal the wound carved into your heart.

You clutched Jaehaerys’ blanket tightly, your tears soaking into its fabric. Each stitch, each thread seemed to carry his presence, his memory, and you couldn’t bear to let it go. Your body trembled, overwhelmed by the ache of losing him, and Alicent’s touch was the only tether keeping you grounded in that moment.

“I know,” Alicent whispered after a long silence, her voice soft and steady. “I know what it feels like to lose a child.” Her eyes glistened as she looked down at you, her own pain resurfacing. “It’s a wound that never truly heals, but you find a way to keep going. For those who still need you.”

Her words resonated in the quiet room, and for a moment, the two of you shared a bond that only mothers who had endured such unimaginable pain could understand. Alicent’s hand paused briefly as she continued, “I wish I could take this pain from you, my dear. But I promise, I will be here. For you, for Aegon, for your children.”

You let out a shaky breath, your tears slowing but not stopping. “I don’t know how to go on without him,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “He was my firstborn. My little boy. How am I supposed to face tomorrow?”

Alicent leaned closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “One moment at a time,” she said gently. “And when it feels like too much, lean on those who love you. On Aegon, on me, and on your other children. They need their mother, and I know you’ll find the strength for them.”

Her words offered a fragile comfort, a reminder that even in the depths of sorrow, you were not alone.

Left alone in the silence of your chambers, the weight of loss pressed heavily on your chest. The blanket you held seemed to carry the warmth of Jaehaerys’ laughter, his smile, his joy—all now just distant memories etched painfully into your heart.

Your fingers traced the patterns you had embroidered on the fabric, each stitch a reflection of your love for him. Images of his first steps, his infectious laughter as he played with his siblings, and the way he would cling to you when he sought comfort flooded your mind.

The tears came slowly at first, then in waves, as the ache in your heart became unbearable. You clutched the blanket closer, burying your face into it, as if doing so could somehow bring him back to you.

“Jaehaerys,” you whispered brokenly, the name a prayer, a plea, a cry for something you could never have again. “My sweet boy… I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

The emptiness of the room amplified your grief. The sound of your own quiet sobs filled the space, a sorrow too profound for words. You rocked slightly, as if comforting yourself in the way you used to comfort your children.

The memories came unbidden: his excited voice calling you “Mother,” his small hand gripping yours so tightly, and the way he would light up the room with his presence. Each recollection was a dagger to your soul, a reminder of what you had lost.

“Why him?” you choked out to no one, your voice trembling. “Why my boy?”

The room offered no answers, only silence. You cried until your body felt drained, your tears soaking into the blanket that now held all the love you could no longer give him in life.

The creak of the door pulled you from your thoughts, and your tear-streaked face turned toward it. Aegon stood in the doorway, his figure slouched and disheveled, his expression hollow with grief. His tunic was marred with blood—evidence of the fury and anguish he had unleashed on the man who had taken your son from you.

His violet eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of his sorrow mirrored your own, and it was clear that he had been struggling in his own way, consumed by rage and despair. Slowly, he stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him.

“Aegon…” you whispered, your voice raw from crying.

He didn’t respond immediately, but his gaze fell to the blanket in your arms, the one you clung to so desperately. His steps were hesitant as he approached you, finally sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“I couldn’t save him,” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with guilt and pain. “I couldn’t protect our son.”

You shook your head, tears welling up once more. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t…”

He leaned forward, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch the blanket. His fingers brushed against yours, and for a moment, he held them there, grounding himself in the only comfort left to him—your presence.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what they did to him,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “The way they took him from us… I made him suffer for it. The one who did this. He begged for mercy, but I showed him none.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. You knew the fury that burned within Aegon, but this was different. This was the wrath of a father, a broken man seeking vengeance for a loss that could never be mended.

You reached out, cupping his bloodstained face with trembling hands. “Aegon… nothing will bring him back,” you said softly, your voice laced with sorrow.

“I know,” he whispered, his tears falling freely now. He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing as he tried to find solace in you. “But I had to do something. I had to… for him.”

You both sat in the heavy silence, the weight of your grief wrapping around you like a shroud. Aegon shifted closer, wrapping his arms around you protectively as though shielding you from the world. For a moment, it was just the two of you, clinging to each other amidst the ruins of your shared heartbreak.

The journey to Sept was long and quiet, the weight of grief still hanging heavily in the air around you. It had been a week since your son’s brutal death, and every moment since had felt like a struggle to breathe. Your thoughts were consumed by the images of what had happened, the harsh memory of that night forever etched in your mind.

Helaena, sensing your deep sorrow, had taken your hand gently, her touch warm and reassuring. Her silence was comforting, as if she understood that sometimes, words couldn’t ease the pain. Alicent sat across from you, her eyes occasionally glancing at you with concern, but she knew better than to push you. Instead, she tried to shift the focus, talking about other matters—anything to help distract you, if only for a moment.

“Have you heard the latest from the council?” Alicent asked, her voice gentle but trying to pull you back into the present. “There’s talk of fortifying the defenses along the borders. There’s no telling what might happen next.”

You barely registered her words, your thoughts drifting again to the loss of your child. How could the world keep moving when everything inside you felt so broken?

Helaena gave your hand a soft squeeze, her eyes full of empathy. She, too, knew the pain of losing someone, though the circumstances might have been different. Her presence was a quiet comfort, as if she were offering you the only solace she could, without words.

Alicent noticed your faraway expression, and though her voice remained calm, a hint of concern showed in her eyes. “I know it’s hard, but you need to be strong now,” she said gently, though it was clear she, too, felt the crushing weight of your grief. “The gods will guide us through this. We must continue, even when it feels like everything is falling apart.”

You nodded absently, your gaze distant, the tears you had tried to hold back threatening to spill once more. It was hard to stay strong when the world around you seemed so cold, so indifferent to the pain you were living through.

But still, you kept walking, with Helaena’s hand in yours and Alicent’s voice trying to keep you grounded.

The flickering candlelight cast a soft, warm glow in the sept, creating a quiet sanctuary from the weight of the world outside. As you knelt before the altar, your hands trembling, you whispered a prayer for your son. The words felt foreign on your lips, too distant from the pain in your heart, but you said them anyway, hoping that the gods would hear your sorrow and bring some measure of peace.

The silence of the sept was overwhelming, broken only by the sound of your soft sobs. It was as if the whole world had quieted to give space for your grief. Alicent and Helaena stood beside you, both trying to offer comfort in their own ways, but neither could take away the raw pain that gripped you.

Helaena, ever gentle, placed a hand on your shoulder, her touch light, as if she feared it might cause you more hurt. Alicent stood a little further back, her expression a mixture of sorrow and concern, her own eyes betraying the shared pain of a mother who had lost a child.

They both knew that nothing could ease your heart right now. There was no word of comfort that could replace the empty space left by your son’s death. And yet, they remained there with you, silent in their own grief, offering you the space to mourn in the only way you could.

The flicker of the candles and the soft chanting of the sept echoed in the stillness, but all you could hear was the memory of your son’s laughter, his warmth, and the ache of the loss that would never truly fade.

As you slowly rose to your feet with Alicent’s support, the weight of your growing belly added to the heaviness in your heart. Each step you took felt like a struggle, both physically and emotionally. The journey from the sept to the waiting carriage felt longer than it should have, the air around you thick with sorrow.

The people who had gathered outside, offering their condolences and words of sympathy, only deepened the ache within you. Their sorrowful expressions, some of them bowing their heads as they spoke of their shared grief, felt like daggers to your already broken heart. You wanted to hide from it all, to escape the pity and the reminders of what you had lost, but instead, you forced yourself to smile faintly in return, acknowledging their kindness even as it made your heart ache further.

Alicent noticed your struggle, her hand gently resting on your arm, guiding you toward the carriage. “It’s difficult, I know,” she said softly, her voice filled with a mix of empathy and concern. “But your son would want you to carry on. He would want you to be strong—for the ones still with you.”

Her words were meant to comfort, but they couldn’t erase the grief that consumed you. Every step felt like it was taking you further from the life you once had, the one where your son still lived, still laughed, still held the light in your world. But despite the pain, you knew she was right. The world continued on, and you, despite your heartache, had to continue too—for your unborn child and the family still by your side.

As you finally settled into the carriage, the door closing softly behind you, you closed your eyes and let the tears flow freely. You allowed yourself the moment to grieve, to feel the weight of your loss, even as you knew you had to carry on.

You walked slowly through the corridors of Red Keep, your steps heavy with exhaustion. The weight of the loss still hung over you like a dark cloud, and the thought of facing the world outside your room felt unbearable.

As you neared your chambers, you heard Aegon’s voice—his frantic, anguished shouts echoing down the hall from the council room. His tone was one of fury, yet it carried an undertone of desperation that you couldn’t ignore. But despite the urge to rush to him, you knew you needed time alone, to rest, to process.

With a deep breath, you pushed open the door to your room. The familiar surroundings—your bed, the walls, the silence—felt both comforting and suffocating. You closed the door behind you and let yourself collapse onto the edge of the bed.

Tears that had been held back for what felt like forever finally fell freely, soaking into the pillow beneath your head. You didn’t know how long you lay there, lost in the sorrow of your thoughts, but the pain didn’t seem to lessen. Aegon’s anger, his pain—it all seemed to reach you in waves, but you couldn’t bring yourself to face him just yet.

You needed this moment of solitude to regain some semblance of control, even if it was only temporary. The war raging within your heart, the grief, the guilt—it was all too much, and you couldn’t carry it all at once.

You stood by the window, your gaze lost in the vast expanse of the Red Keep grounds, but your mind was far from the view. The memory of that night replayed in your thoughts, the terror, the chilling demand to choose a son. “It must be a son,” their words haunted you, echoing in the silence of your room.

Your heart ached with the cruel logic behind it. Perhaps it was retaliation for the loss of Luke, your brother. The thought of your mother being involved in such a brutal act seemed impossible. She wouldn’t do this to me, you thought. Your mother, Rhaenyra, might be stern, but she wouldn’t take the life of an innocent child to settle old grievances, especially not her own grandchildren.

Yet, the fear gnawed at you. The uncertainty of their next move was unbearable. As much as you tried to reason with yourself, there was a deeper, darker part of you that feared you might be wrong. Could your family really have fallen to this depth of cruelty? Or was it simply your own pain making everything seem darker than it was?

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breath. The weight of your unborn child in your womb, the loss of your son, the fear for the future—all of it pressing on you. You had to be strong. For them. For your children. Even when your heart screamed to fall apart, you had to find a way to keep going.

You turned your gaze toward the door, your heart heavy with uncertainty, listening for any sign that Aegon was returning from his meeting. The silence in the room only amplified the tension inside you. After a long moment of stillness, you quietly moved to the wardrobe, pulling out your cloak. The fabric felt heavy in your hands as you draped it over your shoulders, feeling the coolness of it against your skin.

The decision felt impulsive, yet necessary. You had to know the truth. The questions swirling in your mind—the guilt, the suspicion—demanded answers. Was it really her? Could your mother have orchestrated such an unimaginable act? The thought of confronting her terrified you, but you needed closure. You needed to know where your family’s loyalty truly lay, especially now, with so much at stake.

As you stepped toward the door, you paused, taking a deep breath. I must do this. You didn’t know what you’d find at Dragonstone, but you couldn’t stay in this uncertain limbo any longer. With one final glance at your room, you quietly opened the door and slipped out, hoping to make it out of the Red Keep undetected. Every step you took away from the comfort of your room felt like a step further into the unknown.

You reached the Dragonpit, the massive structure housing the dragons, and the familiar sight of your dragon stirred something deep within you. The cold stone underfoot was a stark contrast to the warmth you felt as you approached your dragon. Its fiery eyes met yours, an almost knowing gaze. Slowly, you reached out, your hand trembling slightly as you stroked its snout. The bond you shared with the creature was undeniable, a connection forged through years of trust and shared history.

���Take me to Dragonstone,” you whispered softly, your voice filled with a mix of determination and uncertainty.

Your dragon let out a low rumble, as though acknowledging your command. With practiced ease, you climbed onto its back, the leather of your boots securing your position. The wind in your hair felt cool, but your heart was anything but calm. Every part of you was pulling in different directions—fear, hope, guilt—but you had to know the truth.

“Let’s go,” you urged, and the dragon unfurled its massive wings, lifting into the air with a power that made your heart race. The Red Keep slowly disappeared beneath you as you soared high into the sky, the horizon stretching out before you, unknown and daunting.

As the cold wind whipped against your face, your thoughts were consumed by the unknown, by what you would find at Dragonstone—and whether you were ready to face the answers.

As you descended from your dragon, the weight in your chest grew heavier. The sight of Dragonstone, with its jagged cliffs and looming silhouette, mirrored the turbulence within you. The castle stood as a cold, silent witness to your turmoil. You exhaled slowly, trying to steady your nerves. Every step toward the castle felt like an irreversible move, but you knew it was necessary.

The air was damp and sharp as you made your way up the stone steps, the sound of your boots echoing in the silence. The distant crash of waves against the rocks below was the only sound that accompanied your journey, a constant reminder of the harshness of this place.

The entrance to the castle loomed ahead, its dark stone walls filled with memories of times both cherished and painful. You couldn’t help but wonder what awaited you inside. Would your mother and father be there, or had they already gone? Was it truly them who had been behind your son’s death, or was something darker at play?

With one final glance at your dragon, still perched above the cliffs, you pushed the heavy door open, stepping into the shadowed halls of Dragonstone. The cool air hit you like a wave, and the distant sound of footsteps made your heart skip. Someone was here. You weren’t alone.

Every step you took felt like a question hanging in the air.

You looked at them both, your heart pounding in your chest. The sight of your mother, Rhaenyra, and your father, Daemon, standing there, their expressions a mixture of surprise and something else—something unreadable—sent a chill down your spine. Their presence, once familiar, now felt distant, like strangers from another life. The air around you felt thick with tension.

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened slightly, and after a moment of silence, she stepped forward, her voice calm but with an edge of urgency. “Come, let’s talk privately,” she said, her hand gesturing toward a door behind her. “We need to understand each other, especially now.”

Daemon, standing just a little behind her, remained silent, his eyes dark and intense, as if waiting for your next move. The air felt heavy between the three of you, as if the world outside had ceased to exist. Only the weight of what had happened and what was yet to unfold mattered.

Without saying anything, you nodded, though your heart raced in your chest. You followed Rhaenyra through the hallways, every step echoing in the quiet space, while your mind wrestled with the flood of emotions coursing through you.

As you entered your mother’s private chambers, the door closing behind you with a quiet thud, the atmosphere grew more intimate, yet no less tense. You knew this conversation would be difficult, but you needed answers—answers you weren’t sure you were ready to hear.

You sat in front of them, your heart heavy with uncertainty, the weight of your grief pressing down on you. The question you had been holding onto, the one that had haunted your every thought since that night, finally slipped from your lips.

“Did you have anything to do with the death of my son?” you asked, your voice breaking, though you tried to keep it steady. Your eyes searched your mother’s face, hoping to find a truth that could offer you some kind of peace.

Rhaenyra’s expression faltered for a moment, her eyes welling with sadness as she met your gaze. Her voice trembled slightly when she spoke, the sincerity in her words undeniable. “I could never do that to you,” she said softly, her hands clasping in front of her. “I know the pain of losing a child—how could I bring that pain to you, my own daughter? I would never wish that kind of grief upon you.”

Daemon, standing quietly beside her, didn’t say a word, but his eyes were sharp, his brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and concern. His gaze flickered between you and Rhaenyra, as if he too was trying to understand the depth of your pain, yet unsure how to ease it.

Rhaenyra continued, her voice growing more earnest. “I swear to you, I had nothing to do with it. If I had known, if I could have prevented it…” Her voice trailed off, the sorrow in her words hanging in the air like a heavy fog. “I would have done anything to stop it, just as I would have for any of my children.”

For a moment, silence filled the room. You could feel the tension, the uncertainty swirling between you, but there was a flicker of something—a glimmer of hope in her eyes that made you question whether it was possible that your own mother had been left as helpless as you in this tragedy.

But despite the sincerity in her voice, a part of you couldn’t let go of the doubt, the lingering fear that perhaps there were still pieces missing in the puzzle, pieces you needed to uncover to fully understand the truth.

As your gaze shifted to your father, Daemon, you saw his face remain cold and unreadable, offering no comfort or answer. His silence spoke volumes, and it gnawed at your heart. You couldn’t help but feel a growing unease. You turned your question to him, asking the same thing you had asked your mother.

“Did you have anything to do with the death of my son?”

Daemon’s gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression unchanging. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. He said nothing.

The tension in the room thickened, the silence becoming suffocating. Your eyes remained on him, waiting for some sign—any sign—that he would speak, that he would offer an explanation. But all you got was the cold indifference of a man who seemed lost in his own thoughts.

It was then that your mother, Rhaenyra, seemed to realize something. Her eyes flickered between you and Daemon, her brow furrowing as if a thought had just crossed her mind. She looked at Daemon, her voice tinged with worry.

“Daemon,” she began, her tone softer now, as if trying to break through the wall he had erected around himself. “Why are you silent? If you know something… if you were involved, now is the time to speak.”

Daemon’s gaze shifted to her, and for the first time, a flicker of something—something hard to read—passed over his face. It wasn’t guilt, nor was it fear. It was something else, something colder, something you couldn’t quite place.

Rhaenyra’s voice softened, a quiet desperation in her words as she urged, “If you had any part in this… now is the time to tell her. She deserves to know the truth.”

Daemon remained still, his gaze dropping to the floor, as if contemplating whether or not to speak. His silence was more than just an absence of words—it was a statement, a question you weren’t sure you wanted the answer to.

The weight of the room seemed to increase with every passing second. You wanted answers, but the more you questioned, the more you felt as if the truth was slipping further away from you.

As you stood, your hands trembling with a mixture of anger and disbelief, you reached forward and tugged at your father’s tunic, pulling him just enough for him to look at you. Your heart raced, and your breath caught in your throat as you stared into his eyes, willing him to speak, to say something—anything—that would disprove your suspicion.

But he didn’t. He remained silent, his eyes distant, his face void of emotion. The longer his gaze stayed fixed on you without a single word, the more the truth settled in your chest, heavy and suffocating. The silence between you was deafening, louder than any words could ever be.

With a broken sob, you stepped back, releasing the grip on his tunic. It was clear now—your father was the one behind the brutal murder of your son. You could feel your legs weakening beneath you, your body trembling, as the weight of this revelation crashed down upon you.

“How could you?” you whispered, voice barely audible, but the pain in your words was unmistakable. “How could you do this to me, to your own blood?”

Daemon finally broke his silence, but not with words. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as if bracing himself for something. He didn’t apologize, nor did he offer any explanation. His face remained cold, implacable—unbothered by the devastation he had caused.

Rhaenyra, who had been silently watching the exchange, now stood from her seat, her face pale as she approached you. “Please,” she said, her voice pleading, “you must understand. There is so much more at play here, so much that you don’t know.”

But it was too late. The truth had already been revealed. Your trust in them was shattered, and the pain of losing your son, compounded by the betrayal of your own flesh and blood, was too much to bear. The walls of the room seemed to close in around you, and you felt as if you were suffocating in the crushing weight of it all.

“You did this,” you said, barely able to get the words out, your voice quivering with the intensity of your grief. “You took him from me.”

Rhaenyra reached out to you, but you stepped back, holding up your hand to stop her. There was no comfort to be found here, not from them. You couldn’t bear it anymore.

With a final, bitter glance at your father, you turned and walked toward the door. The pain and betrayal coursed through your every step, but you couldn’t stay any longer. You needed space. You needed to escape the suffocating atmosphere they had created.

The truth had shattered everything you thought you knew about your family.

As you made your way back to the dragon, your heart felt like it was shattering with every step. The world around you seemed to blur, and all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart. The weight of the betrayal was unbearable. You had trusted them, your own flesh and blood, only to find that they were the ones responsible for the greatest loss of your life.

Reaching the dragon, you stumbled, falling to your knees on the cold, unforgiving sand. The tears streamed down your face without restraint, as the grief, the anger, and the hurt poured out of you all at once. The dragon, sensing your distress, approached slowly, its great eyes watching you with an understanding that no one else could offer. You could hear its steady breath, feel the warmth of its body, but none of it brought comfort. Not now.

Your body trembled, each sob wracking your chest, as the full weight of the loss came crashing down. Your son was gone. Your family was broken. And the ones you had once turned to for support had become the very reason for your suffering.

You curled in on yourself, clutching your stomach instinctively, feeling the life growing inside you, the only remaining piece of hope. But even that seemed fragile in the face of everything that had happened.

“Why?” you whispered to the empty night, to the stars above that seemed distant and indifferent. “Why did this have to happen? Why did they have to take him from me?”

Your grief consumed you, leaving you feeling hollow and lost. The journey ahead felt uncertain, and the future seemed impossible to face. All you could do was cry, lost in the pain, surrounded by the only thing that had ever offered you some semblance of comfort—your dragon.

As you approached the gates of King’s Landing, each step felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Your heart was heavy with sorrow, your mind clouded with grief. The castle loomed ahead, its dark silhouette a stark reminder of everything that had been lost. You could feel the weight of the eyes of the city upon you as you made your way through the streets, but nothing seemed to matter anymore.

When you arrived at the gates, the guards immediately took notice of your return. One of them rushed to inform Aegon of your presence, his concern clear in his hurried steps. You could almost sense his anxiousness, knowing that he had realized you had been gone for longer than you should have been.

You stood at the entrance, your body aching, your mind numb, as you waited for him. And then, just as you were about to turn back to your chambers, Aegon appeared before you, his face pale and strained. His eyes locked onto you with a mixture of relief and worry.

“My love,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “Where have you been? We’ve all been searching for you.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak at first. Your throat was tight, the words trapped behind the walls of your grief. But his presence, his familiar face, finally broke through, and the tears that had been stifled for so long began to flow once more.

Aegon held you tightly in his arms, the warmth of his embrace providing a small comfort against the turmoil in your heart. He gently stroked your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, as if trying to reassure you that he was there, that he wouldn’t let you go again.

But you knew that nothing could fully ease the pain in your soul. The truth weighed heavily on you, a burden you could no longer keep inside.

With a trembling voice, you pulled away slightly to meet his eyes, your words choked with emotion. “Aegon…” you began, the weight of the revelation heavy on your chest. “I went to Dragonstone. I had to know the truth. It was my father…Daemon. He’s the one behind Jaeherys’ death.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. You could see the shock in Aegon’s eyes, the disbelief, as if he couldn’t fully grasp what you were saying.

“I’m so sorry,” you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to believe it either, but… my father did this. He had him killed, and I had no idea until now.”

Tears welled up again as you gazed at him, feeling a mix of devastation and guilt. You didn’t know how to face him, how to explain what had happened. You only hoped he would understand, that somehow, through all this darkness, you could find a way forward together.

Aegon tightened his embrace, pulling you closer as he whispered soothing words into your ear, his voice low and steady. “I won’t let this go unpunished,” he murmured, his tone filled with quiet resolve. “Daemon will pay for what he’s done to our family. To you.”

His words, though comforting, only made the weight of the situation feel heavier. The pain of losing Jaeherys, the betrayal of your own blood—it was all too much to bear. But as Aegon held you, his presence was a lifeline, grounding you amidst the storm inside.

“I’m here for you,” he continued softly, his fingers brushing through your hair. “We’ll get through this together. I won’t let you carry this burden alone.”

You nodded, your heart aching but finding some solace in his words. You didn’t know what the future would bring, but with Aegon by your side, you hoped you could find a way to heal.

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

Thanks to @zaldritzosrose for making the beautiful diveders and let me use them 🫶🏻.

[anistarrose]

thinking about:

Fisher's home planet, and entire species, was destroyed when they were a baby, and Magnus took them aboard the Starblaster.

Once Junior, Fisher's own baby, was born, they were the only other Voidfish — the only other creature in the multiverse like Fisher — that Fisher had seen in over sixty years.

But Lucretia took Junior away.

Lucretia took Junior away, because it was the only way to save the world.

Lucretia took Junior away, because it was the only way to get Magnus, Merle, and Taako back.

Lucretia couldn't see any way to reunite her own family without separating a different one.

Junior grew up in secret, hidden away, with Lucretia caring for them.

Junior grew up without getting to see any other Voidfish — any other creature in the multiverse like them — ever since they'd been a baby.

Junior becomes the Announcer at the start of episodes, because Junior is the voice of the Story.

The Announcer never acts mad at Lucretia.

Junior was raised by Lucretia. Junior barely got to meet the rest of the IPRE.

But Junior was fed by, and raised on, stories of the whole IPRE, before they were separated.

The Announcer all but flat-out urges the audience to be sympathetic, to both Lucretia and the rest of the IPRE, for each of their most morally gray and consequential choices.

At the start of the episode where the IPRE create the Grand Relics, and Lucretia erases her family's memories to stop the ensuing war, the Announcer calls upon the viewers to imagine the apocalypse. To imagine the burden, and to imagine how it would change you. To imagine how desperate you would be to "protect the ones you loved."

The Announcer wants the IPRE to be understood.

The Announcer unfailingly refers to Tres Horny Boys, and later, all seven birds, as "our heroes."

The Announcer is barely able to contain their excitement about Barry coming back.

The Announcer pokes fun at the protagonists, and the circumstances they find themselves in, but does it like another part of the family would.

The Announcer loves the IPRE so, so much, and wants you to love them too, and understand their mistakes.

The Announcer is Junior.

Junior never even got to meet most of the IPRE.

But they grew up hearing the story of the IPRE, and how they cared for Fisher.

Junior know they're a survivor of a destroyed home planet, one they've never even seen themselves. They know they were separated from their parent, the only other survivor.

They know the IPRE's home planet was destroyed too. They know the IPRE were separated from each other, too.

Junior was raised on these stories. Junior's destiny is to tell these stories. The interwoven stories of two families, which were torn apart, but were also always really one family, one story.

But Junior can't tell the Story alone.

Until they finally meet someone they'd only heard about in those stories before. They finally meet Magnus, who saved Fisher all those years ago, who raised Fisher like he was their father — who's like a grandfather to Junior, a grandfather they never got to meet before.

Magnus fulfills a promise, and brings Junior back to Fisher.

And... Junior's nervous. Because it's been so long since they saw their parent? Because Fisher's injured, and Junior's terrified to lose the only other Voidfish like them, let alone when they just got each other back?

But for the first time in so long, Fisher is able to reach out and touch their child. To reassure Junior — it'll be okay.

And the two of them, finally, get to do what Voidfish are destined to do, but cannot do alone. Fisher sends out the Song...

And Junior tells the world, the whole world, the Story of how much they love the IPRE.

[sixeyesonathiel]

bloom in the blood — teaser

pairing — ares!gojo x aphrodite!reader

synopsis : in the early days of olympus, when the gods were still shaping their thrones and their names were still sharp in mortal mouths, two ascensions altered the course of heaven. one, carved from war and flame. the other, crowned in silk and worship.

they were never meant to meet.

but the world doesn’t always listen to prophecy. and when love and war find themselves in the same room—the sky holds its breath.

a/n : tags to be included just know it's a oneshot full of banter and yearning w/ smut, all i can say is prepare for satoru crashing out bcs the woman he's falling for fucks around with literally anyone but not with him LMAO. do tell if y'all want me to create a tag list for this <3 this oneshot is based from my drabbles, you can check it out here!

the sky was red, raw, still bleeding from the last war when they dragged you before the gods. your bare feet scraped the cold marble of olympus, bruised and dusted with ash, each step a reminder of the mortal earth you’d been torn from. your lips burned, stained with pomegranate wine you hadn’t chosen—left at your shrine by men with trembling hands, their eyes wet with desperation, their voices cracking as they whispered your name. your skin shimmered under the flickering torchlight, kissed by pollen, crushed gold, and the weight of offerings piled too high. mortals called you blessed. beloved. a miracle. their words clung to you like damp silk, heavy and unwanted.

but you were no goddess.

not yet.

just a woman with a face sharp enough to cut empires, beautiful enough to set them ablaze.

your gaze flicked upward, defiant, as zeus loomed from his throne—marble carved from thunder, draped in stormlight that pulsed like a living thing. his eyes, cold and ancient, studied you like a riddle he’d already decided was beneath him. behind him, olympus breathed, its golden columns trembling faintly, as if the mountain itself feared what you might become.

they called you dangerous.

not for a blade in your hand—you carried none—but because the world wielded one for you. kings had slaughtered bloodlines for a glance from you. sons had burned their fathers’ bones for the ghost of your smile. temples—holy, sacred temples—had crumbled to ash because your name lingered on mortal tongues longer than any prayer. when the gods tried to turn away, the mortals only screamed louder, their voices a tide that drowned out divine decrees.

“if she makes gods tremble as a mortal,” zeus declared, his voice rolling like a storm down a shattered peak, “then let her be a goddess. let her be worshipped instead.”

his words were not praise. they were a sentence.

they crowned you with pearls ripped from the marrow of sea monsters, their luster cold against your scalp. they bathed you in milk and honey, the sweetness cloying, sticking to your skin like a second chain. silk wound around your limbs—dyed with sunset and desire, so thin it felt like a lover’s breath—until you stood transformed, a vision too heavy to bear. they named you divine, not out of reverence, but to leash you. a crown, after all, is just another kind of collar.

elsewhere, the god of war tore a man apart with his teeth.

his name was satoru, and it still is, though mortals speak it only in shadows, pouring wine into the dirt, whispering behind bolted doors. they call him plague-bearer. butcher. saint of slaughter. but the truth is older, sharper: he was the first to ascend, not through glory or fate, but because even the underworld spat him back out. they say he died once, maybe twice—it didn’t matter. his body refused to rot. his sword never fell. every battlefield he touched still bears the scars of his hands, the earth itself remembering the weight of his steps.

“war can never be loyal,” zeus once muttered, watching him from a distance, his voice thick with something like fear. “we made him because we had to. because nothing else could stop him.”

satoru never craved divinity. but when the gods opened their gates, he strode through, blood-soaked and laughing, his grin a blade that cut deeper than steel. he killed like it was art, each stroke deliberate, each scream a note in a song only he could hear. he smiled like it hurt, like the act of joy was a wound he’d chosen to bear.

in a world where the gods were still young, still bleeding from mortal wounds, two forces were carved into being: love and war. they were never meant to meet. you didn’t know him. didn’t care. your temples rose on distant peaks, your altars draped in roses and gold, where men wept in your lap and tore each other apart just to die with your name on their lips. and far from your sanctums, satoru stood knee-deep in blood, his grin white and wild under a black sun, never knowing that the one thing forbidden to him—the one thing he might break for—was already burning with worship on another mountain.

“love has always ended wars,” the fates whispered, their threads taut between bony fingers. “but this love will start one.”

he didn’t know your name. not yet. but he would. because war always finds a reason to burn. and the gods, poor fools, had just given him his.

you.

the gods were arguing again, their voices a dull roar in the vaulted halls of olympus.

satoru leaned against a massive column, its marble too smooth, too clean for the filth still clinging to his skin. a half-empty goblet dangled between his bloodstained fingers, the wine inside catching the torchlight like liquid rubies. his armor hung loose, undone, the red and black silk of his tunic parted to reveal a chest still smudged with battlefield dirt, scars glinting faintly under the divine glow. his boots scuffed the polished floor, leaving faint streaks of mud and blood—marks of a war he’d abandoned hours ago, bored of its predictable end. he tilted his head back, pale lashes brushing his cheekbones, and watched a spider crawl across the gilded ceiling with more interest than he spared the council’s squabbles.

another pantheon forming. another city teetering on war. someone wept over tithes, another over priesthood succession—it was all the same. petty noise, perfumed panic, the soft rot of gods grasping at power they hadn’t earned. satoru’s lip curled faintly, his boredom a sharp, living thing, coiling in his chest like a beast waiting to snap.

“have you heard?” a goddess hissed, her voice sharp behind an ivory fan, pearls clinking against her goblet as she leaned toward a godling draped in rubies. “he made her divine. the mortal girl. the one whose beauty sparked three wars last year alone.”

satoru’s gaze didn’t shift, but the spider froze, legs tensing, as if it felt the air thicken. he didn’t look at them—not yet. not until the word slipped from their lips like a curse.

“the new goddess,” they whispered, reverent and afraid. “goddess of love.”

he laughed, a sound that cut through the murmurs like a blade through silk. not polite. not cruel. something raw, guttural, that made lesser gods flinch and the marble itself seem to shiver. he pushed off the column, muscles flexing under pale skin, the goblet swaying dangerously in his hand. his mouth curled into something too sharp to be a smile.

“goddess of love?” he echoed, dragging the words slow, like they tasted of ash. he stepped into the circle, wine sloshing against gold, his boots leaving faint smears on the floor. “what, she fluttered her lashes and someone handed her a throne?”

silence.

a few gods shifted, their robes rustling like dry leaves. one chuckled, too nervous to stop, and choked it back under satoru’s glance. the air tightened, heavy with the weight of his presence—smoke, cedar, and something scorched clinging to him like a second skin.

“love doesn’t win wars,” he muttered, tossing the goblet aside. it hit the steps with a dull clink, wine pooling red and rich, seeping into the cracks like blood. “love dies screaming on battlefields. love is what weak men beg for before i take their heads.”

his lip curled, baring teeth still stained with the memory of violence. “she must be fucking useless.”

he didn’t think of you again. not until the festival.

it was a spectacle he despised—loud, gaudy, drowning in gold and laughter too sweet to trust. a celebration of the seasons, where gods flaunted new robes and mortals poured honey-wine with trembling hands.

satoru had been summoned, not invited, dragged in like a blade on display. he slouched in a throne too polished, near the edge of the marble amphitheater, a goblet loose in his hand, the wine inside warm and sour. his other hand rested on the hilt of a dagger hidden under his robes—not because he needed it, but because its weight felt more honest than the applause.

he watched nothing. heard less. the perfume in the air stung his throat, thick with jasmine and myrrh. the lyre’s notes clawed at his skin, too soft, too delicate. he shifted, restless, the silk of his tunic catching the light, red and black like a wound half-healed.

then you appeared.

he didn’t see you first—he felt you. the hush that fell, sudden and absolute, like a thousand throats catching at once. the sunlight shifted, bending as if it answered to something greater than itself. then you stepped into view, and the world tilted, just enough to make his breath hitch.

you weren’t dressed to be seen. you were dressed to be worshipped.

translucent silk clung to your body, whispering secrets with every step, its edges catching the light like liquid flame. your skin glowed with divine ichor, kissed by gold dust and perfumed oils that smelled of lotus and something darker, sweeter. your hair was pinned with ivory combs, delicate strands spilling over your shoulder, catching the sun like threads of molten glass. each step was silent, commanding—not ethereal, not fragile, but like gravity itself knelt to you.

your eyes swept the crowd, slow, dismissive, lips parted just enough to hint at indifference. you offered nothing but presence, yet every god and mortal leaned forward, supplicants at an altar they hadn’t chosen. your hands were bare, wrists unbound, and somehow, every divine being forgot what power tasted like.

satoru blinked, his grip tightening on the goblet. for a moment, he thought it was a trick—a glamour, a curse. but no. you weren’t trying. you didn’t need to.

you didn’t look at him. not once.

and that was the problem.

his fingers clenched, wine sloshing over the rim, dripping onto his thigh. something coiled in his chest—sharp, nameless, alive. by the time he realized he was standing, the goblet had cracked in his grip, gold bending under his strength. his palm bled, slow and deliberate, wine mingling with blood, trickling down the stem in delicate streaks.

he didn’t notice.

couldn’t.

not when you were gliding across the marble like a storm on the verge of breaking, your gaze never once faltering in his direction.

his breath slowed, not calm but honed, like a predator scenting something it hadn’t learned to name. every instinct rose, ancient and patient, stirring under his skin like a tide pulling back before a crash.

you didn’t speak. didn’t smile. didn’t flinch.

and that made it worse. because satoru had killed kings for less. because gods had begged for his glance—and you didn’t even spare him a thought.

the silk of your dress shivered as you passed a column, your shoulder brushing the edge of shadow, and he could swear it trembled in your wake. behind you, a chorus lifted their voices, their song soft and reverent. he didn’t hear it. not really.

he was watching the way your bare foot kissed the marble, the arch of your ankle, the tilt of your chin like you carried the weight of a crown you hadn’t asked for. he saw the way your hands rested at your sides, loose but commanding, as if you could summon oceans with a flick of your wrist.

you were beautiful. too beautiful.

but it wasn’t that.

it was the nerve.

you hadn’t even looked at him.

and now you’d never leave his thoughts again.

weeks passed, and your name became a wound. once a curiosity, it grew into an invocation, spoken in places it didn’t belong—on battlefields, by dying men whose last breaths weren’t for war but for love. soldiers carved your sigil into their armor, scratched it into blades like a charm against death. queens knelt at your altars, clutching roses and begging for your favor before sending their sons to slaughter.

and satoru hated it.

not because it rivaled him. not because it mattered. but because every time your name crossed mortal lips, it clawed beneath his skin, a splinter that refused to bleed out.

so he did what he always did when the ache grew sharp—he picked a fight.

he stormed your temple in the middle of a rite, dust still clinging to his greaves, blood crusted along his throat like a second skin. his tunic was torn, dark with sweat and ash, and his mouth curved in something too wild to be a smile. laughter lingered in the cracks of his lips, though his eyes were cold, sharp, like a blade half-drawn. the doors groaned under the weight of his steps, and every priest in attendance forgot how to breathe.

acolytes scattered like doves, their robes fluttering in panic. dancers froze mid-turn, silk suspended like a held breath. the air thickened, heavy with incense and the scent of crushed petals—hibiscus, lotus, rose—cloying and sweet, clinging to the back of his throat.

only you didn’t move.

you sat on a platform of rose-quartz steps, draped in sheer ivory that caught the torchlight like moonlight on water. garlands of hibiscus curled around your ankles, their red petals stark against your skin, like blood spilled in offering. lotus petals floated in a shallow basin at your feet, their scent thick with honey and something deeper, darker. your posture was relaxed, one elbow resting against the curve of your throne, fingers tangled lazily in your hair, as if the world hadn’t just shuddered at his arrival.

but you felt it. he knew you did.

your face was unreadable beneath a thin veil—until you lifted it. your eyes met his, not with fear, not with awe, but with a flicker of irritation, like a cat disturbed by a sudden noise.

“you’re not supposed to be here,” you said, your voice low, silken, sharp enough to draw blood.

satoru stepped forward, boots crushing a garland underfoot, the petals snapping like bones. the sound echoed in the vaulted chamber, louder than it should have. his pale hair clung damply to his brow, blood dried along his cheekbone, dark against skin that glowed like moonlight. his smirk was mean, carved from something jagged.

“then make me leave.”

incense twisted between you, thick and heavy, curling upward like it, too, waited for your next move. petals bled under his boots—red, white, bruised—sticking to the leather like offerings gone sour. his shoulders rolled back, lazy but deliberate, like a beast stretching before a hunt.

you didn’t rise. didn’t blink. your eyes dragged over him, slow, unimpressed, taking in the blood, the sweat, the torn silk. “you think you can scare me into reverence?”

he scoffed, circling the altar like a storm circling its eye. “i think you’re used to men begging.”

his grin sharpened, teeth glinting in the torchlight. “i’d rather die.”

“pity,” you murmured, standing at last.

your voice was quieter now, but it cut deeper, each syllable a needle under his skin. you stepped forward, and the floor seemed to shrink beneath him. your chin tilted, crown catching the light, shoulders squared in soft defiance. the silk of your robes whispered as you moved, the sound louder than it should have been in the silent hall. “dying is the only thing you’re good at.”

he laughed, low and dangerous, the sound rumbling like thunder trapped in his chest. blood lingered between his teeth, a faint red stain when he bared them, and for a heartbeat, your gaze lingered on his mouth—too long, too sharp.

there it was. the spark.

“you think love matters on a battlefield?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, daring you to lie.

your gaze didn’t waver. “i don’t need to fight,” you said, stepping down to his level. the silk barely rustled, but the room tightened with every inch you closed. “they destroy themselves for me.”

his mouth twitched, not amusement but something darker, hungrier. “then you’re just another coward,” he hissed, and now he was close. too close. his breath was fire, his presence heat, cedar and blood and something scorched. “you watch from your throne while the world tears itself apart in your name.”

you stared up at him, unmoved, gold at your temples glinting like a challenge. “you kill to feel alive,” you said, soft but vicious, each word a blade. “i make them beg to live.”

you leaned in, just enough for him to catch the sweetness on your throat—lotus, honey, divine. “which of us is the monster?”

and everything stopped.

satoru froze, his smirk fading, his breath catching like a blade in his chest. the air cracked, too thick, too heavy, incense flaring upward like it feared what came next. the god of war—untouchable, insatiable—stood still, not because he couldn’t move, but because something in him didn’t know how.

you weren’t afraid of him. you didn’t want him. you didn’t need him.

and that was the moment he started to burn.

you turned away first, veil slipping back down with a flick of your fingers, the gesture effortless, dismissive. you sat, the hem of your robe curling around your ankles like water, the room exhaling with you. the acolytes trembled in the shadows, their breaths shallow, their eyes darting between you.

behind you, satoru stood in silence.

his fists clenched, knuckles white, blood seeping from where his nails bit into his palms. his breath came sharp, chest heaving once—twice—then stilled. his eyes traced the curve of your shoulder, the fall of your hair, the way your fingers rested on the throne like you held the world in your palm.

he didn’t leave.

not yet.

he stayed, long enough to make the acolytes’ hands shake, long enough to memorize the shape of your silence. because now he knew your name. and war never forgets.

you weren’t a threat to peace—you were a reason for war to breathe again.

[phoenixblaze1412]

Hi ! Imagine baby Zandik, or even younger segments just treating you like their parent. Go seek you when they hurt their knees from falling, ask for help with homework older segments gave them or even just asking for a hug or you playing with them. Could I request that? Only if you feel like it ofc. (Sorry if my spelling or sentence are weird, English isn't my first language)

The child was small—smaller than the other Segments, his frame frail from having been created not for war or science, but something… softer.

Dottore never said what he intended him to be. Perhaps even he didn’t know. But to you, the answer had been obvious the moment you saw him.

He was just a child.

And children deserved to be loved.

—————

"Look! Look!"

The tiny Segment tugged at your sleeve, bright eyes shining with excitement as he held up a torn page from an old book. "I drew this!"

You smiled, kneeling beside him to get a closer look. The paper was rough at the edges, a relic of one of Dottore’s discarded documents, but the scribbles covering it were bright and full of life. A mess of crayon strokes, clumsy yet full of meaning.

It was a sketch—of you.

"Is that me?" you asked, pointing at the smiling figure.

The child beamed, nodding eagerly. "And that’s me! And that’s—" he hesitated, lowering his voice. "That’s Father."

You followed his gaze to the third figure—a towering presence in a long coat, standing slightly apart.

Dottore.

The sight made your chest ache. The child's depiction of him was not unkind, but there was something uncertain in the way he had drawn him. As if he did not know where he belonged in the picture.

"You did a wonderful job," you murmured, ruffling his hair.

He giggled, pressing closer to your warmth. "I wanna draw more!"

"Then we’ll draw as much as you want."

—————

Dottore was not a sentimental man. His creations were meant to serve a purpose—each carefully calculated, each a necessary piece of his grand design.

But this child…

This child defied logic.

He was not an instrument of war, nor a mind of scientific brilliance. They were small hands covered in crayon dust. They were tiny feet padding through the lab, their laughter foreign against the sterile air. They were the one Segment that did not bow at his feet, but instead reached up with open arms.

It was baffling.

"You spend too much time with them," Dottore remarked one evening, watching as you helped the child arrange his drawings into a messy pile.

You didn’t look up. "He's just a kid."

"He is a Segment," he corrected. "Not a child."

At that, you did look at him, lips pressing into a firm line.

"He can be both."

Dottore’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. He never appreciated being challenged. But before he could respond, a tiny voice interrupted.

"Father."

The small Segment approached hesitantly, holding up a fresh drawing. Their fingers curled slightly at the edges of the paper, uncertain. "I made this one for you."

For a moment, Dottore said nothing. His gaze flickered between you and the child, before finally taking the drawing.

It was simple. Three figures, hand in hand. The crayon lines were uneven, but the warmth in it was unmistakable.

You. The child. And him.

Dottore exhaled slowly.

"...Hmph."

The child shifted, waiting for his reaction. When it didn’t come, they hesitated, then moved to your side, fingers grasping at your sleeve. You responded without hesitation, pulling them close.

Dottore watched. His hands curled slightly at his sides, the drawing still held between his fingers.

For all his intelligence, he didn’t know what to do with such a thing.

Later that night, as the lab grew quiet, you found the child curled up beside you, his tiny hands resting against your arm. Sleep had claimed him, his breath soft and steady.

Dottore stood by the doorway, watching.

"You let them cling to you like an attachment," he remarked, tone unreadable.

You exhaled softly, running a hand through the child’s hair. "If being loved is an attachment, then I don’t see the problem."

Dottore scoffed. "Love is not a necessity in my research."

You glanced at him, your gaze steady. "Maybe not in your research."

A pause.

Dottore said nothing. He only turned, his coat shifting as he left the room.

But in the dim light, forgotten on the desk, lay a single crumpled drawing.

Untouched. But not discarded.

—————

The nights were the hardest.

In the daylight, the child found distractions—doodling on scraps of paper, following you around the lab, tugging at the Segments’ coats until one of them indulged hisncuriosity. But at night, when the world was quiet and shadows stretched long across the floor, there was no escaping the fear.

It always began the same way. The shifting of blankets. A tiny, trembling breath. Then, the quiet sniffles, stifled as though the child feared making too much noise.

You stirred at the sound, blinking groggily before realizing what was happening. Without hesitation, you shifted towards him, already reaching out.

"Nightmares again?" you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

The child didn't answer right away. He only curled in on himself, small fingers gripping his blanket too tightly, his tiny shoulders shaking.

Gently, you pried their hands free and pulled them into your arms. He came willingly, burying his face in your shirt as if trying to disappear into your warmth.

"It’s alright," you murmured, rubbing slow, soothing circles on their back. "I’m here."

His breath hitched. "It was dark," he whispered. "I couldn’t see you."

Your heart twisted painfully at the quiet admission.

The lab was often dimly lit, filled with the hum of machinery and the cold glow of alchemical solutions, but the dark of night was different. It was isolating, stretching on endlessly, swallowing up small, scared children who just wanted to be held.

You tightened your hold, pressing a soft kiss to his hair.

"I’m here," you repeated, firmer this time. "And I’ll always be here."

For a moment, he simply clung to you, his tiny body trembling against yours. You continued to hold him, running gentle fingers through his hair, humming quietly—a tune with no name, just something soft enough to keep them grounded.

Eventually, his grip loosened. His breathing slowed, steadied. The tension in their small limbs melted away, and warmth seeped into you as they relaxed completely.

Even in sleep, their fingers curled lightly against your shirt, as if making sure you wouldn't leave.

You pressed another kiss to their forehead and whispered a promise—one only they would hear, nestled safely in your arms.

"I won’t let you face that darkness alone."

—————

Dottore found you both in the garden.

The child was curled up in your lap, clutching a small, broken machine—one of his old prototypes. Their fingers worked clumsily, trying to fix it while you guided their hands, voice patient and warm.

Dottore didn’t speak right away.

For the longest time, he simply watched.

The way you held the child with such care. The way their eyes shone with delight at your praise.

The way they trusted you so completely.

"You’ve grown attached," he finally said.

You didn’t look up. "They deserve kindness."

Dottore hummed, stepping closer. The child noticed him then, eyes lighting up as they scrambled to their feet.

"Father! Look what we fixed!"

He held up the machine, wobbling slightly in their eagerness.

Dottore took it, examining their work with an unreadable expression. Then, after a long pause—

"Acceptable," he muttered.

The child grinned, turning to you with wide eyes. "Did you hear that?! He said it’s acceptable!"

You laughed, ruffling their hair. "See? I told you you were brilliant."

Dottore exhaled, shaking his head. "You’ve made them insufferable."

"And you love them anyway," you replied easily.

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he placed a hand on the child’s head—gentle, brief, but unmistakably fond.

The child beamed, practically glowing under his touch.

And in that moment, even Dottore couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

Life in the lab remained the same—filled with research, experiments, and the constant hum of machinery. But in the quiet moments, the ones that existed outside the rush of work and duty, a softer reality had settled into place.

The child was a constant presence, trailing after you or one of the Segments, always eager to learn, to build, to understand the world in their own way. And though Dottore rarely voiced his approval, he was always watching.

One evening, you found him in his study, reviewing reports, when a familiar weight settled against his side. The child had climbed onto his chair, pressing against him with a sleepy murmur.

Dottore tensed for a moment before sighing, setting his work aside. "You're supposed to be asleep."

The child yawned, clinging to his sleeve. "Was waiting for you."

His fingers twitched. After a long moment, he hesitantly rested his hand on their back. The child hummed contentedly, shifting closer.

From the doorway, you watched with a small smile, not saying a word.

Some things didn’t need to be spoken aloud. And for all his denials, for all his exasperated sighs and muttered complaints, Dottore never once pushed the child away.

[batsovergotham]

the kiss and the curse pt 1

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: cheating, smut, im sorry, so much angst, mentions of blood and violence

w/c: 10.7k

a/n: IMPORTANT NOTE!! they wouldn’t do this with anyone else. i’m making it canon in the fic. they’re drawn to each other, not because they’re attracted to the superhero persona, but because on some instinctive level, they know it’s each other. it’s not about falling for a mask or a costume. it’s about feeling that pull because it’s them. because even without realizing it, their bodies, their hearts, already know. even when they’re masked, even when they’re supposed to be strangers, there’s a familiarity between them that cuts through everything. the way they move together, the way they quip and fall into rhythm without trying, it’s not random. it’s years of knowing each other in a way they can't fake. it’s love bleeding through the cracks of a secret they haven’t uncovered yet. hope this clears some things up for everyone!

You awaken to the steady, quiet thump of his heartbeat on your ear.

You take a second to understand where you are, what occurred, but the instant you move your palm against the sheets and feel the unmistakable heat of him next to you, the memories flood back in gentle, dizzy waves. His lips on yours. His hands on your body. The way he softly said your name as if it were something precious, something his. Your grip on him was like though the world was dying. Perhaps it had, in some manner. Perhaps it had finished only somewhat and started up again around the two of you rather than around you.

Mark is still sleeping.

Honestly, that's very amazing given that you are fairly certain you didn't make it easy for him last night. He’s splayed partially on his stomach, arm wrapped around your waist possessively, like even unconscious, he’s frightened you’ll get up and go without him knowing. His face, normally so full of restless energy and piercing emotion, is softened now in sleep, his brows smooth, his mouth calm. His hair’s a mess, black tufts sticking up in every direction, like he waged a war with your pillow and lost.

And you can't help it, you stare. You absorb it up like you’re trying to memorize him.

The way his lashes fall out on his cheeks, darker and longer than you ever noticed while he was awake and cracking terrible jokes. The slight scattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose that you only ever detect when you’re this close, when the world is quiet enough for you to notice the minute, private nuances no one else gets to see. His arm is strong around your waist, holding you there, keeping you tied to the moment, to him, when your mind wants to stray into every fearful what-if that typically eats you alive.

But not right now.

Right now, there are no patrols. No secret identities. No bruises you have to hide or apologies you have to stutter out for fleeing mid-date because some idiot decided to steal a bank while you were trying to enjoy a milkshake. There’s no blood, no broken ribs, no worry of what you could lose tomorrow or the following day or the day after that.

There’s simply this.

You.

Him.

The way his fingers flutter on your skin like he’s fantasizing about you even now.

For once, you let yourself have it. You don’t push it away. You don’t think about how delicate everything is, how quickly it may be torn apart if one bad thing, one villain, one error, gets through the cracks. You don't think about how life has a way of kicking people like you when you're just starting to feel safe.

You simply breathe him in.

His cologne is still clinging to the covers, warm, comforting, something clean and a bit sharp, like the soap he usually uses even though it smells more like something you’d expect from a dollar store. So Mark. Never striving to be anything more than who he is, even when the world continues pushing him to be.

You move just slightly, trying not to wake him, and your forehead pushes against the side of his arm. He whispers something incoherent beneath his breath but doesn’t stir beyond that, his chest rising and falling in regular, steady beats that you try to match your breathing to.

And God, you didn’t know how much you missed this. How much you needed it.

Because being with Mark, loving Mark, is a lot like loving a hurricane. You know it’s going to hurt occasionally. You know there are going to be days you can’t outrun the thunder, when the weight of all he bears will rain down around you so heavily you’ll believe you’ll drown under it. You know it’ll be harsh, and raw, and messy, because he’s brutal and raw and messy, in ways he doesn't even recognize.

And yet.

And yet, here he is. Solid and genuine and breathing alongside you, even after everything. Even after the arguments and the half-kept promises and the bruises you both try not to see. Even after the days when you wonder whether you're enough, if you can be strong enough to stand with someone like him, someone who feels everything so profoundly, who fights so hard even when it costs him bits of himself he’ll never get back.

You reach up cautiously, tucking a strand of his hair back from his forehead. Your fingertips glide across his skin, so light he probably doesn’t even feel it.

‘I love you,’ you think, the words building in the back of your throat but never quite making it out loud. Maybe because it feels too enormous for this modest, calm time. Maybe because speaking it would shatter the tranquility you’ve found here, wrapped up in one another in a bed too tiny for two people carrying whole universes on their shoulders.

He moves again, and this time his arm tightens slightly over you, bringing you deeper into the curve of his body like instinct. His nose brushes across your hair. He breathes you in.

And you swear, just for a second, you see the smallest glimmer of a smile ghost over his lips.

It’s the type of thing he doesn’t do frequently, not when he thinks anyone’s looking. Because Mark Grayson, for all his tenacity and intense commitment, has always been a bit lousy at letting people see when he’s pleased. It’s almost like he believes he doesn’t deserve it. Like if he lets himself grow too comfortable, too safe, the cosmos will notice and tear it all away.

You understand that. Probably more than you should.

You move closer until you’re curled against his chest, feeling the quiet rumble of his breathing against your hand. And you allow yourself to believe, even if it's only for just now, that maybe he can have this. Maybe you can have this. A morning without turmoil. A life that's larger than merely survival.

A life with him.

You shut your eyes and match your breathing to his again, feeling yourself start to sleep, wrapped up in the warmth of him, in the subtle promise of more that he doesn't even realize he’s making simply by remaining.

You don’t mean to think about it.

You don’t want to.

But the longer you lie there, cradled against him, protected in a manner that seems so delicate it’s almost cruel, the harder it becomes to resist the dark, nasty thoughts from creeping past your barriers.

Because it isn’t like you’re making it up. It isn’t like you grabbed the suspicion out of nowhere.

There were signs. Little stuff. Missed calls. Short responses. Long pauses when you inquired where he was, what he was doing. The way he smelled was different, occasionally, not horrible, not wrong, but like someone else's scent had brushed against his sweatshirt when you weren't present. A laugh that wasn’t meant for you. A gaze that didn’t quite meet your eyes.

And there was Eve.

There’s always Eve.

The notion makes your stomach churn, your fingers curling a bit harder against his naked chest without trying to. You hate that it does this to you. Hate how easily you unravel at the notion of him looking at her, gorgeous, golden Eve, the way he used to gaze at you.

Or worse, maybe he never stopped staring at her that way at all.

You close your eyes against the fire swelling up in your throat.

You’re not stupid. You know their history. You know that in another version of your life, maybe one a bit nicer to them both, they would’ve ended up together. They have that kind of inevitability about them, like gravity, tugging at each other no matter how much they fight it.

And you?

You were the interruption. The pause in the music that was meant to be theirs.

God, you despise yourself for thinking that way. Mark's never treated you like you were a second choice. He never made you feel like a stopgap. When he’s with you, he’s with you. His attention is full, almost smothering sometimes, in how intensely he loves. You’ve felt it. You’ve seen it, blazing behind his eyes when he stares at you like you’re something valuable, something priceless.

But doubts have fangs. And when they bite, they don’t let go lightly.

You gaze at him now, sleeping so soundly beside you, entirely oblivious to the tempest roaring in your brain.

‘Did you truly believe he could stay yours forever?’

You’re not blind to what you are. You're messy. You fuck up. You hide things you shouldn’t, like the bruises you acquire patrolling, like the nightmares that wake you up screaming more often than not. You hold secrets because you’re too terrified of what he’ll do if he finds out, scared he'll look at you and see someone fragile, someone who needs to be protected instead of trusted to stand with him.

Eve wouldn't hide those things. Eve would be bold enough to tell him the truth.

You wonder if maybe he got weary of waiting for you to catch up. Maybe he needed someone easier. Simpler. Someone who could confront him at the full force of what he is without flinching.

You shift gently beneath his arm, just enough that the action stirs him.

Mark makes a low, drowsy grunt and tightens his grasp on you without even waking all the way up, bringing you in closer until there’s no space between your bodies, until you’re virtually folded into him. His breath stirs your hair, and you feel the heat of him everywhere, overpowering, inescapable.

He doesn’t let go.

Even in sleep, he doesn’t let go.

It fractures something inside you.

Because no matter how much your head tries to convince you differently, his body, his instincts, tell a different story. They tell the truth.

Mark Grayson loves like a landslide. It’s messy. It’s harmful. It’s all-consuming. But it’s real. God, it’s so real it aches sometimes.

And if he had someone else… if he genuinely didn’t want you anymore…

He wouldn’t be here.

Not like this.

Not clutching you like you’re the only safe spot he’s ever known.

Still, the agony doesn’t go away. Doubt doesn't care about evidence or reasoning. It thrives on fear. And fear is a hard thing to eliminate, especially when you’ve spent your whole life learning not to trust that wonderful things might ever genuinely stay.

You lift your head up slightly, observing his features again in the weak morning light streaming through the slats.

He’s wonderful like this. Open. Vulnerable. And you realize, a bit cruelly, that you’re probably one of the few people in the whole world who gets to see him like this.

Even Eve, she’s part of his past. She’s part of who made him who he is, but she’s not here today. She’s not the one he’s clinging onto like he’ll break apart without her.

You are.

You reach up carefully, fingertips ghosting down the sharp line of his jaw. He moves again, a quiet sound escaping him, something almost like a sigh, and for a scary second, you believe you might have woken him.

But he only nuzzles closer, whispering your name beneath his breath in a way that makes your chest cave in on itself.

You swallow hard, feeling your eyes burn.

Maybe you’ll talk to him about it. Maybe you’ll ask him, when he wakes up, if there’s something you should know, something he’s not telling you. Maybe you’ll finally find the strength to ask for the type of honesty you’re so frightened he owes you.

Or maybe you won’t.

Maybe, just for a little longer, you’ll allow yourself believe that this, this chaotic, flawed, lovely relationship between you, is still worth fighting for.

You plant a delicate, quivering kiss on his shoulder and close your eyes.

You could remain like this forever, you thought.

But you know better.

Your glance drifts up his shoulder, the curve of his neck, and there they are. The bruising. Faint smudges of healing purple and red, like fingerprints pushed too hard into sensitive flesh. They’re less furious now than they were when you first spotted them, but they’re still there.

And they still seem like a wall you don't know how to scale.

You told yourself not to overthink it. You convinced yourself there were a dozen explanations. Maybe it was a silly accident. Maybe someone elbowed him while playing a pick-up game on the quad. Maybe he got into some fight protecting someone else because that's how Mark is, right? He's reckless sometimes, too good for his own damn health, constantly jumping in to help even if it means being harmed.

But none of those reasons sit well.

Not with the design of them. The way they flowered low down his clavicle, like the echoes of hands clutching, tugging, battling. You know bruises. You know fighting. And this... this wasn’t some bar scuffle. This was something worse. Something Mark didn’t want to talk about.

And you haven’t even asked.

The understanding guts you softly. You've been so terrified of the response, or maybe simply afraid of having him draw away even more, that you haven't even inquired.

You simply let things fester.

You close your eyes against the growing wave of it.

Because it’s not just him hiding secrets, is it?

Your gut twists terribly. The memory of the other night flashes unbidden through your mind, slipping back into your room after patrol, sweaty and aching and reeking of smoke and adrenaline; scrubbing at your hands like the blood might stain through your skin if you weren't careful; lying through your teeth when Mark texted to ask if you were okay because he "had a weird feeling."

You’d lied. Right to his face. Over and over.

He doesn’t know you're Spider-Woman.

You don’t know he's Invincible.

And maybe, just maybe, you're both a touch too skilled at pretending you’re normal while everything about you is already coming apart.

Your chest tightens terribly.

Because you love him. God, you love him so deeply it terrifies you. So much it makes your hands shake sometimes, like your body can’t keep it all in. You adore his chuckle. You enjoy the way he tucks you closer when he thinks you're cold even when you're not. You appreciate how much he wants to be good, even when the world makes it so, so hard.

But how long can love last when it's founded on lies?

You move gently in bed, mindful not to wake him. But even the tiniest movement makes him whisper something under his breath and nuzzle closer against your side. His hand tightens unconsciously around your hip.

And it ruins you.

Because he trusts you. Even today. Even when you don't deserve it.

You blink hard against the pain in your eyes, twisting your head to peer up at the ceiling. Trying to breathe past the agony developing in your chest.

Maybe…maybe it would be better if you had space.

The notion comes unbidden, awful, yet you can't shake it. Not when you lay it out honestly in your head. Maybe if you weren’t tied together so tightly, the falsehoods wouldn't hurt so deep when they ultimately unraveled. Maybe if you gave him space, gave yourself space, you might both figure out what the hell you’re doing without destroying one other in the process.

Would he be hurt? Yeah. Probably.

Would you?

Definitely.

But better now than later, right? Better a clean breach than a sluggish bleed-out. Better to go before you both crash and burn, pulling each other down in the debris.

The words seem treacherous even as you think them. Like you’re betraying him simply by thinking it.

You gaze at him again, helpless.

He seems so young while he sleeps. So sincere. Like the world hasn’t broken him yet, even if you know better. You’ve seen the fractures starting to appear. The way he clenches his jaw when he thinks no one's watching. The way he zones out occasionally, like he's rehearsing something horrific in his thoughts he can't ever entirely forget.

You wonder if he sees those things in you, too.

You wonder if it would alter anything if he knew the complete truth.

You wonder whether he already does.

The worst part is... you don't even know where the falsehoods end anymore.

Is it lying when you wanted to inform him eventually? When you were only waiting for the perfect time, the right moment? When you kept convincing yourself it was safer for him not to know?

Or is that simply cowardice?

You close your eyes again, swallowing heavily.

Maybe the true reason you haven't told him is because you're terrified.

Scared that if he sees you, actually sees you, he won’t love what he finds.

And God, you’re so weary of being terrified.

You should leave. You should extricate yourself carefully from his arms, pack up whatever pride you have left, and go away before you injure each other worse than you already have.

But you don't move.

You stay frozen there, trapped between wanting to protect him from yourself and wanting to selfishly hold him near for just a little longer. Just a few more minutes where you can pretend everything’s normal.

A low murmur from him as he starts to stir, his fingers twitching at your side. His body folds reflexively closer, as if even in sleep he can sense the space you're starting to pull between you.

And suddenly, with a blink and a drowsy murmur that is so achingly him, Mark's blue eyes break wide.

His glance finds you instantaneously.

Still sleepy. Still unprotected.

He grins. Soft. Warm. Like you're the finest thing he's ever seen.

"Hey," he mumbles, voice heavy with sleep. "You're awake."

And just like that, your heart bursts neatly in your chest.

Because you know, no matter how much distance you believe you need, no matter how hard you try to reason it, stepping away from Mark Grayson was never going to be that simple.

Mark notices very quickly.

You wish you could claim he’s ignorant, that you could bury all the sharp, painful things inside you and hide behind a grin until you were somewhere secure enough to come apart, but you’re not that lucky. Mark Grayson isn’t dumb. Especially not when it comes to you.

His tiredness goes swiftly, concern replacing it like a broken rubber band as he raises himself onto his elbow. His hand, warm and a bit awkward, sweeps your hair back from your face. His brows knit together the way they do when he’s scared but trying not to show it too much, trying not to make you feel worse.

"You okay?" he says, voice low. Careful.

And maybe that's what does it. Maybe if he'd just grinned and pulled you closer, if he’d been selfish and satisfied, you could have faked a bit longer. But Mark doesn’t let things linger. Mark cares. Even when it would be easier not to. Even when it costs him more than he understands.

Your chest tightens. You glance away.

"I..." Your voice wobbles, so you lock your mouth tight for a second, inhaling through your nose until you can get the words out without crumbling. "I think we need to talk."

You feel him go still beside you. The bed feels smaller, suddenly. Too little to hold everything flowing forth between you.

"Okay," he responds after a second. Cautious. Bracing.

He sits up completely, the sheet dropping down his chest, displaying the bruises again, stark against his flesh in the early morning light. You can't look at them. Not without losing your nerve.

You sit up too, pulling the blanket about yourself like armor. Still not seeing his gaze.

The stillness lingers long enough that Mark eventually breaks it, voice weaker now. "Is this about last night? Because if you’re stressed out, if you’re scared I’m gonna, like, expect anything from you, I’m not. I swear. We can go as slow as you want. I’m just-"

"No," you interrupt, clutching the blanket closer. "It’s not about that."

He stops. Swallows thickly. You can see the wheels churning in his mind, a million possibilities, none of them good.

You push yourself to keep going.

"I just... I think we need space," you say, and the words taste like ash in your tongue. "Maybe... maybe a temporary break up."

You hear him suck in a sudden breath, like you’ve hit him.

And God, maybe you have.

Mark doesn't say anything for a long moment. You eventually force yourself gaze at him, and the look on his face nearly undoes you.

Confusion. Hurt. That obstinate edge of fury he tries so hard to mask when he’s terrified.

"Why?" he demands hoarsely. "Did I—did I do something wrong?"

The worst thing is how real he sounds. Like the prospect of harming you is the worst thing he can conceive. Like it doesn't even occur to him that maybe it’s not just one thing. That maybe it’s everything, everything you’re both carrying, everything you’re both too terrified to express.

You shake your head swiftly, blinking hard.

"No," you murmur. "It's not you. Not like that. I just-"

You falter. How can you explain that you’re lying to him every day? That every time you smile, every time you kiss him, you’re hiding something essential about who you are? How can you explain that you see the same tiredness in him, the same secrets, and yet you’re both too cowardly or too in love to ruin the fragile thing you've built?

"It feels like there's this... this wall between us," you remark finally, voice barely above a whisper. "And I don't know how to get over it. And… and I keep thinking if we just pretend everything’s OK, it'll go away, but it’s not. It’s getting worse."

Mark flinches, just a bit.

You press on before you can lose your nerve.

"And you’re hurting, too. I see it, Mark. I see the bruises, I see the way you shut down sometimes like you’re carrying something too heavy to say out loud. And I — I’m not stupid. I know I'm doing the same thing. We’re both faking. We’re both... hiding."

The words seem heavy, pushing your heart down like stones.

"I love you," you say, raw. Honest. "God, I love you so much it makes me sick sometimes. But I can’t... I can’t keep pretending everything’s okay. Not if it means lying to you. Not if it means lying to myself."

Mark glances at you like he’s trying to memorize what you’re saying. Like he understands, deep inside, there’s no taking this moment back.

"I don’t want to lose you," he says finally, and his voice cracks straight down the center. "Please don’t do this."

And for a single second, you almost cave. You nearly throw yourself into his arms and tell him none of it matters, that you’ll figure it out somehow, that you’ll keep lying if it means being close to him.

But you know that’s not love. Not really.

Love isn’t intended to be a chain around your throat.

"I’m not… I'm not leaving forever," you manage, voice heavy. "I just... I need time. We both do."

Mark scrapes a palm over his face, the way he usually does when he's overwhelmed and trying not to lose it. His fingers shake.

"I don't want time," he mutters, almost to himself. "I want you."

You bite down on your bottom lip so hard it hurts, since hearing him say that is like a dagger to the ribs. Because you want him too. More than everything. But wanting someone isn’t necessarily enough to make it work. Not when there’s so much broken between you already.

"I’m sorry," you mumble.

He lowers his hand, gazing at you like you’ve pulled something out of him.

"You don’t have to be sorry," he replies harshly. "You didn’t do anything wrong. I just..." His voice drifts off, helpless.

"I love you too," he adds finally, barely audible. "Even if you don't think it. Even if you, if you think we need space or something. That’s not gonna change."

You nod, even if it literally aches to do it.

"I know," you mumble.

You sit there in silence for a long time after that. Neither of you moving. Neither of you understanding how to say goodbye, even momentarily, without pulling something fundamental out of yourself.

Finally, you gather your bravery, your pride, the shattered parts of your heart, and push yourself out of bed. You take your clothing, your phone, your dignity, and you don't look back.

If you do, you’re terrified you’ll never leave at all.

Mark doesn’t attempt to stop you.

Maybe he knows that if he did, if he pleaded, you wouldn’t have the strength to walk away.

You close the door quietly behind you, resting against it for a minute with your eyes clenched tight. Breathing. Hurting.

You convince yourself it’s transitory. That you’re doing this to save what you have, not destroy it.

But nevertheless, it feels like you’ve already lost something you’ll never get back.

And in the silence of the empty hallway, you wonder whether love, true love, was ever intended to feel this much like death.

The cool morning air strikes you harder than intended as you step outdoors, like it’s punishing you for leaving. For going away from a man who would’ve moved heaven and earth if you asked him to.

You draw your jacket closer about yourself, but the chill isn’t something a jacket can solve. It’s deeper than that. Sunk into your bones. Your steps are slow, dragging, like your body’s fighting to reject every inch you put between yourself and Mark’s building. You don’t even know where you’re walking at first.

Your thoughts are rushing, your heart a cracked, stuttering thing in your chest, and you’re so exhausted you feel like a puppet moving on ragged strings.

It’s instinct that pulls your phone out of your pocket. Instinct that calls the one person who’s always been there, even when he had no reason to be. Even when he was an obstinate, entitled, spoilt pain in your ass.

Harry.

Harry Osborn. Rich kid. Norman's son. Probably woke up on silk sheets this morning. Still an arrogant little shit most of the time. Still the one person you trust when the world feels too heavy to hold.

He responds after two rings, sounding half-asleep and half-pissed.

“This better be good," he mumbles. "You know what time it is, right?”

You open your lips to say something casual, ‘Yeah, sorry, wrong number,’ but all that comes out is a trembling breath, heavy and nasty.

Harry falls completely quiet. Instantly alert.

“Where are you?” he demands, harsher now. No hesitation.

You just get to stammer the junction before he shuts you off with a mumbled curse.

"Don't move. I’m sending someone."

The call goes dead.

Typical Harry. Doesn’t even wait for a thank you.

Five minutes later, a sleek black SUV glides up to the curb. The driver seems like he could snap you in half without wrinkling his suit. He says nothing as he opens the door for you, simply offers a brief nod like you’re some VIP getting saved.

The travel to the Osborn estate is smooth, luxurious, silent.

You try not to think too hard about how out of place you are in the rear of a car like this, how you feel like an invader, like a disaster dropped into someone else’s clean existence.

Harry’s already waiting outside as the car comes up, arms crossed, shirt wrinkled, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. He seems exhausted. Pissed. Worried.

Mostly furious.

“You look like hell,” he exclaims the second you come out.

“Gee, thanks,” you rasp.

He doesn’t argue. Just pulls you into a violent embrace that’s more of a tackle, actually, like he’s half enraged at you and half frightened you may slip away if he doesn’t grip you firmly enough.

Inside the mansion, it’s all marble flooring and frigid air and costly artwork. Nothing warm. Nothing real.

Harry takes you through the maze without a word, bringing you to the living room, the one area in this house that genuinely seems human. Lived-in. Messy.

He shoves a blanket into your arms with a grimace. Disappears into the kitchen. Comes returned a few minutes later with two cups, one in each hand.

He plunks a cup down in front of you.

“Hot chocolate. Figured you couldn’t manage something stronger without having a breakdown.”

You scream out a faint, sad chuckle. You take the cup. Hold it like it would hold you to the earth.

Harry collapses onto the couch next to you, sprawled like he owns the house. (Which, technically, he does.)

And he waits.

Not patient, Harry Osborn was never patient, but giving you space the only way he knows how.

You drink the hot chocolate. It burns your tongue a little. You don’t care.

It takes a long time before you can get the words out.

“I broke up with Mark.”

Harry springs upright, nearly spilling his drink.

“What?”

You flinch. He instantly scrapes a hand through his disheveled hair, grumbling under his breath.

“Jesus. Okay. Not angry. Just... surprised. Thought you two were glued together like gum on the damn sidewalk.”

You gaze at your cup. “Yeah. So did I.”

Harry waits, drumming his fingers restlessly on his leg, until you start talking.

You inform him about the bruises. The quiet. The way it seemed like you were both sinking, deeper and deeper, and pretending you could still breathe. How you loved Mark so deeply it seemed like your ribs would break beneath the weight of it, and how it still wasn’t enough to keep the walls from rising up between you.

You talk till your throat aches.

Harry listens, mouth tense, bouncing his knee like he’s barely restraining himself from breaking in with one of his nasty comments.

When you finally finish, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

“So what, you think breaking up with him’s gonna fix it?” he says frankly.

You shrug hopelessly. “I don’t know. I just, I can’t lie to him anymore. I can’t lie to myself anymore.”

Harry glances at you for a long second, something inscrutable flickering over his face.

“You’re a mess,” he says finally. “You know that, right?”

You give a broken chuckle. “Yeah. I figured.”

He lays his cup down with a crash and leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“Look, if this Mark guy’s half as crazy about you as you are about him, he’s not going anywhere. You take your spot. You sort your shit out. If he’s smart, he’ll still be there when you’re ready.”

You nod, wanting to believe it.

But there’s still something eating you alive from the inside out.

The biggest secret.

The thing that made lying to Mark feel like tearing chunks off yourself every time you kissed him goodbye.

You take a trembling breath.

“There’s something else,” you mumble.

Harry moans. “Oh, what now? You’re secretly married? You’ve developed a gambling addiction? What, you’re going tell me you’re secretly, like, Batman’s lovechild or something?”

You gaze at him.

Dead serious.

His smirk vanishes.

“…Oh. Shit. It’s serious.”

You grasp your cup closer. Your heart smashes against your ribs.

“I’m Spider-Woman.”

The words land like a fallen bomb.

Harry stares at you, absolutely blank.

For a second, you assume he didn’t hear you.

Then he tips his head back and lets out a hoarse bark of laughter.

“No, seriously. What is it?”

You don’t laugh. You don’t smile.

And that’s when it hits him.

“You’re not kidding,” he replies slowly, voice odd and thin.

You shake your head. Silent.

Harry blinks at you. Hard. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“You’re —you’re the nutjob swinging around the city in spandex?”

You wince. “I mean. Technically it’s a polymer composite, but-”

He slams a hand over his lips like he’s physically attempting to stop himself from saying anything worse.

“Holy shit.”

You want to sink into the floor. You want to disappear.

“I didn’t tell you because it was safer if you didn’t know,” you explain gently. “If someone found out, they could come after you. I couldn’t risk it.”

Harry glances at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You’re a goddamn lunatic,” he says eventually.

You flinch.

But then, after a long, drawn-out moment, he lets out a nervous breath and rakes a hand through his hair again.

“But you’re my lunatic.”

He nudges your knee with his own, harsh but real.

“Jesus. You’re Spider-Woman. You’re going get yourself killed.”

“Probably,” you acknowledge.

Harry grins, a bit wild, a little affectionate.

“Well, guess I gotta stick around, then. Someone’s gotta bail your crazy ass out of jail when you inevitably assault a senator or something.”

You laugh. It’s soft and foolish and half a sob.

He pulls you into a half-hug, headlocking you like you’re kids again.

“You’re an idiot,” he mutters into your hair. “But you’re my idiot. Don’t you forget it.”

And you sit there, wrapped up in Harry Osborn’s tangled, difficult, tenacious loyalty, and for the first time since you stepped out of Mark’s bed that morning, you start to hope that maybe you’re gonna survive this after all.

Maybe, just maybe, you’re not as alone as you imagined.

Not even close.

Because the people that matter, the true ones, they remain.

Even after they find out who you really are.

Especially then.

Harry keeps you there for a minute, caught in the type of rough, protective half-hug he used to give you in middle school, the kind that says you’re secure, even if the world’s on fire.

You don’t realize how long it’s been since someone held you like this. Not romantically. Not like Mark had, with all the painful love and the unspoken things straining between you. This is different. This is simpler. Raw. Heavy with history.

"You smell like smoke," Harry mutters against your hair, voice muffled.

You let out a weak laugh. "Occupational hazard."

He draws back enough to squint at you. His eyes seem a touch red, like maybe he’s still trying to digest all of this. Maybe part of him still believes you’re going to grin and say, ‘Just kidding, got you!’

But you don't.

You simply sit there. Small. Real.

"So what, you been creeping around this entire time? Playing Iron Man while moonlighting as Stark’s sexy cousin?"

"Basically," you say, sniffing. "Except with, like, more broken ribs and less press coverage."

Harry lets out a long, leisurely breath, falling back against the couch like the weight of the talk finally caught up to him.

“Holy shit,” he says again, peering up at the high vaulted ceiling like it may reveal answers. “I thought you were just bad at answering texts because you sucked at being social. Turns out you were, what, fist-fighting criminals in alleys?”

You shrug faintly. "You know. Typical Tuesday."

He chuckles, low, skeptical, and runs a hand through his hair again, making it stand up even worse.

"I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner," he says, but his voice isn’t furious. It’s weary. Hurt, maybe. Like he’s trying to figure out how he fits into your life now that he realizes he’s been missing half the tale.

"I wanted to," you reply gently. "I really did."

"Then why didn’t you?"

You close your eyes. Try to find the words.

"Because if you knew," you say, "you’d worry. You’d treat me different. You’d look at me like I’m... broken. Or like I’m gonna die any second. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want you to see me as anything except myself."

Harry is quiet for a long time.

Then he continues, voice a bit scratchy around the edges, "You’re still you, dumbass."

You open your eyes. He’s gazing at you, serious in a manner Harry nearly never is.

“You think throwing on a mask and swinging around like a lunatic changes who you are? Please. You’ve always been a disaster. You’ve always been brave in the dumbest conceivable ways. Now you’ve only got matching spandex.”

A wet chuckle spills out of you before you can stop it.

He grins, crooked, a touch cocky, like he knew precisely what he was doing.

“And for the record?” he says, jabbing a finger at you. “If I find out you’re starting fights with people twice your size without help again, I’m personally gonna hunt you down and kick your ass."

You sniff, wiping your eyes on your sleeve. "You and what army?"

He smirks, leaning his head back into the couch. "Please. I’m rich. I’ll just buy an army."

The two of you fall into an easy quiet after that, the type you haven’t shared in what feels like forever. Comfortable. Weightless.

You drink your now-cold hot chocolate, and for a few precious minutes, you let yourself imagine everything’s normal.

That you’re just two dumb kids again, skipping school to sneak into the movies, arguing over popcorn and whining about how the rich people at school always got away with everything even though Harry was one himself.

Harry taps his foot on yours lazily, like he’s anchoring himself from the contact. Like he needs it as much as you do.

"So," he says finally, breaking the calm. "What’s the plan now? You going rush off to Tibet and train with monks? Pull a Batman?"

You snort. "No. I just... need some space. Need to figure out who the hell I am without harming everyone I care about."

Harry's mouth twists.

"You think leaving people behind makes it better?" he says. Not accusing. Just... sad. "Trust me. It doesn’t."

You gaze at him.

There’s a shadow about Harry occasionally, a weight he wears that you comprehend all too well. The shadow of a father who loved money more than anything, who etched jagged edges into Harry’s heart without ever meaning to.

You reach out and squeeze his hand.

"I’m not leaving forever," you say. "Just... putting some distance. So I don’t pull Mark down with me."

Harry is quiet for a second. Then he mutters, "Idiot’s gonna be miserable without you."

Your throat tightens. You gulp past it.

"Maybe," you say. "But maybe he has to be. Maybe I do, too."

Harry makes a face like he wants to dispute, like he wants to tell you you’re being an idiot (again), but he doesn’t.

Instead, he responds, “You’re staying here.”

You blink. “What?”

“You heard me.” He crosses his arms, resting back against the couch with a stern look. “You’re staying here. I’m not allowing you go hide up somewhere alone like a kicked pet. You’ll just spiral and start watching sad documentaries about seahorses or something."

You chuckle wetly.

"Harry, I can't-"

"Shut up," he says without fire. "You’re staying. We’ve got, like, thirty spare bedrooms. Pick one. Hell, you can have two. I’ll even toss out whoever executive my dad's had locked up in the guest wing this week."

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. "You’re an asshole."

He grins.

"But I’m your asshole," he says. "And you’re stuck with me. Deal with it."

You wipe your eyes again, leaning your face on his shoulder for a second, simply inhaling him in.

The cologne you purchased him two birthdays ago. The lingering fragrance of coffee and old books and something particularly Harry.

Comfort.

Real.

For once, you let yourself lean into it.

Because even if the world is crumbling, even if you’re not sure who you are without Mark, without Spider-Woman, at least you’re not crumbling alone.

At least someone’s still here.

Harry’s still here.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for today.

Maybe it’s enough to start putting yourself back together again.

Slowly. Messily. Honestly.

One broken piece at a time.

You wind up crashing at Harry’s for much of the day.

You didn’t mean to.

You promised yourself you’d simply sit down for a minute. Just breathe.

Maybe stop feeling like your chest was a fractured glass pane, spiderwebbed and ready to shatter if you moved too rapidly.

But a minute slipped into two.

Two became into hours.

Now it’s late afternoon, and the world beyond Harry’s mansion windows is drenched in that drowsy golden light, the type that generally seems secure, comfortable.

Today it feels heavy. Like the sun itself is pounding on your shoulders.

Harry paces the living room like a caged beast.

He’s barefoot, in sweats and a shirt that probably costs more than your laptop, hurling a basketball up into the air and catching it with delicate, rhythmic slaps.

He’s pretending he’s not seeing you.

He’s horrible at faking.

You’re curled up sideways on the couch, drowning in one of his sweatshirts, knees pressed tight to your chest.

Staring at the muted TV flickering through a marathon of infomercials.

You haven't talked in hours.

The stillness is comforting.

It’s also awful.

You think about saying anything, a poor joke, a weak "this is fine" but you can’t get your tongue to move.

At some point, fatigue triumphs.

Your head tips back against the sofa.

You drift.

When you come back to yourself, the room is dimmer and Harry is standing over you, prodding your foot with his own.

"Hey," he says, voice quiet but forceful. "We gotta go get your stuff."

You gaze up at him, your heart lurching hard against your ribs.

May’s house.

Mark.

Right.

You nod stiffly, your throat dry.

Harry observes you, throwing the basketball from hand to hand like he’s thinking through about seventeen different things he wants to say but knows better than to dump on you right now.

When you just sit there, immobilized, he huffs a breath through his nose and mutters, "I’m coming with you. No negotiations."

You blink again, experiencing a flood of emotion you can’t identify. Gratitude. Embarrassment. Relief. All of it. None of it.

You fumble for your shoes, missing the first time because your hands are trembling, and try to make a joke.

Try to be normal.

"Man, what would I do without you?" you murmur beneath your breath. "Actually have to be an adult or something. Ugh."

Harry snorts and flips the keys of his Rolls-Royce into the air with a practiced spin.

"You’d die," he replies nonchalantly. "Or worse, you’d get emotional in public."

You let out a faint, choked laugh. It feels like something cracking in your chest.

You push it down.

You follow him to the door without another word.

The drive is suffocating.

The city goes past in blurs of neon and early evening haze, painting the sky with strokes of dying orange and blue.

You rub your fingers impatiently against your thigh, plucking at a stray thread on Harry’s sweatshirt sleeve.

The air feels heavy.

You think about saying something.

Maybe a joke about how you’re really a raccoon breaking into your own emotional garbage cans.

Maybe an apology.

Maybe a scream.

Nothing gets it past your teeth.

Harry taps a steady rhythm against the steering wheel, eyes fixed hard on the road like it's directly accountable for the fact that your heart’s in pieces.

He doesn’t hurry you.

He doesn’t lecture.

He just drives.

When he pulls up outside Aunt May’s house, your stomach lurches so fiercely you almost gag.

The porch light is on.

The curtains flutter lightly in the air from an open window.

It’s so natural.

It’s like standing at the border of a dream you woke up from incorrectly.

Harry shuts the engine but keeps the keys dangling, his foot tapping softly on the brake pedal.

He glances at you, mouth twitching like he wants to say something.

"You want me to wait out here?" he offers, his voice harsher than normal.

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Open it again.

You don’t want to make this harder.

You also don’t think you can survive stepping in there alone.

You shake your head.

But Harry’s already opening his door.

"Not happening," he murmurs under his breath. "You’re not doing this by yourself, Webhead."

You stumble out after him.

Your legs feel like they’re made of paper.

Your fingers fumble to zip your jacket even though it’s not chilly.

You trail him up the front steps.

The wood creaks under your sneakers.

The door’s slightly open, the light from within spilling out like an invitation you don’t deserve anymore.

Harry pushes it open wider without knocking.

He’s done this a thousand times before.

This home has always been a second home to him too.

"Aunt May?" he says, voice rough but firm.

"In here!"

Her voice floats from the living room, pleasant and comforting and so heartbreakingly normal you want to cry.

Harry sends a glance back at you, the type that says breathe, and walks through first.

Shielding you without making a huge issue out of it. (You love him a bit for that.)

You follow.

The living room smells like coffee and lemon cleaning and vanilla candles, all the things that typically signal comfort.

Today it feels like a blow in the chest.

And there, sitting on the couch, slumped down, elbows braced on his knees, is Mark.

Mark Grayson.

His head snaps up at the sound of your approach.

And for one dreadful, amazing second, The look on his face is so full of raw, naked hope you forget how to breathe.

But then it crumbles.

Sinks into something broken and little.

He doesn’t stand up.

He doesn’t move.

He just looks at you, like maybe you’ll disappear if he blinks too hard.

You can’t meet his gaze.

If you do, you’ll shatter.

You duck your head and focus on the floor.

Harry strides in easily, like he’s been preparing for this moment his whole life.

"Hey, May," he says. "Just here to help her grab her stuff."

Aunt May, sitting alongside Mark, her hand still resting softly on his back, glances up and offers Harry a sweet, sorrowful smile.

She knows him too well to be startled.

Harry’s been crashing her Thanksgivings since he was five.

"Good," she responds gently. "She shouldn’t have to do it alone."

Harry moves uneasily, slipping his hands into his pockets.

He shrugs like he’s trying to shake off the gravity in the room.

"You know me," he says nonchalantly. "Obnoxiously loyal since kindergarten."

You snort beneath your breath, a pathetic, broken sound, but it’s something.

Mark’s hands tighten on his knees.

You don’t look at him.

You can’t.

May pats Mark’s shoulder once more, then stands, giving you all a kind nod.

"I’ll be in the kitchen," she adds. "If you need anything."

Her footsteps recede down the hallway, leaving the three of you alone in a hush that feels like it may split the home in two.

Harry nudges you toward the stairs with his elbow.

"C’mon," he mutters under his breath, voice just loud enough for you to hear. "Let’s get out of the heartbreak zone."

You wobble toward the stairs.

Harry follows closely.

A quiet guard dog with nice shoes and too much heart.

The guest room, your room, is precisely way you left it.

Messy.

Alive.

It smells like you.

It smells like Mark.

You blink hard, battling the pressure growing behind your eyes.

You pack swiftly.

Shoving stuff into your bag without caring how wrinkled they get.

You only need to relocate.

Harry leans against the doorframe, arms folded, like he’s not watching you like a hawk.

"You really taking that ugly hoodie?" he replies after a pause, voice taunting yet tender at the edges.

You take up the sweater, Mark’s hoodie, and clasp it to your chest like a lifeline.

You attempt to joke.

Try to sound normal.

"It’s vintage," you say hoarsely. "You wouldn’t understand."

Harry smirks.

But there’s a melancholy there too.

"You’re such a loser," he mutters.

You grin faintly.

You zip the bag closed.

You square your shoulders.

You move.

Because if you don’t move, you’ll stay.

And if you stay, you’ll break.

The stroll down the stairs seems like stepping toward an execution.

Mark is still there.

Still gazing.

Still silence.

You pass him without a word.

Without a glance.

Without the apologies roaring within your chest.

Harry opens the door for you.

Lets you go through first.

You step outdoors.

Into the chilly evening air.

Into the world that doesn’t quit hurting simply because you left a room.

You don’t weep until you’re in Harry’s car, the seatbelt ripping into your chest.

Harry drives.

Silent.

Solid.

He doesn’t hurry you.

He doesn’t push.

And when you finally speak, when you choke out, "I feel like I left a part of me back there," he only nods.

"Yeah," he says. "You did."

And somehow, it’s not the end of the world.

It just feels like it.

For now.

You breathe.

You survive.

And you move onward.

One shattered, defiant, important heartbeat at a time.

The next morning feels like attempting to move through wet cement.

You don’t bounce back easy, not from this.

From hearing the way Mark didn’t follow you.

From recognizing you were the one who had to go because staying would’ve meant breaking into pieces too small to pick up again.

You’re wrapped in one of Harry’s hoodies, sleeves stretched over your hands, laces running free on your sneakers as you trudge into the kitchen.

Harry’s there already.

Coffee in one hand, sunglasses perched on his absurdly flawless hair even though it’s not even bright out yet.

"Morning, sunshine," he drawls, tossing his keys in the air. "You ready to pretend we’re functioning adults?"

You snort without humor. "Define 'functioning.'"

Harry grins, sharp and reckless.

But when you glance aside, his expression falters, only for a second.

He sees you.

He’s always seen you.

"You’re not doing this alone," he adds, tossing you a granola bar like he’s handing you armor before a war. "I’m skipping class today. You got my entire, undivided, unwelcome support."

You catch the granola bar clumsily.

Your chest hurts.

You say a gentle thanks and follow him out without objecting.

Campus is extremely noisy.

Too bright.

The air buzzes about you, people screaming, laughing, moving in packs with coffee cups and bags hanging off their shoulders like they belong here, like the world didn’t end for them yesterday.

You and Harry remain close to the perimeter, the way you always do when you’re both too exhausted to cope with crowds.

The way you used to do in high school when it was you two against the world.

You’re just starting to believe you might make it through the day without fainting when Harry stiffens alongside you.

You follow his eyes and your stomach collapses right through the sidewalk.

Mark. Eve.

Standing under the large oak beside the quad fountain.

Close.

Too close.

You freeze, heart smashing into your ribs so hard you believe you hear it.

Harry pulls out a quick breath through his nostrils.

Mark’s leaning forward, pointing animatedly with his hands.

Eve’s smiling, that gentle, confidential smile people save for internal jokes and late-night discussions.

You catch fragments of their discussion, just enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.

"You were really rough with me last night," Eve says, laughing low in her voice. "I’m still sore."

Mark chuckles a little, that carefree, boyish sound that used to be your favorite thing in the world. "You could’ve told me to go easier," he says. "But you kept egging me on."

You blink hard, your ears scorching.

Harry shifts next to you, his stance growing tight.

"And that move you pulled-" Eve nudges his arm playfully. "I wasn’t expecting you to be that good with your hands."

Mark grins, confident and smug and so heartbreakingly familiar. "What can I say? Got a lot of practice handling... tricky situations."

You feel unwell.

Your fingers burrow into the sleeves of your hoodie, nails digging into the fabric.

You dip your head, attempting to pretend you didn’t hear that.

Trying to pretend it doesn’t mean precisely what it sounds like it means.

Harry swears beneath his breath.

You don’t look at him.

You can’t.

If you see the wrath there, the pity, you’ll come apart.

You attempt to make a joke, because that’s what you do.

You swallow hard and gasp out, "Wow. Guess he, uh... moved on fast."

You force a chuckle, but it breaks halfway through and dies in your throat.

Harry doesn’t laugh.

He looks like he’s ready to murder someone.

Preferably Mark.

"Maybe they’re just talking about..." you trail off helplessly, waving your hand. "You know. Gym class. Sports injuries. Wrestling. Whatever people do when they have functional relationships and cool secret handshakes."

Harry snorts, but it’s a nasty sound.

"You’re a terrible liar," he mutters.

You look at the earth, thinking it would open up and devour you.

Mark moves closer to Eve, muttering something you can't catch, something soft and low and confidential. And Eve’s palm brushes his arm softly, comfortable and casual like this isn’t the first time.

You don’t know you’re moving until Harry pulls your sleeve.

"Where are you going?" he says sternly.

"Away," you say quietly. "Anywhere but here."

You rip free and start walking quickly, dropping your head down, darting through the mob like maybe you can outrun it if you just move fast enough.

Harry follows at your heels, silent for a few steps.

Then, when you think maybe you’ve avoided it, he pauses.

You feel it immediately.

The absence of him at your side.

You whirl around, heart thumping.

Harry’s standing there in the center of the sidewalk, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, his mouth set in a tight, furious line.

"No," he murmurs under his breath, almost to himself. "Screw this."

Your stomach lowers.

"Harry," you beg, racing back to him, grasping his jacket sleeve. "Don’t. Please. Don’t make things worse."

He looks at you, actually looks at you, and for a second, you see the boy he used to be.

The boy who sat next to you during recess because you didn’t have anybody else.

The boy who fought Flash, a guy twice his size in eighth grade because he called you weird.

"You don’t deserve this," he says, voice low and scorching. "You never deserved to be the afterthought."

You shake your head wildly, but he’s already breaking away from your hold.

Already walking across the quad toward Mark and Eve with that arrogant rich kid aura that screams ‘I control this sidewalk, and you’re going to regret your life choices.’

You stand there, paralyzed and powerless, your heart in your throat.

You’re going to kill him.

You’re going to murder him.

But you don’t move.

You can’t.

Because part of you, the part still wounded from last night, wants Mark to see it.

Wants him to feel it.

Wants him to know you’re not standing there alone anymore.

You clutch yourself closer, watching as Harry Osborn, your cyclone of a best frend, gets ready to light a match you’re not sure anyone’s going to be able to put out.

And somewhere, deep inside the fractured, frail mess of you, It almost seems like breathing again.

Almost.

You can barely breathe.

You stand transfixed at the edge of the quad, people flowing past you, the cacophony of laughter and yelling and the distant snap of skateboards dissolving into white noise.

And across the grass, you see it happen.

Harry.

Marching toward them.

Toward him.

He walks like he owns the earth under his feet, a little too confident, a bit too reckless, the way Harry’s always been when he’s angry and doesn't know what else to do with it.

Mark and Eve don’t see him at first.

They’re still talking, Eve giggling at something, Mark grinning, soft and easy in a way that feels like another dagger between your ribs.

But then Harry’s standing there.

And the air shifts.

Mark glances up, bewilderment flitting over his features.

Eve shifts, arms folding defensively across her chest.

"Well, well," Harry replies, voice loud and keen enough to break glass. "If it isn’t the happy couple."

Mark frowns quickly, straightening up.

He blinks at Harry like he’s trying to figure out what language he’s speaking.

"What are you talking about?" Mark asks, apprehensive.

Harry laughs, a brief, humorless sound.

"Relax," he replies, flashing a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Wouldn’t want you to pull something. You’re probably already sore from last night, right?"

Eve’s brows draw together.

Mark stiffens visibly.

You flinch like you’ve been smacked.

You hug your bag tighter to your side, your fingers numb and awkward on the strap.

"What is your problem?" Eve replies forcefully, moving half a step forward, not aggressive but obviously ready to shut this off if it becomes worse.

Harry doesn't flinch.

He just continues beaming that horrible, hollow smile.

"My problem?" he replies, voice dripping with feigned amazement. "I don’t have a problem. I’m just here making sure certain people realize exactly what type of mess they leave behind."

Mark’s whole body tenses.

His eyes flicker reflexively, intuitively, examining the audience.

Searching for you.

You dip your head down swiftly, hiding behind a throng of students passing with armfuls of books.

You don’t want him to see you like this.

Broken.

Stupid.

But it’s too late.

Because Mark’s face changes.

The understanding striking him like a truck.

He knows.

He knows now.

Harry sees it too.

And it just makes him angry.

"You know," Harry adds, edging closer to Mark, his voice lowering lower, harsher. "Some people actually give a damn when someone loves them."

Mark’s mouth opens, to protest, to defend himself, to say anything, but Harry cuts him off with a harsh, nearly chuckle.

"But hey," Harry shrugs exaggeratedly, "if you’re into sneaking around with someone else before the body’s even cold, who am I to judge?"

Eve’s jaw drops wide, enraged now.

"That’s not what’s happening-"

"Yeah?" Harry snaps, finally turning his cutting stare on her. "Because from over there?"

He flicks his thumb back toward where you’re hiding. "It sure as hell looks like it."

Mark strides forward, rage blazing over his features for the first time.

"Back off, Harry," he whispers, low and menacing. "This isn’t any of your business."

Harry laughs again, louder, harsher. "See, that’s where you’re wrong, Grayson. It’s my business when she’s the one standing there looking like she was hit by a goddamn train while you’re playing touchy-feely beneath a tree."

Mark recoils slightly, his jaw tightening tightly.

Eve slips a hand softly on his arm, not personal, just steadying, and says something too low to grasp.

Mark shakes his head, eyes narrowing.

He takes a quiet, deliberate breath, attempting to push calm into himself the way he usually does when he’s ready to lose it.

"You don’t know what’s going on," Mark says firmly. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Maybe not," Harry answers, shrugging with a crooked grin. "But you knew she was hurting. And you still stood there smiling with someone else like she never even existed."

Mark flinches at that.

Really flinches.

You feel it like a hit to your own stomach.

Because you know Mark.

You know he didn’t mean for it to look like this.

You know he’s not the villain Harry’s depicting him as.

But right now, none of that matters.

Because all you feel is the anguish.

All you see is the distance.

Mark opens his lips again, to explain, to mend things, you don't know, but Harry beats him to it.

"You’re not worth it," Harry says, voice so low it cuts more than if he'd yelled it. "She deserves someone who actually notices when she's standing right in front of him."

And then, without waiting for an answer, Harry turns on his heel, striding back toward you.

Your legs feel like they’re made of wet paper.

You don’t move till he approaches you.

Harry doesn’t say anything at first.

He merely hooks his fingers gently into your sleeve and gives it a slight tug.

"C’mon," he says forcefully. "Let’s get outta here."

You follow him.

Silent.

Numb.

You don’t look back.

Not even when you feel Mark’s stare scorching into your receding back.

Not even when you hear Eve’s low, desperate voice attempting to express something you can’t make yourself listen to.

You simply keep moving.

One step at a time.

Each stride pulling something else loose inside you.

But nevertheless, it still feels better than standing still.

Because at least now you know.

At least now you’re not wishing for something that was never yours to hang onto.

And for now, for today, that’s enough.

Barely.

But it’s enough.

You don’t recall much of the trip near your next class.

Just the weight of your bag straining at your shoulders.

Just the odd, faraway hum of students laughing somewhere far away.

Just the thumping of your heartbeat in your ears.

Harry doesn’t say anything at first.

He matches your speed, not too close, not too distant, allowing you enough space to breathe but not enough to be alone.

You don’t look at him.

You can’t.

Because the second you do, the second you see the remorse and wrath stretched across his face, you’ll lose whatever frail grasp you have left.

You cut across campus in quiet, slipping down side streets and back routes you know by heart, until you’re far enough away that the cacophony fades into something bland and innocuous.

Eventually, Harry guides you into one of the tiny brick courtyards buried behind the science building. It's half-hidden by ivy, generally abandoned this time of day, the type of spot people forget exists until they need somewhere to cry or kiss or scream.

Right now, it’s wonderful.

You slump into one of the stone seats, your legs giving up like they’ve been waiting for permission to cease holding you up.

Harry remains there for a second, moving awkwardly from foot to foot.

Like he’s not sure if he should sit, hover, or fabricate a medical emergency to get you both out of this talk.

You pull your sleeves down over your hands, curling into yourself like you can make your body smaller.

Make the hurt less.

The hush extends.

Tight.

Heavy.

Finally, Harry pulls a hand through his hair and mutters, "Okay, this is officially the part where I’m supposed to say something meaningful and emotionally mature."

You breathe out a broken, wet chuckle, scrubbing your palms over your face.

"You?" you stammer, voice tremebling. "Emotionally mature? I think the planet would literally burst."

Harry snorts.

He kicks at a loose stone near his foot, hands buried deep into his jacket pockets.

"Yeah, well," he admits, almost apologetic. "Desperate times."

You chuckle again or try to.

It comes out half-sob, half-hiccup.

You put your hands tighter against your face, ashamed.

Harry steps closer.

Still not touching you.

Still giving you space.

"You don’t have to do that," he replies gently. "Don’t have to pretend it’s funny."

You put your hands into your lap, peering down at your sneakers like they would provide you some kind of script for surviving this.

"I just..." You fade off, your voice tearing apart. "I didn’t think it would feel this bad."

Harry drops down onto the bench next you with a deep groan.

Close enough that you can feel his warmth.

Not near enough that it feels like pressure.

"Yeah," he says after a beat. "It always feels worse than you think it will."

You blink hard at the ground.

Your throat feels rough.

Your eyes burn.

Your chest hurts like someone’s hollowed you out with a spoon.

"I knew he didn’t love me as much as I loved him," you mumble.

You’re not sure if you’re talking to Harry or simply... gushing.

Bleeding out in the open.

"I knew," you say again, softly. "But I thought... I don’t know. I thought maybe I’d be enough anyway."

Harry’s jaw tightens.

You see it out of the corner of your eye, the way he grinds his teeth together, straining to choke back all the furious things he presumably wants to say.

He doesn't say them.

Not right now.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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[l8niteth0ts]

what's left of us: reiner x fem! reader

pairing: reiner braun x fem! reader

plot: after a mission where only a few make it back, guilt eats away at you both. you and reiner cling to each other in grief, using each other to feel something - anything - before the weight of reality returns.

contents (MDNI): in the midst of war, most of the (unnamed) scouts died, survivor’s guilt, PTSD themes, soft dom! reiner, smut, creampie, heavy emotional content, you both just need to feel something, angst, etc.

word count: 2,617

a/n: hi guys! i tried really hard on this fic, i've been practicing writing sensory descriptions better, so i really hope you enjoy this one! also, i implore you to go give "baptized in fear" and "open hearts" by the weeknd a listen - they're kinda what inspired me to write this fic lol. as always, please leave a comment or message me any requests! thank you so much for reading! AS ALWAYS, 18+ ONLY! MDNI! thanks <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the air is still thick with smoke. it stings your lungs, every breath like pulling cement through your chest. the survey corps lies torn apart - medical tents sag like ghosts in the dark orange dusk. most of the horses are gone. most of the people are, too.

you sit trembling on a crate, fingers barely holding onto a dented canteen you haven’t opened in over an hour. you can’t bring yourself to drink it. it was hers. she’s coming back for it… right?

... right?

...

the blood beneath your fingernails has long dried. you don’t know whose it is - not yours, that much you’re sure of - but what difference would it make? it wouldn’t change anything. it wouldn't bring anyone back.

they’re gone.

all of them.

your fellow scouts. your allies. your friends.

gone.

...

a voice calls your name - deep, rough, broken. once. maybe twice. it cuts through the haze, sharp against your face.

“wha-?” you turn. reiner stands there.

he pulls back slightly, towering over you. he’s coated in dirt, blood, ash - and something heavier - grief. his eyes are bloodshot, jaw clenched so tight you wonder if he’s afraid of what might spill out if he lets it go. he doesn't want to find out. you don't, either.

he doesn’t speak. just looks at you, eyes empty and full all at once.

then, slowly, he drops to his knees in front of you. you wonder if you’re the first survivor he’s seen.

the canteen slips from your fingers, and you fall forward, arms wrapping around his neck like he’s the last real thing in a world made of ghosts. but he’s solid. he’s here. and he’s warm.

you clutch the back of his jacket like you’re slipping off a cliff and he’s the only thing keeping you from falling. he doesn’t hesitate - his arms wrap around you, thick and steady, pulling you close until your chests are flush and your breathing syncs.

"i shouldn't be here," you whisper against his neck. smoke clings to his skin, mixed with something earthy and raw - him. "i should’ve died. i should’ve fucking died with them."

reiner flinches. his jaw tightens. "don’t."

"don’t what?"

"don’t fucking say that," he growls, low and sharp. "don’t ever say that again."

his hands tremble as they slide beneath your shirt - not for heat or hunger, but for proof. he’s feeling for your heartbeat. fast. fast. alive. his eyes shut, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he lost sight of you.

"i-" his voice cracks. "i watched you fall." his breath ghosts against your throat, warm and shaky, and your skin prickles from the sensation. “i thought you were dead.”

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. his stare is fierce, haunted.

"you don’t get to say shit like that. not to me. not when i-" he chokes on the words. his breathing stutters.

so you move first.

you press your lips to his jaw - soft, searching. then higher. his cheekbone. his mouth. and then you're kissing him.

it’s not gentle. it’s desperate. needy. alive.

he groans into the kiss, deep and aching, arms tightening around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. your lips move against his like you’re trying to tell him something you don’t know how to say. and he feels it all - that hurt, that hope - like every second you’re here is both agony and salvation.

he wants more. god, he wants all of you.

but he's afraid. afraid that if he touches too hard - you’ll disappear.

reiner breaks the kiss first, but just barely. "this isn't the place," he whispers, his voice gravel soft. "come with me."

you nod, your body moving before your mind can catch up. he stands, hands steady at your waist, and lifts you as if you weigh nothing. you cling to him - arms tight around his neck and shoulders, your legs loose and trembling beneath you.

the world outside the kiss rushes back in - ash clings to the air, dusk settling like a bruise across the sky. the ground is uneven, littered with broken crates, torn canvas, blood. he steps carefully around it all, shielding your body with his. you both do your best to ignore your surroundings, but you shudder, hating the aftermath of what has happened today. he continues to carry you through what's left of the camp. past burnt out fires, silent and motionless bodies, flickering lanterns that throw weak golden light across the ground.

a tent stands still, half collapsed, but intact enough to shelter what's left of the two of you. he ducks inside, with you in his arms, gently setting you down on a battered cot that creaks beneath your weight. the air inside is warmer and a little less harsh, but still reeks of smoke and iron.

reiner doesn't speak - he can't. he just kneels in front of you, hands hovering above you like he doesn't want to touch you, in case you crumble and disappear beneath him.

you move first, cupping his face in both hands - needing his mouth on yours again, like breath. he exhales softly, and you catch it on your lips as you press into him, hungry, aching. his lips are chapped, cracked from the cold and the fight, but you don’t care. yours probably are too.

your fingers slide into his hair, curling against his scalp, tugging just enough to make him groan into the kiss. his tongue brushes your lower lip, tasting the dried blood there - and you let him in.

he’s warm. alive. his tongue slides against yours, slow and exploring, like he needs to memorize every inch of you. your hand drops to his belt. desperation takes over. you fumble with the buckle, unthreading it from its clasp until it falls loose. his pants drop to the ground with a heavy clunk.

reiner’s hands are already at your waist, rough and shaking. he mirrors you, undoing your belt with urgent fingers. the tension between you coils tighter, sharper - your body heat rising, your core twisting with want, aching at how close he is.

you’ve never needed anything more in your life.

you pull apart, gasping for air, foreheads nearly touching, your breaths mingling - hot, shaky, laced with everything unspoken. both your faces are flushed, skin prickling with heat and adrenaline.

reiner eases you down onto the cot, the thin mattress creaking beneath your combined weight. he hovers over you, the dim lantern light casting golden shadows across his sweat-slicked skin. you feel the press of his cock against your thigh - hard, leaking, aching with want.

in another world - another time - this would be slower. he’d take his time with you. worship you. make sure every inch of you was undone by his hands alone. make sure you know that you're the only woman in the world for him.

but here, now, after death brushed past you both like a ghost? you don’t need slow. you just need to feel.

he reaches down, dragging the flushed head of his cock through your slick folds, smearing you with every pass. his eyes flick up to meet yours, something soft and broken flickering behind the heat. he waits.

you nod, a silent 'please', and hook your arms around his neck.

his hips press forward, slow, deliberate. a guttural groan rumbles from deep in his chest as you stretch around him - tight, wet, like your body’s meant for this. like it’s pulling him in to anchor you to the earth.

you moan, the fullness nearly overwhelming. he’s thick, and each inch pushes deeper until he’s seated fully, pressing against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

he starts to move, hips rocking in slow, steady rolls. every thrust builds rhythm and pressure, your bodies syncing like muscle memory, like instinct.

like survival.

he fucks you slow, deep - every thrust measured, like he’s afraid too much force will shatter the moment, or you.

but even still, he’s shaking. his breaths are ragged, shallow against your throat, and his hands - those broad, bloodstained hands - grip your hips like he’ll fall apart if he lets go.

you gasp, your back arching with each drag of his cock inside you. the cot beneath you whines, but neither of you notices. the world’s burned down outside, but in here, there’s only this - his weight pressed over you, his hips rolling in a rhythm that speaks in place of words.

“you feel…” he chokes, swallowing hard, “…so fucking good.”

your hands slide up under his shirt, feeling the tension in his back, the heat of his skin. “reiner,” you whisper, voice catching in your throat like it hurts to say his name out loud.

he buries his face into your neck, groaning against your skin. “i thought i lost you,” he breathes. “thought i’d never touch you again. never tell you…”

his words falter, but his body doesn’t. his hips start to move faster, needier - your wetness slick between you, the obscene sound of skin meeting skin filling the air. you whimper beneath him, clutching his shoulders, your legs tightening around his waist like you’re trying to keep him inside you forever.

every thrust pushes you closer to the edge, but it’s not just the friction. it’s the ache in his voice, the pain in his eyes when he looks at you. like you’re the only real thing left in a world made of smoke and ash.

“i’m here,” you moan softly, running your fingers through his hair, holding him close as your bodies chase that sharp, crashing heat. “i’m right here.”

and for now - for just this moment - that’s enough.

his pace stays steady, deep and dragging. each thrust feels like a promise - 'i’m here, i’m here, i'm still here'. and it’s killing you. the way he looks at you, the way his hands explore like he's terrified you'll vanish under them.

you dig your nails into his back, not to hurt him - but to anchor him, to let him know you’re real, too. that this is real. he grunts softly at the sting, his hips stuttering for a beat before finding rhythm again.

your bodies are so close you don’t know where he ends and you begin. the heat between you is unbearable, thick with sweat, breath, and the scent of sex clinging to the air. he’s still wearing half his shirt, dirtied and torn, and somehow that makes this feel even more raw. like you’re stealing this moment from a war that never ends.

his forehead presses to yours, noses brushing, and he pants into your mouth. “i should stop,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “i should stop and make this right. take my time. you deserve-”

“don’t,” you breathe, shaking your head. “don’t stop. not now.”

his eyes flutter shut, like your words both ruin and save him. he thrusts again, slow and deliberate, making you whimper into his mouth. he swallows the sound with another kiss - less frantic this time. more aching than needy.

your hands slide over his ribs, feeling the tension there, the scars, the bruises from the fight. you press your mouth to his jaw, his throat, anywhere you can reach. kissing him like prayer, like apology.

neither of you is close to breaking yet, but you’re both standing at the edge.

teetering.

waiting.

and neither of you wants to fall alone.

but you can feel it in the way his thrusts start to shift - not faster, not rougher, but needier. like his body’s no longer his own, like it’s answering something primal and ancient inside him. each roll of his hips sends a sharp, unbearable pressure curling low in your belly, and it’s getting harder to breathe around it.

your thighs tremble as you hook them tighter around his waist, desperate to keep him as deep as possible. his cock drags against your walls with precision, with reverence, with the kind of care that only comes from almost losing everything.

"fuck," he groans, low and ragged. "you feel so - god - you're perfect. you're fucking perfect."

your moan catches in your throat, trembling on your tongue. “i - i’m close,” you whisper, barely able to speak through the pressure building inside you. “reiner, i-”

“i know,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your temple. “i’ve got you. i’ve got you.”

he shifts his angle just slightly - just enough to drag across that spot that makes you see stars. your hips jerk beneath him, and he holds you steady, whispering your name like it’s the only thing he has left to hold onto.

“i can’t-” you choke out, voice breaking on a gasp.

“yes, you can,” he pants. “let go, baby. i've got you. i've always got you.”

it hits you like a wave crashing through your chest - your climax tearing through you with a sharp cry. your whole body tightens, shakes, clenches around him, and he moans at the feeling - god, that sound - his name falling from your lips like confession, like surrender.

he’s not far behind.

your orgasm drags him over the edge with you, his hips faltering before he slams in deep, burying himself inside you as he groans, low and broken. his entire body tenses above you, hands gripping the cot frame, muscles taut as he spills inside you.

and then, silence - just your heavy breaths, tangled limbs, and the echo of what you both just survived.

reiner stays inside you for a long moment, both of you panting into each other’s skin. his forehead rests against yours, and the sweat on his brow mixes with yours. he’s still trembling - just barely - but it’s not from the fight anymore.

it’s from you.

you feel his hands trail up your sides slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops touching you. like he still needs to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.

you run your fingers through the damp hair at the nape of his neck, gentle now, soothing the way you know he needs. his eyes flutter shut at your touch, and he exhales shakily, grounding himself in the feeling of your skin, your body beneath him, the breath still rising and falling in your chest.

“…you’re okay,” he whispers hoarsely, like he’s saying it to believe it himself.

you nod faintly. “so are you.”

he finally pulls back, just enough to slide out of you with a soft groan. he leans to the side, arms still wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his chest as he settles beside you. the cot is barely big enough for one body, let alone two, but neither of you care. you bury your face in his neck, letting the warmth of him calm the tremors still tingling in your limbs.

outside, the world is still smoldering. the wind howls like ghosts over the ruined battlefield. but in here, wrapped up in him, it’s quiet.

safe.

he runs a hand along your spine slowly, over your dirty shirt, over the curve of your back, memorizing every inch. “i don’t want to lose you,” he says quietly.

you nuzzle into him. “you didn’t.”

he doesn’t respond right away. just holds you tighter, like he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers anyway.

and when you finally drift off, curled against him in the flickering half-light of the tent, it’s the first time in days that your heartbeat slows. slower. slower. slow enough to feel human again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

©|@l8niteth0ts - do not steal my work, or reupload it anywhere. it is mine, and mine alone! thank you.

| aot masterlist

[tojisun]

space cowboys // cw: trauma getting triggered prev: a, b, c, d

simon goes under.

it happened instantaneously, during a quiet afternoon. she’s on her side of the couch, engrossed in the book that she’s reading, and simon had been discreetly watching because something about taking in the silence with her settles what is repugnant within him, but one thing led to another, and the careful sounds of her flipping the pages start to fade, like his ears are stuffed with cotton, and simon—

simon is drowning.

his memories are coalescing, miasmic as they raze his mind. they are pressing into his skull, thudding, pulsing. a beating staccato; a mimicry of his heart. simon’s known fear before — he is not new to the haunting — but it remains a void, jagged and armed to the teeth, no matter how many times it’s torn him apart.

big man, boogeyman, still reduced to this — putrid and rotting. a wolf caught in a bear trap; beastly yet ruined by man’s creation.

no. no.

he is an abandoned slaughterhouse. ravenous and empty; peeling at the seams. decaying. there is blood in the air; blood on his skin, dripping like molten wax, carving. painting. so blistering.

drowning. simon is drowning.

simon is—

“—to me.”

trying to wade through the tides, overcoming the current, but tendrils slither around his limbs, pulling him taut, dragging him down. a beast in the waters. another horror to fight for survival.

“si, dear—”

he cannot breathe. he cannot think. there is another war tearing him apart; coiling around his joints, scooping out his flesh, leaving him as he is. scarred. broken. a man. a boy. food for the dogs; for the yawning.

“—come back—”

all at once, sound surges into simon’s ears.

a blaring noise, tearing through the fog. a riptide, serrated with teeth, screeching. hissing. loud and angry and encroaching; unimaginable. uncontainable. unbearable—

simon is—

simon breathes.

he breathes.

one shaky drag at a time, pulling it from the edges of his lungs, grasping with a dizzying focus. he feels it spread through him, weaving within his bloodstream, like a trickle of a river. of hope. of life. of something so simple and kind and continuous.

of something grounding.

he breathes, blinking his eyes off the blur. the haze lifts, light filters in, once again, like curtains are peeled back to let the sun dance close, serpentine rays beaming with softness, like dawn is just about to break and spring is already whispering in his doorsteps.

like—

warmth.

pulsing underneath his palms, beating a faint song of a heartbeat that isn’t his. simon shakes his mind awake, feeling the haunting dissipate with every rasped breath he takes in, and tries to tear his eyes from the blanketing darkness to see. a memory licks at the back of his skull; it is a name. a face.

her.

simon surges back into his body, his shaking soul locking into the cages of his bones, and feels how he has pressed the both of them down to the cushions. he searches for her eyes, the words tripping over each other on his tongue, and he doesn’t know what first to say, then he finds her.

he sees the worry, her normally calm face awash by anguish so loud, he almost didn’t recognize her. his wife, in all but name and sanctity, gazes up at him with something so reverberating that simon feels his lips wobble, the backs of his eyes prickling with something he doesn’t have a word for.

he shapes her name in his mouth, trying to sound it out because what if she isn’t real? what if this is part of the haunting — a taunting of what could be?

but, she says his name first. she says it like it’s a prayer; like it’s something to revere.

“simon,” she says like his name is a gift. “are you—” she continues, but simon crumbles, and falls towards her.

she grunts, not expecting his bulk, but simon can’t sound out his sorry’s, feeling the way his throat is lodged with a lump that he can’t swallow down. all he can do is press his face to her neck, not minding the way his nose got snagged by the hood of her jumper, and breathes her in.

she doesn’t smell like all the other girls who he used to fall to the bed with, the ones with roses and apples and cinnamon dusting their soft points, or his mates who ground him with their scents of gunpowder and soot and tobacco. she smells like his shampoo, still, and her drugstore lotion of cocoa butter and vanilla, and ozone, the cloudy air of the city sticking to her still, but it’s to this that simon’s body uncoils.

it unfurls, the tension leaving him in heaps. and this, just like this, she smells like his home.

an anchor to his storm. a ship to his current. a light in the abyss.

alive and his.

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 9

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 6.5k

Trigger warning; mention of clipping

notes; Hello everyone I hope that you are doing well because I am sooooo tired lol. I just started work and pffiu. Whatever with my life, this chapter as a good background drop on y/n maybe some of you expected it some not. Either way I hope that you will enjoy it because it was so much fun writting it. Well see you soon, don't hesitate to comment and bye bye !

previous ✧ next

The days since your last encounter with Azriel passed in a blur of activity. The clinic had demanded all your attention, leaving little room for personal thoughts or reflection. But in the quiet moments—when your hands stilled for just a second or your gaze wandered—it crept back.

You sighed heavily, glancing down at the travel bag you were packing for the trip to the Dawn Court. The preparations were nearly done, though your nerves remained. Traveling with Azriel added a layer of tension you weren’t ready to face, but the anticipation of reuniting with the healers of the other courts eased some of that discomfort.

You allowed yourself a small smile, remembering them—your friends, your mentors, the peers who had shaped your path in ways large and small. Each had left a mark on your journey, offering guidance, laughter, or challenges that helped mold you into the healer you had become. Many of them were like family, and the thought of seeing their familiar faces again brought warmth to your chest.

The sound of footsteps drew your attention, breaking you out of your reverie. A group of the clinic’s healers had gathered to see you off, their expressions a mix of fondness and determination.

“You’ve got everything under control, right?” you asked, your tone light but tinged with concern.

One of them, Elira, rolled her eyes playfully. “Yes, Y/N. For the hundredth time, we’ve got it. The clinic won’t fall apart while you’re gone.”

Another healer chimed in with a grin. “We’ll follow your instructions to the letter. You deserve a few days to focus on something else for once.”

Their reassurances made you smile, though the lingering worry didn’t completely fade. Still, you trusted them. They were skilled, dedicated, and fully capable of handling whatever came their way.

“Alright,” you said, shouldering your bag. “I’m counting on you all. If anything major comes up, send a message immediately.”

Elira gave a mock salute. “Understood, Commander.”

You laughed softly, exchanging a few more words before stepping outside. The crisp air hit your face, clearing your mind as you took a moment to steady yourself. The trip ahead wasn’t just about the meeting—it was about proving that you could handle the weight of this new role. And, perhaps, figuring out how to navigate the bond with Azriel without letting it overshadow everything else.

Standing at the entrance of Velaris, you adjusted the strap of your travel bag on your shoulder, your gaze scanning the skies. The morning air was crisp, with the faintest warmth of sunlight creeping over the horizon. You were early, as always, but waiting in anticipation left you feeling restless.

A flurry of wings caught your attention, and there he was—Azriel, descending gracefully from the sky. His shadows swirled faintly around him, dispersing as his boots touched the ground. He straightened, meeting your gaze with a polite nod.

“Good morning,” you greeted him, your voice steady despite the awkwardness that lingered between you.

“Morning,” he replied, his tone measured, though there was something in his expression—hesitation, maybe? “We should leave as soon as possible if we don’t want to arrive late.”

You nodded quickly. “Of course. Lead the way.”

Azriel stepped closer, his face calm but all business. “First, we’ll winnow to the border of the Dawn Court. Once we cross it, we’ll fly to the capital.”

The mention of flying made your heart skip a beat. You hesitated, glancing at him briefly before voicing your concern. “Flying... Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want it to be too much for you, carrying me.”

He tilted his head slightly, his hazel eyes calm but insistent. “It won’t be. Trust me, Y/N.”

His reassurance didn’t completely settle your nerves, but you nodded regardless. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

Azriel stepped closer, reaching out a hand. “Ready?”

You placed your hand in his, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through you. His grip was firm yet careful, and before you could dwell on the flutter in your chest, shadows enveloped you. The world spun for a moment, and when it stilled, you were standing at the border of the Dawn Court.

The air here was warmer, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and dew-soaked grass. It was a stark contrast to the cool, crisp air of Velaris. The scenery stretched wide and golden, with rolling hills and distant, gleaming spires that marked the capital’s direction.

Azriel turned to you, his expression unreadable. “Ready for the next part?”

You nodded, but your breath caught slightly when he stepped closer. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you, one arm beneath your knees and the other across your back, lifting you effortlessly.

The proximity was overwhelming. You could feel the warmth of his chest through his clothing, the steady strength in his arms. Every rational thought seemed to vanish, replaced by the hammering of your heart.

“Hold on,” he instructed, his voice calm but with an undertone of something softer. You looped your arms around his neck hesitantly, trying not to focus on how close you were.

With a powerful beat of his wings, you were airborne. The wind rushed past, cool and invigorating, as the ground fell away beneath you. The sky stretched wide and endless, painted with hues of orange and gold from the rising sun. The land below was breathtaking—patches of farmland, rivers winding like silver ribbons, and forests blanketed in mist.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the wind.

Azriel glanced down at you briefly, a flicker of something—perhaps a smile—crossing his lips. “It is.”

Despite the tension in your chest, you couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty around you. For a moment, the awkwardness and your internal conflict faded, replaced by the simple awe of the journey. The world seemed peaceful from up here, a far cry from the responsibilities and burdens that waited below.

The journey to the Dawn Court felt like both an eternity and a fleeting moment. As Azriel’s arms held you securely, you tried to focus on the scenery—the rolling hills, dense forests, and shimmering rivers below. But no matter how hard you concentrated, you couldn’t fully tune out the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat against your ear.

It wasn’t the first time you’d been carried like this. Cassian and others had flown you on various occasions, but this time felt different. Perhaps it was because Azriel’s hold was firm yet careful, or because the bond you were trying so hard to ignore pulsed faintly, reminding you of its existence with every beat of his heart. You clenched your jaw and willed yourself to stay focused. This was a professional trip, nothing more.

Azriel didn’t speak, his silence a double-edged sword. It meant you didn’t have to engage in awkward conversation, but it also left you alone with your thoughts—a dangerous thing when you were trying not to acknowledge how close you were. The wind rushed around you, cool and biting, and you leaned slightly into his warmth despite yourself.

Hours passed in that silence, the scenery changing gradually as the Dawn Court came into view. The closer you got, the more the tension in your body grew, not from nerves about the meeting, but from the sheer effort it took to keep your mind from wandering.

Finally, the grand spires of the Dawn Court’s palace appeared on the horizon, their pale stone glowing softly in the golden light of the setting sun. Relief flooded you at the sight, and the moment Azriel landed and released you, it felt as though you were finally able to breathe after holding it in for far too long.

You stepped away from him, smoothing down your clothes and casting a quick glance at the palace ahead. It was every bit as grand as you remembered, and the familiar sight brought a small smile to your lips. For a moment, the tension from the journey eased, replaced by nostalgia for the times you’d spent here in years past.

“Let's go?” Azriel asked, his voice steady but laced with a hint of curiosity as he watched you take in the view.

You nodded, brushing a strand of hair back from your face. “Let’s go. We’re already late as it is.”

The spires of the Dawn Court’s palace gleamed in the evening light, their pale stone catching the last golden rays of the sun. The grandeur of the palace was undeniable, with its wide marble steps leading to intricately carved doors and lush gardens brimming with fragrant blooms. As you and Azriel approached, a familiar figure emerged to greet you.

Your old teacher, Healer Talyen, stood at the top of the steps, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly before softening into a smile. “Y/N,” she called, her voice carrying a warmth you hadn’t realized you missed. “And I presume this is your escort?” Her gaze flicked to Azriel, who inclined his head politely.

“Talyen,” you greeted, your voice light despite the lingering tension from the long journey. “It’s good to see you again. I’m sorry we’re arriving so late—there were some... delays.”

“No need for apologies,” Talyen assured you, gesturing for you both to ascend the steps. “The important thing is that you’ve arrived safely. Though next time, perhaps a bit more haste.” She gave you a pointed look that was softened by the faint twitch of amusement at her lips.

Two servants stepped forward, bowing slightly before offering to take your belongings. You handed them your travel bag, murmuring a quick thanks, while Azriel only released his pack after a moment of hesitation, his sharp gaze scanning the surroundings.

“We’ve prepared everything for your stay,” Talyen continued as you reached her. “The High Lord sends his regrets for not greeting you personally, but he’ll see you in the morning. In the meantime, I’ll ensure you’re settled.”

“Thank you,” you replied sincerely, glancing at Azriel, who remained quiet but vigilant. “This is Azriel, by the way. He’s here to ensure I don’t get into too much trouble.”

“An impossible task, I’m sure,” Talyen quipped, her tone dry but affectionate. Azriel’s lips twitched in what might have been a smirk, though his usual stoic demeanor didn’t falter.

She led you both into the palace, where the grandeur continued—polished floors, high ceilings adorned with delicate murals, and soft lighting that bathed everything in a warm glow. The servants trailed behind, their footsteps barely audible as they carried your things.

Eventually, Talyen paused at a hallway branching off into a quieter wing. She gestured to one of the doors. “Y/N, this will be your room. I hope you find it comfortable.”

You stepped forward, nodding your thanks before turning to Azriel. To your surprise, he moved to follow you inside, but one of the servants stepped forward, her expression polite but firm.

“Sir,” she said, bowing slightly, “your quarters are in the guest wing. Allow me to escort you.”

Azriel’s brows drew together in a brief frown, his confusion clear. “I’d prefer to stay close to the person I’m escorting.”

You touched his arm lightly, drawing his attention. “It’s alright,” you said softly, offering a reassuring smile. “We’ll see each other tomorrow. There’s no need to worry.”

His hazel eyes searched yours for a moment, as though weighing the validity of your reassurance. Finally, he nodded, though the furrow in his brow didn’t completely smooth. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to send for me.”

“I’ll be fine,” you promised, your tone firm but kind. “Get some rest. I’m sure you’ll need it for tomorrow.”

Azriel hesitated for a moment longer before allowing the servant to lead him away. You watched him go, his wings shifting slightly as he walked, before turning back to Talyen, who was watching the exchange with a curious gleam in her eyes.

“Still as protective as ever, I see,” she remarked dryly, before pushing open the door to your room. “Come. Let’s get you settled.”

The morning sun poured through the tall windows of your room, bathing the grand space in a warm, golden light. You were seated on one of the cushioned chairs by the small reading nook, going over your notes for the meeting. The room itself was a masterpiece of elegance and comfort. A canopy bed with silken drapes dominated one side, while intricately carved furniture in soft pastels and gold accents filled the rest of the space. The walls were painted in delicate shades of cream and blush, adorned with murals depicting serene landscapes. A fireplace in the corner crackled softly, adding a gentle warmth to the crisp morning air.

The balcony doors stood ajar, letting in a faint breeze that carried the floral scent of the palace gardens. Potted plants lined the corners of the room, their leaves vibrant and full of life, making the space feel alive, almost as if it breathed with you. The familiarity of it all brought a quiet comfort—you had lived here for years during your time at the Dawn Court, and every corner of the room held a memory.

A soft knock on the door interrupted your focus. Setting your notes aside, you stood and opened it to find Azriel standing there, his expression neutral but his gaze curious as he glanced past you into the room.

“You have time?” he asked.

You nodded, stepping aside to let him in. His sharp eyes scanned the room as he walked in, taking in the sheer grandeur of it all. He turned to you, his brow raising slightly. “Even my room at the House of Wind isn’t this good.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “This was the room I stayed in when I worked here. They always keep it for me when I visit.”

Azriel’s gaze lingered on the fireplace, the plush seating, and the gilded detailing on the walls. “It’s... impressive. Feels lived in.”

“It probably does,” you admitted, sitting back down and motioning for him to take a seat. “I spent years here. It’s strange how easily it feels like stepping back into an old life.”

Azriel hummed in response, his shadows curling faintly around his shoulders as he sat in one of the chairs. “So,” he began, leaning forward slightly, “you said each head healer will be here. I assume you’ve worked with all of them before?”

You nodded, rifling through your notes. “Yes. Some trained me, some I’ve trained. Others, I’ve collaborated with on projects. Each court has its unique challenges, but we’ve built a good network over the years.” You went on to explain the specifics—who the healers were, their areas of expertise, and the dynamics between them. Azriel asked a few pointed questions, his sharp mind clearly piecing together the broader implications of what you shared.

When the conversation wrapped up, the two of you left the room and made your way to the meeting hall. The corridors of the palace were grand yet serene, the marble floors reflecting the soft light streaming in from the high arched windows. Your steps echoed faintly as you approached the double doors of the meeting room.

The meeting room was already abuzz with quiet conversation as you and Azriel stepped through the tall doors. The moment your presence was noticed, the chatter paused, and heads turned toward you. A wide smile broke across the face of Veras, the healer from the Winter Court, his imposing figure softened by the warmth in his icy-blue eyes. He stood and crossed the room to greet you, his snow-white braids swinging slightly as he moved.

"Y/N! You haven’t changed a bit," he said, his voice booming with delight. He clasped your hand in both of his, the chill of his skin familiar but oddly comforting. "It’s been far too long."

“Veras,” you replied with a smile, squeezing his hand. “Still as loud as ever, I see. And just as punctual.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “I couldn’t miss the chance to see you try to herd this lot again.”

Behind him, a slender figure with sun-kissed skin and a radiant smile approached. Farah, the healer of the Day Court, held out her hands to you. “Y/N, my dear. It’s been years,” she said warmly, her golden hair shimmering like spun sunlight.

“Farah,” you greeted, embracing her briefly. “I’ve missed our talks. I hope you’ve brought more stories to share.”

Farah’s laughter was as bright as her court’s eternal sunshine. “Always.”

Azriel lingered near the doorway, his sharp gaze taking in the room’s dynamics as you moved from one familiar face to the next.

From the Autumn Court, Rordan stood, his fiery-red hair and piercing amber eyes as striking as ever. He was more reserved than the others, but his nod of acknowledgment carried a quiet respect. “Y/N,” he said, his deep voice measured. “Your presence here is a relief. The state of things has been... precarious.”

“It’s good to see you, Rordan,” you replied, your tone equally steady. “We’ll address everything soon.”

As you moved to greet the last person present, Azriel’s attention sharpened. A graceful woman with rich brown skin and hazel eyes that gleamed with intelligence stepped forward. Dressed in elegant light blue robes adorned with intricate ocean patterns, she radiated a quiet strength.

“Amara,” you said with a warm smile, reaching for her hands. “It’s been far too long.”

“It truly has,” Amara, the healer from the Summer Court, replied. Her voice was calm and soothing, carrying an authority that matched yours. “Though I must admit, I wasn’t sure you’d want to speak to anyone from Summer after all this time.”

You chuckled softly. “That was a lifetime ago. And besides, it’s hard to hold a grudge against someone who’s such a dedicated healer.”

Amara’s lips twitched in amusement. “Dedicated, yes. Though some might say stubborn.”

Azriel lingered by the doorway, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. Then, a cheerful voice cut through the pleasant hum of conversation.

“Y/N!”

The exuberant call startled Azriel, and his hand instinctively went to Truth-Teller’s hilt, his shadows coiling protectively.

Azriel, observing from the doorway, was struck by her resemblance to what could only be described as a blend of Tamlin, a dwarf, and an overly excited child.

“Y/N!” she called again, weaving her way through the gathered healers with surprising speed. Her voice was bright, but not overly dramatic. When she reached you, she threw her arms around you in a firm, friendly hug.

“You’ve been avoiding us, haven’t you?” she asked, pulling back to fix you with a mock-stern look.

You laughed lightly. “I wouldn’t say avoiding. Just… busy Lila.”

“Busy, huh? That’s what they all say,” she replied with a knowing grin. “Well, you’re here now, so we’ll take it.”

Her attention flicked briefly to Azriel, who stood quietly near the door, his shadows swirling faintly around him. “And who’s this?” she asked, tilting her head curiously.

“This is Azriel,” you introduced, gesturing toward him. “Spymaster of the Night Court.”

Lila’s eyes widened slightly, her curiosity piqued. “A spymaster? That’s certainly a first for one of our meetings. Welcome,” she said to Azriel, her tone warm and sincere.

Azriel inclined his head politely, his expression neutral. “Thank you.”

Lila turned back to you, her grin returning. “Well, you’ve brought interesting company this time, Y/N. I hope he’s ready for all the endless discussions.”

“He’s here for the diplomatic part,” you replied with a smirk. “Not the gossips.”

Amara, from the Summer Court, who had been standing nearby, chimed in with a soft laugh. “Lila, don’t scare the poor man off before we even start.”

“Who, me?” Lila said, feigning innocence before rolling her eyes dramatically. “Fine, fine. I’ll behave. For now.”

Amara studied him for a moment before offering a small smile. “I hope the Night Court knows how lucky they are to have her.”

“We do,” Azriel replied smoothly, his shadows curling faintly around him.

As you exchanged pleasantries, Azriel’s sharp ears caught snippets of your conversation. He noted how each healer seemed genuinely pleased to see you, their respect for you clear in their words and body language. It was a side of you he hadn’t fully seen before—a leader among peers, effortlessly commanding attention and admiration.

With that, you moved to your seat at the head of the table, the others following suit. The atmosphere shifted as everyone settled in, their expressions turning serious. The warmth of reunions gave way to the gravity of the matters at hand.

The meeting had officially begun.

The long, oval table in the center of the room surrounded by Prythian’s head healers. Scrolls, notebooks, and maps were spread across its surface, a testament to the immense preparation that had gone into this gathering. You stood at the head of the table, your presence commanding yet approachable, as you guided the room with a steady hand.

“We all know why we’re here,” you began, your tone firm but inviting. “The rising tensions across Prythian demand that we not only adapt but collaborate more closely than ever. This meeting isn’t just about exchanging updates—it’s about finding solutions together.”

Azriel, leaning against the wall near the door, observed the scene intently. Unlike the high lords’ meetings, where every word was a potential weapon, this room felt alive with trust and purpose.

You scanned the faces around the table, meeting each pair of eyes with quiet assurance. “Let’s start with updates from each court,” you said, your quill poised to take notes. “Veras, if you don’t mind going first.”

The Winter Court healer, Veras, nodded and began. “This winter has been particularly harsh, unusually harsh. Hard to say why but we have never in the history of the court been confronted to this type of intense weather. Frostbite cases have increased dramatically, and our healers are stretched thin. Supplies, particularly warming salves, are running low.”

“Veras,” interjected Taylen the dawn healer, his tone thoughtful, “We have been working with Y/N on a modified salve recipe that combines herbs from the Day and Spring Courts. It’s more potent and lasts longer. We’ll ensure the instructions are sent to you, and if you need additional supplies, Y/N should be able to arrange a shipment from the Night Court’s stores.”

Veras smiled warmly, his icy-blue eyes glinting with gratitude. “That would make a world of difference. Thank you.”

You turned your attention to Rordan from the Autumn Court. “Rordan, what’s the situation at the borders?”

Rordan leaned forward, his amber eyes sharp. “Refugees continue to flood into Autumn’s territory, and the strain on our resources is significant. Infections are becoming more common in overcrowded areas. Beron’s influence and desisions are making things hard to deal with, we are short staffed since the war and the epidemic of the last century still lingers on us.”

“I’ve anticipated this,” you said, nodding. “I’ve set up a preliminary exchange network to direct supplies where they’re most needed. Amara from the Summer Court has agreed to prioritize shipments for border regions.”

Amara, seated nearby, nodded in agreement. “That’s correct. We’ll ensure the process runs smoothly.”

Rordan inclined his head. “Thank you. That will help.”

You shifted the focus to Farah of the Day Court. “Farah, any updates on the research you mentioned during our last correspondence?”

Farah smiled brightly, her sun-kissed skin glowing. “We’ve developed a new stamina-boosting salve that’s been highly effective in our soldiers. I’d like to propose expanding our research exchange.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” you replied. “If you could share your findings with the group, we’ll incorporate them into training programs across the courts.”

Farah’s smile widened. “Consider it done.”

You continued to guide the discussion, ensuring that each healer had the opportunity to share their concerns and contribute to the solutions being crafted. When Lila from the Spring Court enthusiastically interjected with an offer to assist with refugee care, you smoothly incorporated her suggestion into the larger plan, balancing her energy with the room’s more reserved members.

Azriel watched as you moved seamlessly through the conversation, posing pointed questions, weighing options, and ensuring that every voice was heard. There was a rhythm to your leadership—a balance of authority and collaboration that drew the best out of everyone at the table.

He sat quietly at the edge of the room, observing the meeting unfold with a mix of fascination and quiet disbelief. The contrast between this gathering of healers and the high lords' meetings was staggering. Where the high lords were often burdened by tension, suspicion, and ego, here, there was trust, cooperation, and a sense of mutual respect that seemed almost surreal.

You led the conversation with ease, seamlessly guiding the flow of ideas and ensuring that everyone had a chance to contribute. Questions were posed with precision, decisions discussed openly, and even disagreements were handled with an air of professionalism and care. Azriel noted the dynamic—it wasn’t that you commanded the room with dominance; rather, you drew the best out of everyone present. It was deeply impressive.

One of the guards from the Winter Court caught Azriel’s eye. The male had also been present at the last high lord meeting, and his expression mirrored Azriel’s thoughts: surprise and admiration at how smoothly everything was running.

Amidst the deliberations, Azriel felt the familiar tug of Rhysand’s presence in his mind. The High Lord’s voice, calm but probing, reached him.��How are things going? Are you both all right? How’s the meeting?

Azriel’s eyes flicked briefly toward you before answering. We’re fine. The meeting is... He hesitated, glancing again at the harmony in the room. It’s going better than expected. Almost too well.

Rhysand chuckled in response. Maybe I should have Y/N lead the next high lords’ meeting. Might go smoother.

A faint smile tugged at Azriel’s lips, but it was fleeting. He could feel Rhysand trying to bridge the tension between them again, a faint note of apology threading through their mental link.

Azriel, Rhysand began, his tone softer now. I—

Not now, Azriel cut him off, his tone firm as he closed his mind once more. This isn’t the moment.

The tension lingered, but Azriel pushed it aside, refocusing on the room before him. After a while, you called for a much-needed break, allowing the healers to step away and recharge. Azriel followed you as you moved toward the refreshments, the quiet clinking of glasses punctuating the subdued conversations around the room.

As you poured yourself a drink, he approached, his curiosity finally breaking through his usual restraint. “You seem to know all of them well,” he said, his voice low but tinged with genuine interest. “How did that come about?”

You glanced at him, a small smile forming as you gestured for him to take a drink as well. “It’s a long story,” you replied, leaning lightly against the counter. “But I’ve been in this role for a long time, even if not officially. I kind of always knew that at some point in my life I would take Madja’s place in the night court and I’ve been helping her for centuries with this.”

Azriel waited patiently, sensing that you were gathering your thoughts. Finally, you began to explain.

“The healers from the Dawn Court, Winter Court, and Summer Court trained me when I was younger,” you said. “They were the first courts I visited when I left the Night Court. I was still learning, eager to take in everything I could. They saw potential in me, but they also taught me discipline and perspective.”

Your gaze drifted across the room to the healer from the Spring Court, who was animatedly discussing something with her counterparts. “The healers from the Autumn, Day, and Spring Courts, on the other hand, were trained by me at some point. Lila is the youngest here, but I’ve never seen someone as motivated and talented as her. She’s incredible, really.”

Azriel took a sip of his drink, processing your words. “And the difference between this group and the High Lords?”

You met his gaze, your expression thoughtful. “The difference,” you began slowly, “is that while the High Lords and we both aim to take care of our courts, we’ve accepted that sometimes, you need help from others. And we didn’t inherit these positions. None of us are here because we were ‘meant’ to be. We fought for our places, proved we deserved them.”

Your eyes scanned the room, a quiet pride evident in your voice as you continued. “We come from different backgrounds. Some of us started with nothing; others faced challenges you couldn’t imagine. But we earned our roles. That shared struggle builds trust. It creates a foundation that the high lords—despite their power—sometimes lack.”

Azriel studied you for a long moment, the weight of your words settling over him. There was no arrogance in your tone, no superiority—only honesty and conviction. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the truth in what you’d said.

The meeting had resumed with renewed energy after the break, and the hours slipped by as plans were solidified, discussions wrapped up, and solutions were agreed upon. Azriel, still leaning near the doorway, noted the seamless way you handled even the most challenging topics, your leadership shining through in every word and gesture.

As the meeting reached its conclusion, the grand doors to the hall opened, and a new presence filled the room. All eyes turned toward the High Lord of the Dawn Court himself, Thesan, who entered with a graceful stride and a warm smile.

“Apologies for the intrusion,” Thesan said, his golden robes shimmering under the light. “I thought I might take a moment to greet everyone.”

The room murmured its welcome, but Thesan’s attention quickly shifted to you. His smile widened, and without hesitation, he crossed the room to greet you with a hug, his hand lingering briefly on your back as he stepped away.

“Y/N,” he said warmly. “It’s been far too long.”

You smiled, the ease and familiarity in your expression matching his. “It has, Thesan. I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to drop in.”

“For you? Always,” he replied smoothly, his tone laced with a genuine affection that felt... intimate.

Azriel’s sharp gaze flicked between the two of you, his shadows curling faintly around his shoulders. He couldn’t name the sensation curling in his chest—it wasn’t jealousy, exactly, but the sight of Thesan’s hand resting on your back, his tone so effortlessly warm, made something in Azriel tighten. He gripped the hilt of Truth-Teller at his side, though he didn’t draw it, the cool leather grounding him.

Thesan turned to Azriel then, his expression polite but curious. “Spymaster of the Night Court,” he said, extending a hand. “It’s an honor.”

Azriel shook his hand, his grip firm. “High Lord,” he acknowledged, his voice neutral, though his shadows betrayed the flicker of unease still swirling within him.

Thesan’s attention returned to you. “We’ll talk more later, Y/N. But for now, I’ll leave you all to your work.”

He gave you one last smile before departing, leaving a faint hum of energy in his wake. As Thesan left, his golden robes sweeping elegantly behind him, Azriel’s shadows seemed to grow darker around him. He couldn’t explain the irritation bubbling beneath the surface, but watching Thesan’s easy rapport with you—his hand lingering on your back, the casual way he spoke to you—left an uncomfortable knot in Azriel’s chest. 

The day continued with a final wrap-up of the meeting, logistics being finalized, and farewells exchanged among the healers. Azriel stayed close by, observing quietly as you navigated the post-meeting conversations with ease. 

The group began to disperse, each healer carrying their scrolls and notes with an air of purpose. You turned to Azriel, who had been watching the proceedings with a mix of admiration and curiosity. The weight of the day’s discussions lingered, but there was a certain calm in the room now, a sense of accomplishment.

Before stepping toward your room, you paused and glanced at Azriel. “You’ve never been to the Dawn Court capital, have you?”

Azriel shook his head, his shadows curling faintly around him. “No. My work rarely brings me here.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Well, you’re in for a treat. The last rays of the sun are about to set over the city, and the view is stunning. Afterward, we could take a stroll through the streets. The city comes alive at night, and there are some places worth seeing.”

Azriel tilted his head slightly, considering your offer. “Are you sure you have the energy for this? You’ve been running the meeting all day.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine. Besides, a little fresh air will do us both some good. Meet me at the entrance of the palace in fifteen minutes?”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth curving into a subtle smile. “I’ll be there.”

With that, you headed toward your quarters to freshen up, your mind already wandering to the peaceful streets and glowing lanterns that awaited. The thought of seeing the city you once knew so well, with someone new by your side, felt oddly comforting.

Azriel leaned against the marble column near the entrance of the palace, his shadows swirling faintly around him as he waited for you. The last rays of the sun cast a warm glow over the gilded tiles and intricate carvings of the Dawn Court palace, a serene contrast to the conversation he couldn’t help but overhear.

Two healers, young and seemingly unaware of his presence, were chatting in hushed voices that carried just enough for him to hear.

“Yes, she’s the head healer of the Night Court now,” one of them said with a sly laugh. “Do you think she’s going to screw this High Lord too? Maybe Thesan wasn’t enough.”

The other snickered, lowering her voice but not enough. “I heard she even turned him down when he proposed. Can you believe that? The audacity.”

“Right?” the first added. “I mean, she was a total mess when she arrived here. Thesan’s generosity only goes so far, but it seems like she took full advantage of him.”

Azriel’s chest tightened. The male you had spoken about in your story—that had been Thesan. But it wasn’t just that revelation that struck him; it was the way they spoke about you, as though your strength and success were something to diminish.

And then, the second one dropped her voice further, but not enough to escape his sharp hearing. “Do you know why she was a mess? She’s half Illyrian, you know. Heard her wings were clipped before she came here. Left for dead in the snow after... It’s a miracle she’s still alive.”

Azriel’s shadows recoiled and then tightened around him like a second skin as he processed what he had just heard. His jaw clenched, and his hand twitched toward Truth-Teller’s hilt, his instincts screaming at him to intervene, to protect, even though the situation had already spiraled into a storm of its own. His eyes flicked to you as you approached, your posture radiating calm authority, though the smirk tugging at your lips told him you were about to unleash a verbal strike that would cut deeper than any blade.

“Was it a miracle?” you asked, your voice carrying an icy undertone that made even Azriel’s shadows still.

The two healers turned toward you, their faces draining of color as recognition hit them. Azriel noticed the way your eyes glinted, not with fury, but with something far more dangerous—control. You weren’t reacting; you were calculating.

The healers exchanged panicked glances, their mouths opening and closing like fish out of water. One of them, a slender female with auburn hair, mustered what little defiance she could and stammered, “We’re not under your command.”

Your smirk widened ever so slightly, a calculated tilt of your head accentuating the sharpness in your gaze. “No,” you said, your voice smooth as silk but no less lethal, “but you are under the command of Thesan, the High Lord of the Dawn Court. A High Lord who values discretion, professionalism, and respect—qualities you seem to lack.”

Azriel noticed the faint twitch in the corner of your mouth as you paused, letting the weight of your words sink in. The two healers visibly shrank under your gaze, their earlier bravado crumbling.

You took a deliberate step closer, your voice dropping into something quieter but far more menacing. “Gossiping about a patient’s private life in the palace, of all places, is not only unprofessional but also disgraceful.”

The auburn-haired healer looked like she might collapse under the weight of your words, her hands twisting nervously in front of her. The other, a taller male, attempted to speak, but his voice cracked before he could form a coherent response.

Without giving them a chance to recover, you added, your smirk returning, “And while you’re correct that you don’t answer to me, I’d be very curious to hear how Thesan might respond if I were to inform him of this little... lapse in judgment.”

Azriel almost laughed at the way the two healers stiffened, their defiance extinguished. Instead, he stepped slightly closer to you, his shadows curling protectively at his feet, silently reinforcing your authority.

Then, with the same sardonic ease, you added, “Considering I fucked Thesan so well, I’m fairly certain he’d follow my orders without hesitation.”

Azriel blinked, taken aback by your brazenness. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his face neutral, though his shadows flickered as if sharing in his surprise. The two healers were stunned into silence, their wide-eyed expressions frozen as though they’d been caught in a trap.

You turned sharply on your heel, leaving no room for rebuttal, and said firmly, “Let’s go, Azriel.”

He followed immediately, his steps measured, but his mind raced as he replayed the scene. The ease with which you had dismantled the situation, the confidence laced with just the right amount of menace—it left him both impressed and slightly awed. Yet, beneath it all, he couldn’t shake the ache of what he’d overheard.

As you walked, he caught your profile in the fading light. The smirk had softened into something quieter, almost reflective. Azriel’s own emotions churned, a tangled mix of anger on your behalf and admiration for how you had handled yourself. He didn’t speak, not yet, but the urge to say something—to acknowledge your strength or offer some form of comfort—gnawed at him.

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[peace-hunter]

In your babyprime!Orion AU, I wonder what the high guard would do at the end of the movie... On one hand, they do agree with the newly named Megatron. On the other hand, Megatron isn't the prime, he's the prime's best friend (possibly more, but no one in the guard is willing to open this can of worms at the moment), and that's not how the chain of command works. And the prime (the only prime, the only prime left, the grown-up child they thought they would never see again) is staying in Iacon, and if they leave he'll be all alone. He won't have anyone to tell him about his long-gone siblings and history, or to guide him through paperwork and protocols. What if someone tries to assassinate the kid and they're not here to stop it?? Idk, maybe they'd be a bit fewer Decepticons in this AU.

oh my god you hit my favorite part of this au!!! hell yeah!!! conflicted loyalties my beloved <333

in this au not only does megatron have less decepticons than in canon, he also has more than a couple mech actively hunting him down and screaming for his blood. like. the moment he shot orion it was a sealed matter for them. the conflict right after sentinel's death is less about the decepticons destroying the city and more about them turning on each other as some try to protect megatron from being fucking torn apart by the rest.

but on the other hand i can see a good amount of the high guard being... disappointed by orion. they've waited 50 cycles for him to take his place as the last prime and enact revenge for his fallen siblings, for him to lead them into a new golden era, for him him to restore them to their former glory... and he isn't what they expected. he doesn't even remember them. and it's a big blow for more than a couple of them.

they expected him to be more... affected by all of it. more thirsty for justice. more driven to revenge.

they kind of expected him to be more like d-16.

but like you said, he's still their prime. he's still their last prime. he's still the little one they had to leave behind with little more than hope and prayer that he would be safe. and for some that's enough to decide they don't really care about anything else beyond finally being able to stand at his side like they should have for all those cycles.

also the idea of the high guards that stay telling orion about his siblings and helping him through the power transition and teaching him how to be a prime because they're all that's left from that time???? yeah i'm gonna fucking sob actually OTL

that's their little prime. they already left him behind once. how could they ever do it again.

and the ones that do, the ones that turned bitter and lost their faith in a god that let his children be slaughtered, the ones who would rather follow a mech who understands that might makes right... even them pull their shots when it comes to the prime. even when at war, even when in battle, they cannot bring themselves to aim to kill the one they once would've died to keep safe from any harm.

that being said, the high guards that do become autobots become incredibly over-protective of optimus and low-key are kept from the battlefield as much as possible, because the mere sight of those they consider traitors makes them incredibly murderous. like. they're still the mechs who would've become decepticons in another universe. they simply decided they cared more for optimus than anything else in this one.

i would say most of the high guard still become decepticons, even if maybe a little more conflicted about overthrowing the primacy than in canon, but more than a few stay behind. like. 80/20 maybe.

and i'm not really sure who i would make an autobot in this au tbh? like. deep down i kind of really want soundwave to stay with optimus, because 1) he's my favorite decepticon, 2) he was already pretty down to follow optimus' lead in canon and 3) him being loyal af is an integral part of his character, so him staying loyal to the very last prime he'd sworn to protect makes sense to me. but he is the quintessential decepticon. i'm pretty sure the entire faction would fall apart without him and i do want them to have a fighting chance even without their full numbers.

i don't know enough about shockwave to properly have an opinion on him, but i do think it would be funny to have him decide it is only logical to follow his prime, because tbh he did beat most of the high guard's ass when push came to shove. like. if might makes right, then optimus has shown he has plenty of might already. also i think it'd be hilarious to have optimus be constantly stressed about keeping shockwave from casually committing war crimes every other day. like. he's an autobot but he's not in it for the morality of it all lmao

and starscream... that would also be kinda funny i'm not gonna lie but i'm not sure i see him following optimus. i think he would be part of the ones that lost their faith on primus and therefore the primacy pretty early on after sentinel's betrayal, and while he wouldn't ever try to harm orion he doesn't really think a kid should have the reins of an entire planet either. why, he would probably do a better job himself.

i have entirely too many thoughts about this au as you can see!!! thank you for stirring up the brain-worms and i'm sorry for the messy ask (/▽＼)!!!

[woso-dreamzzz]

Torn III

Kewis x Child!Reader

Summary: You're still sick

Mommy doesn't get you dressed properly the next day.

She lets you stay in your pyjamas because you're sick. She's sick too but not as sick as you.

Mom, of course, still has her hurt knee but she's the only one not sick in the entire house.

Your head pounds and your nose remains stuffy even as you play with your dinosaur toys, making them attack each other because they're in a war and that's what things do in a war. They fight.

"Open," Mommy says and you firmly clamp your teeth together," Chook, I'm not joking. Open."

She's got a syringe full of medicine in her hands and you refuse to open your mouth.

You've never had good tasting medicine before and you refuse to believe that Mommy's gone out and bought some.

You keep your mouth shut.

"Chook," She says sternly," This will make you feel better."

You sniff, wiping your nose on your shirt and shake your head. You know if you talk, Mommy's going to dose you up so you settle on just glaring, puffing out your cheeks to show her that you're wise to her tricks.

"Chook," She says again," We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either way, you're taking your medicine."

"Chook," Mom says from the sofa," Come here."

Warily, you skirt around Mommy and run over to Mom, who lifts you up to sit next to her. Immediately, she attacks your sides with tickles and you can't keep your mouth closed anymore, opening it to let out peals of giggles.

Mommy squirts the medicine down your throat and Mom's ticklish hands disappear.

You glare, eyebrows drawing together in outrage. "That was mean!" You say," You cheated!"

Mommy laughs, ruffling your hair. "It was sneaky," She says," Not cheating. You'll feel better soon."

You huff but know she's right, shuffling off the sofa to return to your toys.

Helen joins you, curling up next to your side. Her ear flicks a few times as you continue your dino war. You have to blow your nose a few times because it gets clogged but Mommy is right because the churning of your stomach settles and your head no longer feels like it does when you bang it on a wall by accident.

"What do you want to watch?" Sam asks, channel surfing as she keeps one eye on you playing with Helen.

Kristie sighs. She doesn't look as bad as you did but it's still clear she's sick. She's got a bit of a fever and the end of her nose is all red. "Something that requires me to not think," She groans, massaging her temples to stem off the headache. She's only recently taken her own painkillers so she has a bit of wait until they kick in.

"So trash reality tv?" Sam teases and Kristie whacks her with a pillow.

You're playing nicely on the rug with Helen and your dinosaurs despite how ill you are.

Maybe eating all that dirt gave you a stronger immune system than Kristie thought.

"There's Love Island," Sam offers and you whip your head around.

"No!" You say," That's mine and Auntie Millie's show! You can't watch it! It'll spoil it!"

You sound adamant and Kristie manages to get out a laugh that could have been a cough.

"It's not a new episode, Chook," Sam assures you with her own laugh," It's last season. It's not going to spoil anything."

Your brow furrows for a moment before you're up on your feet. You've got two dinosaurs clutched in your hands as you wiggle yourself between your mothers.

They're sitting close enough that their legs are touching so you make sure to force them apart so you can be comfortable.

"Last season was okay," You tell Kristie very seriously," I will watch with you so you know what's going to happen. Mom, you need to put on Love Island."

Sam keeps laughing. "Oh? I need to, do I Chook?"

"Yes. That's what I just said. You need to, Mom."

With the other options being Deal or No Deal and Flog It, Sam's pretty sure that Love Island was truly her only option and changes the channel.

Clearly, the medicine has perked you up a bit because Kristie doesn't get a moment of respite the entire episode as you narrate what's going on during every single little moment.

Somehow, you manage to put yourself to sleep during it until you're lying draped over Sam and Kristie's laps.

"And we just let Millie watch this show with her?" Kristie asks, dumbstruck and Sam chuckles nervously.

"I didn't think she actually absorbed this much of it," Sam replies," It's like she studied it or something."

You shift a little in your sleep, death gripping your plastic dinosaurs so hard that Kristie can't pry them from your hands.

"Well," Kristie says," At least she's taking her nap without arguing."

"You mean, at least you can take your nap without her interrupting," Sam teases and Kristie rolls her eyes.

She lifts your limp body easily into her arms as she stands up. "Well, just for that. I don't think you can join us for naptime."

"Hey...Kristie! Kristie, wait! I'm sorry! Wait for me!"

Kristie doesn't wait for Sam though as she makes her way to their bedroom.

She settles you in the very middle of the bed but slipping in next to you.

You wiggle a little bit as Kristie tugs you closer, laying a protective hand over your belly just as Sam hobbles in, taking her own place in bed on your other side.

Helen joins in too, leaping up onto the bed and curling herself up around your feet.

"You have to get her to take medicine when we wake up," Kristie says, already half asleep.

"No fair! She's wise to my tricks now!"

"Not my problem, Sam."

[girl-lostconnection]

Fun funny idea that helldivers have a difficult time creating connections with other people, they’ve seen so many of their own die and not mention seen so much violence (I have seen helldivers whole bodies torn apart with only a torso left). I feel like they’d have a hard time connecting with normal folk but they have a difficult time explaining just why that is, so they instead just tend to stick with other helldivers when it comes to socialization. They won’t make too close of a connection since they know they could each die in any mission, but it’s still SOMETHING, something that makes them feel human again for even just a moment. Something to make them feel less like cogs in a machine that demands for blood and guts, and instead more like people, scarred, broken and bruised to all hell but still a person or at the closest they can get to being a human again after all they’ve gone through

Anon, you have such a big brain. You evil genius, let me affectionately pat your shoulder

Also you are so right because as far as I know it’s very common even for regular soldiers to stay within their military friends circles because when you return from battle it’s just…feels weird.

I can imagine Reader straying away a little from TaskForce 141 because they are military, yes, but they are not Helldivers. They don’t understand how it is.

So imagine feeling a little too out of place on some pompous gathering, different branches and soldiers all in one place, claping each other’s shoulders and grinning widely.

They know each other. Lucky for them not to move from planet to planet, lucky for them not to see what you see on daily basis.

Soap is hanging out nearby, as if feeling your discomfort, because gatherings like this require to be in formal attire and god knows after synthetic fabrics of your Scout armour the natural wool feels itchy.

You don’t know anyone here, you are both figuratively and literally so alien in here. A soldier from a different dimension. A soldier from a war none of these people participated in.

Kyle carefully herds you back to the corner when you almost sneer at some navy admiral, who jokes about you keeping helmet on. Who jokes about the cape of your uniform.

Man of his station is supposed to know that it’s mandatory part of your uniform. Man of his station is supposed to recognise that cape is Helldiver’s honour. A symbol of the branch as a whole. An insignia of all your sacrifices.

The mood shifts when a new group walks in the room, boots too heavy, uniform just a hairspread of being an armour, capes behind each and every one of them.

Your whole face lights up as you make your way to them through the crowd, the pack of four Helldivers perking up when they notice you pushing through them.

You salute the group, eyes quickly scanning the ranks of them, your body practically vibrating with excitement.

Finally, that’s someone who you can properly mingle with.

Helldivers circle around you, greeting you properly, their capes — different colours and patterns, signifying specialisation of each of them. Demolitions, terminid exterminator, ranger, medic — you have never met them before and they don’t know you, but it doesn’t matter in this moment.

Because in this room, there is no one else who would understand you better. There is no one else you’d rather chat with about the last improvements on the battlefield or the latest updates to the ship, cackling when the ranger of their team jokes about stealing you and the bright head of yours.

It’s lovely. You haven’t had this much fun in ages and maybe that’s why you don’t notice immediately the shift in the mood all around you.

Other soldiers pulling away, command watching you with barely concealed disapproval. They can’t say anything to you — the gathering was organised specifically for soldiers to mingle but you can see how uncomfortable your lot makes them.

Weird soldiers. Wild soldiers. Alien soldiers.

Rumour mill is already turning, pack around you tensing up and pulling back as well. But they are pulling back with you. They aren’t leaving you behind.

It doesn’t matter that you didn’t know each other until ten minutes ago, it doesn’t matter that your due is all that ties you together. None of it matters.

Once Helldiver — always Helldiver. And your lot may be wild and rowdy and alien to these folks. But they aren’t to you. And you aren’t to them.

So when their demolitions expert hooks his arm over your elbow and pulls you back, you don’t protest instead chatting them up about grenades they usually use.

And when their medic and exterminator “accidentally” position themselves so they could cover you both, you just murmur quiet thanks.

They are the biggest of the team, moving like a well-oiled machine — practiced ease of it testament to years of service together, testament to many such gatherings and unfriendly faces.

Exterminator of their team bumps your hip with theirs and slings their arm over your shoulder — their side pressing into yours, warm and human. Silent reminder to cheer up.

It doesn’t matter whether or not others like you, whether or not you are even welcome here. While these shitty parties have at least one Helldiver you will never be alone. You will always be part of the team and part of the family.

That day, when you leave the gathering your tracker blinks with four new connections.

Your shoulders still aching from how hard you hugged the whole pack of your new comrades before saying goodbyes.

141 just watches you silently, Kyle’s fingers tightening when Helldivers they don’t know (though what difference does it make) touch you, like you are theirs. Like they can just take you to themselves, like they don’t even have to steal you away — you’d go willingly, naturally gravitating towards those who understand you better. Towards those who aren’t regular soldiers.

Kyle doesn’t miss the way the tallest of the team, stares down anyone who’d like to approach your little gathering. Helldiver’s bright, ridiculously flashy cape — blue with orange attracting way too much attention.

In nature those who are so colourful are the most poisonous.

Soldier catches Kyle’s gaze and tilts his head to the side, their helmet a menacing angular thing with scribbled “one shot - one kill” just above the visor.

A sniper.

“Like a bloody fortress, aren’t they?”, John hums, nursing his glass, eyes trailing the whole group, eyes hardening when another Helldiver presses themselves against you with ease that grates on John’s nerves. Fucking wanker.

John doesn’t miss the way others in the room steer clear of the group.

John also doesn’t miss that Helldivers themselves aren’t too keen on mingling with anyone but each other. That they keep their packmates on inside and guarded tightly, that they aren’t the biggest fans of anyone but each other.

John doesn’t miss the way Helldivers hook in on each other and hold tightly, pushing away everyone else away.

Dangerous bunch. Entirely too co-dependent and entirely too unruly.

Just a matter of time before it blows up in someone’s face.