#now the time is here for iron man to spread fear

[notoriousroar]

"You said some shit that can't let go, so just stay tuned for the rest of the show."

Indie Ratchet & Clank "AU" OC

Follows back from @sinestrosmuses

OC Friendly - Crossover Friendly - Single Ship - Semi to Multi Para - Literate 9+ Years Experience

Rules - Mun - Muse - Ask - Relationships - Completed Threads - Verses

[lolita-lollipop]

Iron

YANDERE BARBARIAN BAKUGO X READER

The king of the most violent and powerful tribe in the eastern world is captured during battle by a small farmers village. What does a violent man like katsuki bakugo do upon meeting a kind servant girl like you?

WARNINGS: reader gets hurt by villagers (bakugo saves her)

He couldn't remember how long he had been here, he just knew it was cold, dark, unsanitary, and painful. He remembered the battle that put him here, getting shot with a poison-laced arrow, feinting on the field. Heh. imagine it, the great barbarian Bakugo, the children's slayer, the village burner, the soldier slaughterer falling because of one puny arrow from one puny kingdom. When he first had woken up he could feel the slick of his blood under him mixed with the dirt and grime of the cell, he had giant iron cuffs wrapping his wrists and legs, binding him to the floor. He couldn't blame these people, truly, they knew that once he woke up if he were to get out they were all as good as slaughtered.

It was a small stone dungeon, with only a couple of stalls, he occupying one of them. There was a small barred window, along with a wall of iron bars serving as protection from him and the rest of the world. Iron, he hated the stuff, and banned it from his country, it burned him, burned his people. There was a thick, damp smell of blood and rust, a musty smell he could easily recognize as death. He would carve every person in this building up, then burn every building in the village, and he would let the fire spread to their fields and watch as their lives work shrivels up into ash. But for now, He would wait for the perfect time to strike, all he could do was wait really, watch the guard rotation, see which ones were talkative, and which ones were cruel.

Many of the guards would beat him, carve his skin, and watch him bleed, they know of all the gruesome things he has done to so very many people, and supposedly the bastards feel some kind of idiotic vengeance or justice for those people. They would pay in the long run, who exactly do they think they are? he is a king, royalty, the highest of the highest, the strongest too. If he doesn't kill them his people will, they'll see. All the king could do was watch, wait, and plot the splattering of this village.

That was, until you came along.

Little you, in your flowy little skirt that was all torn up, with no shoes and a dirt-covered face. Little you with your oh-so-innocent smile, and your callused hands. Little you with your malnourished body, frail and sickly. Little you, who had no idea who he was. Little you who snuck in when no guard was on duty, a small bowl of soup in your hands, and a cup of water.

“I-im sorry that this is all I have, I know you haven't eaten in a long time I just- I’ll have more tomorrow” you whispered, and he swore he fell in love right then and there, you were too frail, too weak to be giving out food that you surely needed. Yet here you were, shakily handing him the bowl and the cup. He stared at you for a solid second, not even his own mother was this selfless, and you don't even know him. Who were you? You did not seem like aristocracy, too kind, maybe a farmer? Maybe a maid, a servant even.

He hadn't realized how hungry he was, not until the entire bowl and cup were gone, and he was left to stare at you. You were ethereal, dirt-covered and all, your eyes, your hair, your hands, everything, absolutely stunning. You had a look in your eyes. Something hungry and fearful told him that you were not happy, not safe and sound, not as you should be.

“I don't have anything to treat your wound, but- I'm sorry. Nobody should be treated this way, not even prisoners. I'll be back tomorrow, please don't tell the guards that I've done this. They will kill me.” you whispered, cautiously reaching to grab the glassware from his grip, waiting to see if he would snap at you. He didn't, only stared, grunting in response to your plea. You stared back with those sympathetic globes of yours, as if you could see the anger in his soul. Before turning on your heel, and quietly sneaking out of the dungeon room, you gave him one last glance before disappearing.

He was left in the quiet, in the cold, falling head over heels in love with you, a mere human. A peasant at that. Strange. You were too sweet, too kind, you clearly needed the food, clearly were starving and malnourished, yet you still stood here and offered your only food to him, a prisoner of war, you were so sweet. So kind. His people were not like you, they were not soft or sweet, he loved them for it, but you, oh you. You were soft and supple and sweet andso sickeningly kind. He would protect you, he has too.

The next couple of nights went similarly, you sneaking in during the dead hours following midnight with varying foods, sometimes a stale loaf of bread with milk, sometimes some leafy soup and water. He was grateful every time, thankful that he wasn't starving, still burning with absolute rage towards the mere peasants who believed that they could contain him. But you, in the very few days that he had known you, had wormed your way into his heart with your soft hands and pretty smile.

He can just imagine you adorned in stolen jewels and furs, dressed in the finest silk, or better, the clothes of his people. something soft like you, something pretty and supple and shiny and light. Something that reflects you, he would take you out of those rags, clean you up, teach you what luxury truly is. and you wouldnt have to lift a finger. he dreamed about your future everyday that you would visit, asking your favorite color or season or jewel.

That was, until you stopped showing up. No more quiet hours gazing at each other, no more shared food and drink, no more listening to you quietly talk about your life, no more sympathetic glances, no more questions about him from you, no more answers from him. It was like you had disappeared entirely, and back to his old routine of watching and observing the guards had begun once more. He had to admit it kind of hurt, having the only good thing here disappear entirely, he resented this place more, resented you.

He hated you, how could you leave him? You, a servant girl abandoning a king. Funny, hilarious, he sat in a pool of blood and hatred thinking about you, about this town, about the people who put him here, who chained him to the floor and watched him bleed out, this city will burn. And burn and burn and burn and burn and burn, his people would tear it apart until it was nothing but ash and blood-

What tore him out of his internal monologue was a pained scream, but not just anybody, he didn't know anybody in the town, it was yours. With that whispery rasp that you had from overexertion, and that neverending fear that dripped from your tone. He stood up to stare through the small window, only to see you on the ground, surrounded by many people, all bigger and stronger than you, yelling and screaming.

“It's her, the traitor!”

“She has been feeding the enemy, treason, treason I say!”

“She should be beheaded, the traitor.”

You let another scream ring out through the town center as one of the men brought their boot down on your bare foot, he could hear the crunch followed by another scream. The first kick sparked more from other men as they brought their feet down on frail little ou, you slowly reverted into a fetal position, lying in the dirt as they beat you relentlessly. He saw red, crimson blinding him and overflowing all of his senses. How could they? You did nothing, you knew nothing. You were just a sweet, innocent little human who knew no better, who were they to punish you, to beat you so cruelly? You were thin and frail and he could hear each one of your bones cracking and breaking into pieces.

He saw bright ruby red, anger wasn’t the word, absolute rage is a better way to put it.

Red red red red red red red red red

He didn't even realize he had broken from his chains till his legs were moving,

Red

He didn’t even feel the burn of the iron till the bars holding him were bent out of shape and twisted

Red

He didn’t realize they were all dead till his hands were stained with that bright crimson color he loved so much- you guessed it, red

He killed them all, so painfully, knuckles crunching skulls and tearing off limbs, pulling people apart faster than any wolf or bear could even try to. The thrill of freedom mixed with rage and pure anger let him revert to the ways of his homeland, back to the thrilling violence and electrifying feeling of tearing another apart. He enjoyed it, enjoyed tearing them limb from limb and watching them bleed as they had done to him. He cackled as they screamed in terror, relishing in their fear.

You watched deliriously, you had lost too much blood in too short of a time, and you were positive that you had many many broken bones, pain overcame you as you watched the bloodshed in front of you, your vision was blurry and shaking but you could tell that somebody was strong, and enjoying violence. Fear budded in the back of your brain, he was enjoying this, enjoying their pain, he would hurt you just the same, kill you, and relish in it.

You hadn’t known who he was, you swore to the village leaders, swore that you just felt bad for the poor starving man in the dungeons who seemed to gentle and sweet, they hadn’t cared. You were to be burned or drowned or noosed they said. But a death like this, at the hand of a man you had been fooled to be sweet? That was worse. Oh god, oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god you were going to die

Your breath became shallow, both because of what was surely a punctured lung, but also because of the slowly approaching footsteps crunching on the dirt. A small whimper escaped you as the figure towered over you, and your hands came up to shield your face from the blow that was surely to come.

But Instead of a painful ending blow, arms wrapped under you and hoisted you up, you never realized how tall this man was. Naturally, you curled into his warmth and tried not to think about how sticky his hands were with blood. your breath hitched as he squeezed you closer with calloused rough hands. Tears washed down your face, you were quivering, shaking in fear.

“P-please-“ you quivered out. Hand moving up to push him away, your statement had many meanings, to beg for your life, to beg him to put you down, to beg him to leave you and your village alone, to beg him to forgive you. He stared down at you with crimson eyes, a sudden softness overcoming them, more than he thought he could have.

“Don’t you worry baby,

I’ll take good care of ya”

———————————————————————

Cute

Anyway enjoy, I noticed a lack of barbarian bakugo content on here so I figured I would add some fuel to the fire.

Love you all, make sure to have a great day!

[mgparker]

Come Back to Me

Marc Spector/Steven Grant x F!Reader

Summary: Mark leaves on a mission for Khonshu while you deal with a confrontation of your own. Unfortunately, this particular foe is aware of your specific skill set and uses your weakest spot to deliver a fatal wound. Laying there defenseless and abandoned, your final desire is to speak to the love of your life one last time.

warnings: ANGSTTTT!! (the fav), character backstory, flashbacks, character death, reader wound, sadness, despair etc etc, cliffhanger

masterlist!

“M-Mark?” Fuck. Fuck. Your voice was wobblier than you had expected.

“Baby?” You heard some shuffling. “What’s wrong?”

You pulled the phone away to clear your throat. “Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Despite your assurances, he wouldn’t be fooled. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yeah, I just wanted to talk.”

The pain was spreading from your side, crawling through your torso like deadly vines. It was nearly blinding. Pulling the phone away from your mouth, you tried to steady your breathing.

This isn’t how you wanted to go. Whimpering in pain and regretting every decision that got you here.

No. What you wanted was to hear your lover’s voice one last time. The warm timbre of his essence. Your favorite sound in the entire world.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He pressed. “Where are you?”

Your man was nothing if not stubborn. “Yes, baby. I’m okay—“ you really weren’t. “What—what did you do today?”

Marc sucked in air through his clenched teeth, gripping his phone with white knuckles. “It was meant to be a surprise, but I’m coming home for a few days… our leads haven’t gotten us anywhere and Khonshu believes we just need a comfortable place to think.”

You would’ve scoffed at that if your chest and throat weren’t on fire. Khonshu believes?

The big bird knew what Marc would be returning to. He knew you were lying in a pool of your own blood.

The thought sent a surge of panic through your body, even as the pain was beginning to overwhelm you. “No! Uh—um you— you’re already so close. W-what are you stuck on?”

Tears welled in your eyes, it felt like a blazing iron rod was being shoved into your chest and dragged up slowly until every organ could feel the flame.

It was silent on the other end for a heavy moment, before Marc’s deep voice hesitantly spoke your name. His tone lifted, suspended in question.

A shake courses through you, fear beginning to blossom in the pit of your stomach. The last thing you wanted was for him to panic… and now you’re beginning to panic as well.

You weren’t ready.

A sob broke through your lips before you could stop it. As if you even had the strength to.

“Marc,” you sobbed, turning your head to gaze at the phone beside you. As if it would give you one last glimpse at the love of your life.

His breathing picks up frantically. “Where are you? Tell me now.”

On his end, fabric is wrapping around his body at a faster rate than it ever had before. He could feel the strength of Khonshu enter him, the god’s presence filling the void.

The corners of your vision darkened and just when you thought you’d scream from the pain— it was gone. Miraculously, you felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Your heart dropped.

“I’m sorry,” a daze washed over you. There was nothing else to do but wait. A forlorn smile graced your paling face. “I’m so sorry, baby. There isn’t much time left.”

“What time?! Stop this shit, where are you? I can make it there as soon as you tell me.”

“There’s not enough time,” you pressed. You were coming to terms with the distant bright light that was supposed to be illuminating your vision.

You would’ve wished that that was what you were seeing as you drifted off, but one wish stood above all the others—

Your desire to be with Marc and Steven.

You barely notice the frantic yelling on the other end of the line before you’re cutting it off weakly.

“I—“ you go to clear your throat but the numbness had spread too far now. “I love you. Every part of you, baby. I just— I just wanted to hear your s—sweet voice one last t-time. Okay? I love you…”

The last word died on your tongue. And the darkness had taken over before you could hear Marc’s broken response.

A strangled yell left Marc’s lips. His stomach was knotted. The shadow of Khonshu appeared in his peripheral vision.

But Marc was rooted in his own grief. His lips were quivering, snot mixing with salty tears as he bared his teeth, shaking from the pure emotion of it all.

Why wasn’t he home? He had vowed to protect you, shield you from the horrors of the world— his world— but it wasn’t enough.

He couldn’t be there all the time, and you’d always reassured him that it’d be okay. That you didn’t feel like you constantly had to look over your shoulder, you didn’t want Marc or Steven to spend every second of their life protecting yours.

It’s his fault. God, the thought made him choke. Hands flying up to grasp at his throat as if he could stop it from tightening. It’s all his fault.

Maybe—maybe it’s not too late. Maybe, just maybe, you’re alive.

He could still feel Khonshu’s presence over his shoulder. “Take me to her.”

It’s silent. The wind breezing past his ears, the serenity of the night sky brazenly mocking his wild panic.

“Now, Khonshu!” He spun around quickly, voice wavering in rage.

If it hadn’t been for the God’s power over him, Marc would’ve been with you. The only person who truly matters to him in this world.

By some beautiful twist of fate, Khonshu unexpectedly relents, nodding his giant head in the direction of a portal.

Marc couldn’t find it in himself to thank him, everything else had faded away until all he saw was your mangled body on the other side of it.

His feet took him across the rooftop at an immeasurable feet, practically flying over the distance, until his surroundings had changed completely.

“No,” he cried, dropping to his knees painfully. Shards of glass pierced his skin as if he weren’t already bleeding out with you. “Baby? Baby, wake up. Wake up!”

Your body was lifeless in his arms, and the embrace felt strange, nothing like how you’d lay in his arms at night. Fingers gripping his necklace loosely, head tucked into the crook of his neck… legs tangled with his as if your bodies were one.

Blood left a trail from your nose to your chin and shaky hands went to wipe it away before pausing in midair to hover over your face…

“Love?”

Bewildered, Steven nearly gave himself whiplash as he snapped his head away from the sight of your bloodied body.

And despite wanting to run away, his hands tightened around your frame, his lungs failing.

Everything burned, his chest, his stomach. God, his arms and legs were going numb.

And where Marc couldn’t go, Steven went.

Denial.

“Love, come on,” his head has turned to you again but his eyes were squeezed shut. “Wake up. The gag has gone long enough.”

No response. Your laughter wasn’t shaking your frame, your voice wasn’t reassuring him that it’d all been a silly, cruel joke.

“Lovie…” he knew how much you hated the name and despite it, absolutely nothing.

Weren’t you going to argue? Playfully punch him in the shoulder as you giggled at him to never call you that again. Weren’t you going to put on that half-assed angry frown that you always did before smiling and pulling him to your lips?

Weren’t you going to kiss him and tell him everything would be alright?

His heart dropped with the realization that you already had.

You already spoken those words sweetly and he’d dismissed them, twisted them into something rageful when all he should’ve done was pulled you into his arms and never let you go.

“Steven,” you tried, grabbing onto his hands with an unusual hint of desperation. Almost as if you knew something he didn’t. “Sweetheart, it’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be alright.”

The sincerity in your eyes practically sparkled or maybe that was just the pure love that you felt for him. But it didn’t get through to him this time, instead his panic and anxiety twisting his words and actions into something else.

“How can you say that?” Steven stressed. “How can you be so positive all time?! Consider the possibility that maybe sometimes you’re just wrong!”

His soul shattered when he realized… it was the last time he’d ever hear those words.

He hadn’t believed in them and now this happened.

Steven forced his eyes to open slowly.

In the pale moonlight, your face was still as beautiful as the first time he ever saw you.

It was early in the morning; the sun was barely over the horizon and the streets of London were not all too busy for this hour. 

Thankfully for Marc, the little coffee house that was nestled in the array of buildings on Russell Street was practically empty. Save for the steady stream of customers who would fly in and out with a streaming cup of coffee or tea in their hands.

But tucked in the corner of the large window seat was you. 

Exactly as he’d seen you in his numerous hours of laborious research. Hair tucked behind your ears, oversized round glasses slipping off the tip of your nose, lips tucked in concentration, a loose sweater hanging off your shoulders. 

There was a sense of tranquility about you. A stillness despite the bustling customers mere feet from you. 

A girl immersed in her own world; a utopia all within the threads of your pale green sweater, the gentle sway of your feet under the table, the hint of a smile at the corner of your lips.

How odd it was to find such astounding beauty in someone you knew everything and nothing about. 

Because in your little world, you may have been closed off from the reality around you, but an open book to anyone who cared to look. 

And Marc couldn’t see why anyone wouldn’t.

He just hated that he had to be the one to shatter your universe.

“Excuse me,” Marc said when he finally worked up the courage to enter the shop. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

Then you looked up at him and he knew it was a sight he’d remember for the rest of his life, an image that would flash behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes.

Your eyes piercingly studied his through your eyelashes for a long moment. The hint of a smile was gone. 

“Sure,” you eventually smiled brightly. 

A dazzling smile that kept him rooted to the spot a little longer than necessary. 

Thankfully, you didn’t seem to mind it. “You’re American?”

Marc finally sat down next to you, gripping his chocolate muffin tightly. “Actually, I’m from Chicago.”

If your chuckle was charming, he couldn’t imagine your laugh. 

“Which is in America, if I recall correctly.”

“You do, it is... in America.” God he needed to work on his social skills. He felt like a bug under a microscope. Partly because of your particular line of work, mostly because you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. 

You shut your book softly. “What brings you to London?”

Marc was sure you would’ve shut him down by now, questioned his intentions or tried to put his ass down. But you were graceful, serene... Seemingly not worried at all about his intentions.

If he’d asked, you would’ve told him that you had a keen eye for vibrant souls. His being one of the brightest you’d stumbled upon. 

“Uh, work,” he replied unconvincingly. “What about you? You’re a fellow American yourself, aren’t you?”

“What gave it away?” You were teasing him.

Maybe he could hear that laugh again after all. “Your accent and the whole sweater thing you’ve got going on? Practically screams California.”

Your laugh was surprisingly booming, genuine. He found himself smiling at the sound of it.

It can’t be this easy to fall in love with someone you just met. 

“It’s New York actually,” you corrected between fading giggles. “Close enough.”

Embarrassment tinted his ears red. “It’s not.”

Smiling widely, you shook your head in agreement. “It’s really not.”

It’s silent for a few moments and just when Marc thinks you’re going to open your book again, you speak softer than before. 

“I’m assuming you sat in my little corner for a reason, Mr. Spector.”

The gravity of your simple statement uncharacteristically flew past his head. Instead, he was a little more focused on trying to hear that twinkling laugh again. 

“What’re you doing?” You rose an eyebrow, watching as the man wildly looked around the space you were occupying. From the two adjoining walls to the wooden round table. 

“Looking for any indication that this is in fact entirely your corner. So far I see nothing except...” There was no way he wasn’t making a fool out of himself but he was in too deep to stop--

The pin suddenly dropped.  

“I didn’t tell you my name.”

A nonchalant expression adorned your face. “People like you don’t seek people like me unless they need something.”

His brain short-circuits. 

“People like me...” Marc repeated, his voice lifting slightly as if almost in question. 

“I’m aware of every single entity within my range whom fit the qualifications of a very secure database. Yelena Belova, Alexei Shostakov, Spider-Man who happens to be around on a school trip...” you listed idly, twirling the little stick that was stained with your hazelnut coffee. “... Marc Spector.”

The rose-colored glasses were slowly slipping off. His years of servitude under Khonshu’s hand began to harden his exterior until he could finally look at you as a threat. Just to be sure. 

“Why would I be on that list?”

You motioned toward the untouched muffin. “Are you gonna eat that?”

“Why would I be on that list?” His jaw clenched.

“Well, why wouldn’t you?” You take a sip. “Moon Knight is an incredibly promising prospect in the eyes of those who protect our world. You’re incredibly powerful.”

Marc scoffed. Is that what he was to you? A potential business deal, a recruit?

“But it doesn’t really matter to me anyway.”

His eyes shot up in interest. The corner of your lips had turned up again.

“I don’t work for any agency anymore,” you explained. “I’m just a girl with an incredible skill set and impressive resume.”

“Humble much?”

There was a knowing twinkle in your eye. “Only when I need to be.” 

Your stares met with a shared interest. As if you two were really seeing each other for the first time. 

To Marc, your beauty was astounding, ethereal. He could only hope that you’d choose to stay in his life.

“I did come for a reason... I have a mission and I could use someone with your specific skill set.”

“You need help.”

“Well, I didn’t say that exactly--”

“It’s what you meant,” you narrowed your eyes playfully. “Thankfully, I’m a woman of the people. But why should I help you?”

“I’m backed into a corner. I’m just trying to do things right in the best way I can. But I need you to trust me.”

“Trust is gained, Spector.”

“Then allow me to earn it.” The mercenary countered.

You allowed your eyes to look over him. At his open grey button up, his ironed white shirt and black pants. His ebony hair, brushed away from his face, sprinkled with a hint of grey. The scruff on his jaw and the brown of his eyes. 

Falling in love with someone you just met can’t be this easy.

Your resolve crumbled and you knew he was going to be in your life for the unforeseeable future. The fluttering in your abdomen pulled you in before you could stop it. 

Not that you wanted to. 

“So what does this mission entail?”

Slowly, a genuine smile curved Marc Spector’s lips, one that you reciprocated with a blinding beauty that made his heart nearly stop.

And as he walked out of the coffee shop that morning, your number scribbled on a note that was neatly folded in his pocket, there was a sudden change... brief but enough for Steven Grant to suddenly find himself on Russell Street. Confused and a bit frightened, but only for a quick moment-- 

Until he turned his head and gazed into the large coffeehouse window...

To see you for the first time, with eyes that had adoringly gazed upon yours for hours. 

And the sight was like a breath of fresh air, filling his lungs with something he didn’t quite know he needed. 

The close-lipped smile that spread from cheek to cheek behind the fist of your closed hand, idle strands of hair that fell to cover your joyous expression, the simple rise and fall of your chest...

And between the moment that he saw you and Marc reemerged to front, Steven Grant couldn’t help but wonder who had made your eyes light up in that way. 

Steven Grant wondered if he had the chance, could he make you happy?

But he couldn’t see the light in your eyes anymore. Eyelids rested over those effervescent eyes and a part of him finally shattered. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly. Bringing your forehead close to his, his lips tenderly touched your warm skin. “I’m so sorry, love. I’m sorry.”

Softly, as if to not disturb you, he reached for your hand, catching a glimpse of the fading paint job he’d done on your nails before he left last week. 

“I-I-I can’t, I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He couldn’t breathe anymore, gasping against your body as he tightened his embrace. 

Acceptance. 

With a shudder, Marc kept his eyes closed despite the sudden switch. 

This way he could imagine that you weren’t dead, you weren’t cold and lifeless. No, you were alive. Finally squeezing in a nap between your tireless research, hours upon hours at the computer, hacking databases and trying everything you could to help the boys. 

Yes, yes, he could take a moment to indulge in that fantasy. 

Because once he opened his eyes, it was finally over. Marc Spector would have to live without you. 

“How wasteful...”

That pent-up anger reared its ugly head. “What?”

If he wasn’t holding onto you, Marc would’ve committed violence against the god. 

“To let such a valuable asset go would be a pitiful waste,” Khonshu drawled from behind his avatar. 

Marc shook his head at the audacity. “I don’t want to hear this. I--I don’t want to hear this.”

“Perhaps you do, Spector,” the god insinuated. “Feel the warmth of her skin... look at the color beneath her skin...”

This was cruel. “No...”

“Your grief may be premature--” what? “-- her fate lies in no one’s hands but her own.”

He finally looked up. “Stop with the riddles. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just as I once appeared before you, the goddess Isis requires an avatar. Your lover is still in the fight between life and death.”

Deception was a skill Marc was certain Khonshu had mastered but yet, he found nothing but the truth in his tone. He felt the god’s sincerity. 

Shock stilled his body, mouth slightly open as he stared into the night sky and then slowly back at you.

Despite his aversion to serving a god, the only thought running through his mind was the desire for you to come back to him.

In any way, he’d have you. 

Otherwise, neither he nor Steven would make it. 

“This is up to you, baby,” Marc whispered into your hair. “But fight. Please... fight. Come back to me.”

Please.

Come back to me.

The voice bounced off the walls of the chamber, echoing until it faded away.

It was the voice that would always bring you back. 

“You have a choice to make,” a different voice reminded you, sweet and smooth. “Be my apprentice and help me restore the world to what it once was.”

You were on the tip of the iceberg, held back from what you’d seen Marc and Steven deal with for years but itching to get back to the broken man that was begging for you. 

“What does that even mean?” You groaned. 

Isis gave you no further explanation than what she’d told you before. You glared at her for another moment before feeling a phantom pain shoot across your body. Well, metaphysical body.

You realized you’re running out of time.

“So I do this or what? Die? I love how you all deal in absolutes,” your snark was still intact. “Any room for negotiation?”

The Goddess of Magic and Fertility towered over you, mighty with large wings that spanned the length of the golden chamber. Eyes that pierced into your soul, quite literally, and a beauty that wasn’t made to be seen by mortal eyes.

It was easy to tell why. Such beauty was captivating, breath-stealing and enough to send any man or woman to their knees.

But yet here you stood, slightly annoyed and about three feet under. 

Unamused, Isis blinked expectantly. 

Please... Air caught in your throat. Baby...

The decision suddenly wasn’t hard at all. 

And it seemed as if Isis knew it as well. 

“Will you be my apprentice and help me restore the world to what it once was?” She repeated.

The other half of your soul was missing and you knew how to soothe the agonizing pain for the both of you…

“Yes.”

[novaursa]

Chains of Flame

- Summary: Aegon conquers the North, breaks your betrothal to Torrhen, and takes you as his third wife.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen (one-sided)

- Note: These events happen right before The Broken Crown. @oxymakestheworldgoround I hope you like it. 🙂

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

The Northmen stand silent, their breath hanging in the cold air as Aegon Targaryen, now styled the Conqueror, steps forward. You watch from a raised platform, your heart hammering as you take in the sight below. Torrhen Stark, King in the North, stands proud and unyielding before the might of the dragonlord. His eyes flicker briefly to you, a look filled with sorrow and a hint of betrayal.

Aegon's voice booms over the gathered men, a stark contrast to the cold stillness of the North. "I accept your submission, Torrhen Stark. You are no longer King in the North, but Warden, sworn to me and mine."

Torrhen nods stiffly, his face a mask of stoic calm. He removes the crown himself, placing it at Aegon's feet. It is a small thing in that moment, the act of surrender, but it feels like a shifting of the world. You feel the weight of it like a stone in your chest.

Aegon gestures, and you see the great crown of the North picked up by Orys Baratheon’s hand. The sight of it, soon to be discarded, makes something in you clench.

But then Aegon speaks again, and you know this is not over. “There is another matter, Torrhen Stark, that we must settle.” His voice is iron, unyielding. “The betrothal arranged by your father—between my sister and you—is no more.”

A murmur spreads through the assembled lords and bannermen. Your breath catches in your throat, though you had known this moment was coming. The promise made to you, to the North, is shattered in an instant, and the sting of betrayal mingles with relief and fear.

Torrhen’s face pales, his jaw tightening. For the first time, his composure wavers. He glances at you again, and you see the raw pain in his eyes. He does not speak, but you can feel the weight of his silent agony. His mouth opens, then closes, as if words would betray the storm raging within him.

Aegon turns to the gathered Northmen, his presence commanding, his tone brooking no dissent. “I will take Y/N as my third wife, joining her to me as a true queen of Westeros. This is the will of the Conqueror. No man will challenge it.”

The crowd erupts, voices rising in surprise and dismay. The North had seen you as their own, a bridge between the frozen lands and the fiery South. And now, you are being taken from them, claimed by the dragon.

You feel Torrhen’s gaze on you, and you force yourself to meet it. His pain is a spear to your heart, for you had cared for him, in your way. He was to be your husband, your future, a man who respected and honored you. But it was not love, not in the way Aegon’s presence invades your thoughts, dominates your heart despite your resentment.

“I will come to Winterfell,” Aegon continues, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. “To claim her, as is my right. But I will grant you, Torrhen Stark, time to bid her farewell.” His eyes flick to you, and for a moment, the steel in his gaze softens. “I understand my sister holds you in high regard.”

You want to lash out, to rage at the unfairness of it all. He took your future and made it his own. Aegon’s jealousy, his possessiveness, had bound you to him in chains of blood and fire, and now he stands here, triumphant, while the North mourns the loss of its promised queen.

Torrhen bows his head, the weight of his defeat pressing down on his shoulders. “I thank you for your mercy, my lord,” he says, the words clipped and tight. He does not look at you again, and the distance between you feels like an insurmountable chasm.

The ceremony ends, and Aegon turns to you, his hand reaching out. The crowd parts as you descend, every step heavy, the eyes of the North upon you. When you take Aegon’s hand, his grip is firm, possessive, and something in you breaks.

“I will not forget this, brother,” you whisper harshly as he leads you away, your voice low so only he can hear. “You have taken everything from me.”

He stops, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you think you see regret. But then it is gone, replaced by the unwavering determination that has always defined him. “I would take the world for you,” he murmurs, his voice fierce. “And I will make you my queen, as I've promised you.”

You look back once, meeting Torrhen’s eyes across the sea of people. His face is unreadable, a mask of Northern stoicism, but the pain is there, deep and unyielding. You look away, because to hold his gaze any longer would be to shatter entirely.

As you leave, Aegon’s hand never leaving yours, you feel the chains tighten. You are his, now and forever, bound by fire and blood. And the North, once a promise of freedom and peace, is left behind, as cold and distant as a fading dream.

The shores of Dragonstone are shrouded in mist, the air filled with the scent of salt and smoke. The winds whip at the edges of your gown as you stand on the blackened sands, gazing out at the restless waves. The preparations for your wedding are underway, but you feel none of the joy such an occasion should bring. The weight of your destiny, twisted and reshaped by your brother's ambition, presses down on your shoulders like a leaden cloak.

Behind you, the great castle of Dragonstone looms, its towers sharp and jagged like dragon’s teeth. Within its ancient halls, the fires have been stoked, and the feast is being prepared. But all you feel is cold, an icy knot of anger and betrayal festering in your chest.

The sound of footsteps crunching on the sand draws your attention. You turn to see Aegon approaching, his silver hair gleaming in the faint light. He is resplendent in his Valyrian armor, the black and red of House Targaryen vivid against the stark landscape. His expression is set, determined, but you can see the flicker of something deeper in his eyes—something that looks almost like hesitation.

“You are avoiding the ceremony,” he says, his voice low, though there is a hint of frustration beneath the calm. “Our guests are waiting. Visenya and Rhaenys, our bannermen, they are all gathered for us.”

Your lip curls in a bitter smile. “For us? Or for you, brother? This is what you wanted, not I.”

Aegon’s jaw tightens, his gaze narrowing. “This is what you have always desired, to be queen. You spoke of it often as a child, remember? That you would rule by my side, united in fire and blood.”

“That was a game,” you snap, the words sharp and hot as dragonfire. “We were children, Aegon! Do you truly believe the dreams of a girl mean I must forfeit my future?”

He steps closer, the heat of him almost tangible, and for a moment, you can see the hurt flickering beneath his anger. “It was not a game to me,” he says, his voice firm. “When you spoke of ruling together, I saw it as a vow. I saw it as a promise that you would be with me, that we would shape the world together.”

You scoff, turning away, your eyes searching the endless horizon as if it could offer some escape. “A promise you forced me into. You shattered my betrothal, Aegon. You took everything I might have had—the North, my own choices—because you couldn’t bear to let me go.”

Aegon’s hand catches your arm, gently but insistently, turning you to face him. His eyes are fierce, blazing with that intensity that has always defined him. “I took what was mine,” he says, and there is a ring of possessiveness in his tone that makes your heart clench. “You were never meant for him, for anyone but me.”

“And what if I say I do not want this?” you demand, pulling your arm free. “What if I do not wish to be your queen, to be bound to you like some trophy to show your might?”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, he looks almost vulnerable. “You may hate me now, sister,” he murmurs, his voice low and strained. “But I know you. I know the fire in you, the hunger for more. It was not a game, not truly. I have seen the way you look at the world, the way you yearn for something greater. I have conquered Westeros, yes, but I did it for us, for the promise we made.”

“A promise I was too young to understand!” you retort, frustration boiling over. “You saw what you wanted and took it. You never asked what I wanted, Aegon. You never thought that I might have wished for something different.”

He shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “I have always known what you wanted, even when you did not. You would have been wasted in the North, trapped in Winterfell with a husband who could never truly know the depths of your fire.”

Your hands clench at your sides, anger and confusion warring within you. “And now I am trapped here, with you. Trapped in a cage of gold and dragonfire.”

Aegon’s eyes darken, and he steps closer, his presence overwhelming, the heat of him almost suffocating. “Not trapped, beloved,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You are not trapped. You are my queen, my equal. This is what I offer you—the world, to rule by my side. Everything we dreamed of, everything we spoke of, it is ours now.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you are caught between the pull of his words and the bitterness in your heart. You had dreamed of this, once, when you were too young to understand the price. But the reality is a bitter draught, and the man before you, the brother who has taken so much, feels more like a stranger than ever.

“I wanted freedom,” you whisper, the words breaking from you like a confession. “I wanted a life of my own choosing, not one bound by your will.”

Aegon’s face softens, and he reaches out, his hand hovering near your cheek, hesitant, as if he fears you will pull away. “And I wanted you, more than the crown, more than any throne. I have always wanted you.”

His words hang between you, heavy and fraught, and for a moment, the world narrows to the space between your breaths. You feel the weight of his longing, the possessive need that has driven him to bind you to him, and it terrifies you, even as some small, traitorous part of you is drawn to it.

But you do not yield. You cannot. “You have me now, brother,” you say softly, a bitter edge to your voice. “But do not think it is by choice.”

He flinches, the hurt plain on his face, but he does not look away. “I will make you see, in time,” he says, his voice almost a vow. “I will make you see that this is where you belong.”

And with that, he turns away, striding back toward the castle, leaving you alone on the shore. The wind howls around you, the waves crashing against the rocks, and you stand there, feeling the world shifting around you like sand beneath your feet.

Today you will be wed, bound in the ancient rites of your people, the words of Valyria sealing your fate. And though you feel the fire of your anger burning bright, you know that you are caught, trapped in a web of fate and desire, with no clear way to break free.

The dragon has claimed you, and whether you will burn or rise remains to be seen.

The halls of Dragonstone are alive with the glow of a hundred torches. The air is heavy with the scent of incense and dragonfire, a mix of smoke and the salt of the sea beyond. 

You stand in the center of the great hall, clad in the traditional robes of Valyria. The fabric is exquisite, a deep crimson embroidered with threads of gold and black that catch the light as you move. It clings to your form like liquid fire, and the weight of it feels both regal and suffocating. Your hair, usually left to flow freely, has been intricately braided and adorned with tiny dragon-shaped clasps of silver and rubies, each one a symbol of your house, your heritage, and the heavy legacy you now bear.

The hall is filled with guests, lords and ladies from the corners of Westeros, all here to witness this union, this cementing of power. The faces of those you know—Rhaenys, with her quiet strength, and Visenya, stern and watchful—are a comfort, but only barely. They stand on either side of you, dressed in their own gowns of silver and midnight blue, their presence a stark reminder of what you are about to become. Beyond them, the lords of the realm watch with a mixture of awe and apprehension, their whispers a dull hum in the background of your thoughts.

At the far end of the hall, Aegon waits. He is a vision in black and red, his armor gleaming under the firelight, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned proudly on his chest. His silver-gold hair falls loosely to his shoulders, and his eyes—those eyes that have seen the world bend and break under his will—are fixed on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

The words of the High Valyrian rites begin, spoken by a priestess who stands between you and Aegon, her voice echoing in the vast chamber. The ancient tongue flows like music, each syllable carrying the weight of history, of old gods and lost empires. The ceremony is one few in Westeros truly understand, its meaning lost to all but those of your blood.

You are asked to recite the vows, and though your voice is steady, you can feel your heart racing, a frantic, caged thing within your chest. You speak the words, pledging your loyalty, your soul, your very being to the man before you. Each phrase is a chain, each promise a shackle that binds you ever closer to him.

Tears sting at your eyes, but you blink them away, your vision blurring for a moment. You will not weep, not here, not before all these people. But the weight of what is happening crashes over you in waves, each one more suffocating than the last. You feel Rhaenys’s gaze on you, warm and understanding, but even she cannot help you now. This is your fate, your destiny, carved by your own brother.

Aegon steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. His face is inscrutable, the mask of the conqueror, but there is something beneath it, something raw and almost hesitant. He takes your hands in his, his grip firm but not harsh, his skin warm against your cold fingers.

The priestess continues, her voice rising and falling like the tide, calling upon the old gods of Valyria to witness this union, to bless it with the strength of the dragon, the fury of fire. You repeat the vows again, your voice faltering only once, when the tears finally spill over, silent and unbidden.

Aegon’s eyes flicker, a brief, almost imperceptible softening as he watches the tears trail down your cheeks. For a heartbeat, he hesitates, his gaze searching yours, and you see it—a flash of uncertainty, of something almost like regret. But it is gone as quickly as it appeared, his grip on your hands tightening as if to anchor you both.

The priestess holds up a ceremonial blade, its edge gleaming wickedly in the firelight. You know what comes next. Aegon takes the blade first, drawing it carefully across his palm. Blood wells up, crimson and stark against his pale skin. He holds his hand out to you, his eyes locked with yours, unyielding and yet—there is a plea there, a silent question.

You take the blade, your hand trembling slightly. The metal is cold and sharp, and when you draw it across your palm, the pain is swift, a sharp sting that blooms into a dull throb. You press your bleeding hand to his, the warmth of his blood mingling with yours, a bond sealed in the oldest way.

“Fire and blood, my love,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you. 

The words are a promise, a claim, and you feel their weight settle over you like a mantle. The tears fall faster now, but you do not look away, even as your vision blurs. You hold his gaze, refusing to flinch, to break, even as your heart shatters within you.

And then it is time for the final vow, the kiss that will seal your fates. Aegon hesitates, just for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours as if seeking permission, understanding. The hesitation is gone as quickly as it appeared, and he leans in, his lips brushing yours with a gentleness that surprises you.

The kiss is soft, almost chaste, but there is a fire beneath it, a heat that speaks of all the things left unspoken between you. It lasts only a moment, a fleeting touch, and then he pulls back, his eyes dark and unreadable.

The hall erupts in cheers, the sound crashing over you like a tidal wave. You feel the weight of the moment, the finality of it, and it is all you can do to stand, to keep the tears from becoming sobs. You are his now, bound in the ancient rites, the queen to his king, the flame to his fire.

Aegon raises your joined hands, his gaze still locked on yours. There is triumph in his eyes, but there is something else, too—something softer, more fragile, hidden beneath the conqueror’s mask.

The feast that follows is a blur of sound and color, of toasts and laughter that seem hollow in your ears. Aegon’s hand remains on yours throughout, his presence a constant, inescapable force beside you. You smile when expected, nod when spoken to, but inside, you are adrift, lost in the sea of your own thoughts, your own grief.

As the night wears on, the guests begin to fade away, the torches burning low. Aegon turns to you, his expression still unreadable, his hand warm on your arm.

“Are you well?” he asks, his voice quiet, meant only for you.

You look up at him, and for the first time since the ceremony began, you allow yourself to speak the truth. “No,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “No, I am not.”

For a moment, just a moment, you see something in his eyes—a shadow of the boy he once was, the brother you knew before all this. But then it is gone, and he nods, his expression hardening once more.

“I will make it right,” he says, and you can hear the determination in his voice, the fierce resolve that has driven him to conquer, to claim. “I will make you see.”

But you turn away, pulling your hand from his grasp, your heart heavy with the weight of all that has been lost, all that will never be. You do not look back as you leave the hall, the cheers and laughter fading behind you, your tears falling silently in the darkness.

Tonight, you are queen. But you are also alone, your heart a battlefield, your soul caught between fire and blood, love and resentment. And the man you once called brother, the boy who once made you laugh, is now the king who has taken everything.

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part four

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, blood, assault, attempted sexual assault, grief mention

word count: 8.2k

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Cregan Stark grows restless as the days pass. In the late afternoon he finds himself sat in his chambers, taking a moment to organize his thoughts. 

The castle is abuzz with a low hum of anxious rumor and bated breath, given the increasing number of arrests as more and more turncoats are revealed. To round them up and sentence them is his duty, and a task he does not take lightly. It is impossible to, when he sees the young Prince Aegon. A boy of one and ten whose situation dances about like the familiar ghost of Cregan’s own past. 

Yet the vultures circle high above his head, close enough to hear the flapping of wings, only kept at bay by the army of Northern wolves. The Southern nobles bide their time, allowing him to retain power for now. But the more men that are arrested, the more fear begins to spread. Festering in the castle like an open wound. The glares he receives when he walks the halls are more venomous than ever. 

His informational network has been firmly set into place. Sooner rather than late, the scorpions will be dealt with and justice brought to both Aegon II’s poisoners and the final remnants of those who might wish to see the young prince dead instead of upon the Iron Throne.

As Cregan sits in front of the hearth in his room, his jaw tenses. The storms of his eyes stare down into the flames as they splutter and dance atop the thick logs they burn upon. A poisoned leader and a young heir. Is it fate that has him once again in this circumstance? Only this time, he is not child. Justice will be carried out properly, and swiftly. One of his fists clench tightly, his expression growing darker. 

How deeply he longs to return north, to smell the pine and feel the crunch of snow beneath his boots. To breath freely, in clear air, rid of the stuffiness of the Red Keep and the general oppressiveness of the capital. The Lord of Winterfell is quite glad to have spent his time far from here, away from the choking toxicity that seeps through the walls and penetrates minds and bodies alike.

He rubs a hand over his chin as her visage flickers through his mind.

Perhaps it is no surprise to Cregan that Lady Tyrell is as she is when she has spent so much time here. She has roots planted firmly within the weeds and she blooms beautifully in the muddy and trampled wreckage left from the war. So much so that even when presenting with lies and deception, two things Cregan has little taste for, she has ensnared his attention beyond what he can excuse as primal attraction.

It would be a lie to say that he does not find his eyes trailing her figure, absorbed by her lips and their fullness. Any man with eyes and a cock would do the same, Cregan thinks. No, it is the little flicker of truth that he sees from time to time, beneath the honeyed words. He cannot help his own curiosity, and the desire to see more burns in his chest brighter than the fire in front of him. 

One of his arms comes to rest on the side of the plush armchair. Everything in the castle is so ornate that it is almost nauseating. Longing for the simplicity of Winterfell echoes about his body.

Lady Tyrell remains the sole noble who consistently seeks out his presence, regardless of rumor or what she sees. The woman is frighteningly persistent and quite smart; if she were not so determined to manipulate him to her whims, Cregan might want her as an ally. It would be a relief, to have one amongst the vipers who is not trying to sink their fangs into him with the intention of poisoning him. Lady Tyrell certainly wants something from Cregan Stark, but at least she does not want him dead.

He believes it so, anyways. 

With the twisting of a wry smile onto his lips, Cregan finds himself with the distinct thought that if the lady wished him dead, he might just be so already considering how much food and wine he has consumed in her presence. Still, the lack of clarity regarding her true intentions claws at the back of the lord’s mind. His hand comes to rest under his chin as he considers what he might do to shed light on the truth of the matter.

It is not an impossible task. While Lady Tyrell has forced their repeated proximity for her own interest, Cregan has learned more of her just as she has learned more of him. And she is not the only one who is accustomed to the intricacies of political power dynamics. Cregan’s eyes narrow, pupils reflecting the glowing firelight.

The hour draws rather late as Lady Tyrell flips through the pages of a thick tome within the castle library. Hair falls carelessly into her face but she cannot find herself bothered enough to brush it aside, her bottom lip bitten slightly as she focuses on the words. A single lantern rests on the long wooden table, illuminating the pages as she lifts her hand to turn yet another. Her brows draw together as she continues.

The library has remained rather empty since the war began. The delicious irony of this is far from lost on her. Yet it serves as a relatively untouched sanctuary in which one can gather their thoughts or simply have a moment of peace. The tall walls of books extend out in a vast hall of knowledge, the shelves turning into each other at different points to create soft pools of shadow one might easily hide themselves within to escape the world around. The long wooden tables are dotted with carefully covered candles, many of which remain unlit. The large windows have the thick fabric of their curtains drawn closed, as the sun has recently set. 

Reading serves her in more ways than one; much is to be learned from the pages of history and so much of it is wholly ignored. Lessons that have already been learned throughout time, forgotten. Only to be learned again a hundred years later, and the same price paid. She is cautious to consume as many historical texts as might be possible, lest she fail to find valuable insight that might change her fortune. With a sigh, she lowers her chin onto her hand as her elbow rests on the cool wood of the table. There is no need to be proper when the only other visitors to the library are aging maesters who pay her little mind as they shuffle through books as thick as the one before her now.

This is why her back stiffens at the sound of approaching footsteps. Heavy boots and a pressure to each intentional step that has her holding the edge of the cream page in her hand so tight it wrinkles beneath her fingers. The library does not seem so sacred any longer.

She need not turn to know whose presence has interrupted her solitude. The steps come to a stop behind her chair and the lady is met with the scent of pine and the faintest hint of woodsmoke. With delicate fingers she releases the page crinkling in her grasp as the man behind her walks around to the other side of the table. He lacks hurriedness, languidly making his way to the chair across from her and pulling it out, a soft scraping sound echoing as he does.

Her face remains innocently neutral as he sinks down, all heavy limbs and a low tilt to his chin, into the chair like molten lava in the blacksmith’s workshop. With a gentle touch, she brings together the worn pages of the wide book to close it, and one hand lingers delicately atop the cover. A sweet surprise catches in her eyes as her eyebrows raise.

“I cannot say I was expecting you, Lord Stark.” Slowly, Lady Tyrell opens the conversation with an amiable cadence and tender softness about her face. She wonders briefly how he knows where to find her, but before the thought can fully take form in her mind, Cregan dips his head.

“I was told by your handmaiden that I might find you here if I wished to speak with you, Lady Tyrell.” The Northern depth and slowness to his tone still sends chills down her spine. The library is far from cold. At his words, she blinks slowly, lashes brushing against the top of her cheeks. Her pause is not performative, but genuine surprise at the revelation that he was purposefully seeking her out – going so far as to knock on her chamber door to call upon her. 

Adelin has been smart to send Cregan directly to the lady, even without warning. This is hardly an opportunity she will pass up upon.

“And found me you have.” Delicately sweet words fall between them with the parting of her lips. Her hands reach up to push lose hair from her face, before she takes a deep breath and settles further into her chair. She does attempt to keep the intrigued glimmer from the depths of her eyes; it is only that she has been pursuing him with such ardent fervor that it delights her to see this take a more interesting turn. How repetitive it can get, her faux gentle smiles and his polite northern reservation. The heated looks down each other’s bodies go poignantly ignored in her head.

Cregan beholds her wordlessly, head tilted back and chin lifted to observe her coolly.  There is a simplicity to her gown today as well, as it had been during their private dinner. The gentle swell of her breasts can be seen more prominently in this dress, even if the lord has found the other ones dangerous enough. “Aye, I have.” 

She knows well when something is wanted from her. And here sits the Lord of Winterfell, who she knows for certain has not sought her out for the darling pleasure of her company. Taking a breath through her nose, her shoulders rise, the low neckline of her gown drooping slightly further with the movement. “Might I be of some assistance, Lord Stark?”

Cregan’s grey eyes glimmer at the quickness of her saccharine reply, the direct yet demure way she demands his cards on the table immediately. There is no sound from the rest of the library, the castle’s inhabitants seem more occupied with other matters for the evening. His hands come together on the surface of the table and her eyes drift down, catching a glimpse of the veins on the back of them. “I have a matter with which I would very much like your thoughts upon, my lady.”

Taking another slow breath, she nods thoughtfully and her gaze falls to the single candle upon the library table. A sheepish hesitance flutters across her face as if brought about by butterfly wings, and she presents him a tiny smile. “It would be my honor to offer my opinions, my lord, but I fear I know little of warfare or the ending of it.”

Round doe eyes cast themselves upon his face, decorated with the gentle glow of humility.

“It is you of all people who might offer insight,” Cregan’s hands tighten against each other slightly as they rest between them. His broad shoulders lower, his stern expression folding to become impossibly more serious. A moment of leisurely anticipation stretches between them in the pause he takes, his gaze seemingly searching hers. It is with utmost delicacy that she maintains her passive, pastel pleasantness. “It is a matter of a proposal, my lady.”

Her blood pounds in her ears. Tension spikes through her head, sharp behind her eyes and heavy on her shoulders. Cregan opens his mouth to explain his reasoning further, his eyes gazing slowly about the library as he speaks. But the Lady Tyrell pays his following words little mind, frozen like a doll left out in the cold by a little girl who had been called in for supper. All slow blinks and that eerie, easy smile upon her lips.

“I have grown so keenly aware of my lack of allies at court…” His voice is a distant drone, she pays no attention to the heavy raise of his brows and the weary sigh that droops his figure. While he speaks, she finds herself lost in the maze of her own thoughts, spinning around lost and confused. The walls of her fears loom over her, draped in thorns and ivy, at the prospect. 

It should not be as shocking as it is. They are the same age, both young and unmarried, both in need of something from the other. And yet – is this not the physical manifestation of all that she has been dreading since the passing of her betrothed? To be married off to some lord she barely knows, subjected to a life at the hands of a husband who is just as likely to treat her callously and cruelly as he is to respect her, no matter how handsome he might be? Her mother told her to win his favor, not marry him. But in truth, if this is what is takes for peace to be achieved then she is wickedly selfish for considering a mad dash for the door.

Her mouth has gone dry and her fingernails dig so sharply into the fragile skin of her hand that she fears she will draw blood and stain the book cover below it. She continues to smile. 

“Would it not serve our houses well?” Cregan’s voice drives a swift dagger through her turbulent thoughts, and she readjusts herself in her seat. Her hands fall to her lap and she agrees demurely, forcing her smile wider when she dips her chin.

“I cannot say it is not…a kind offer, Lord Stark,” Lady Tyrell murmurs with delicate, plucking cadence. She swallows, hoping to rid her tongue of its dry heaviness. The library, its calming atmosphere of scrolls and books and candles, has suddenly lost all of its usual comfort. The shelves about the hall loom ominously above her, trapping her beneath their massive structures. Cornering her here with this man and his propositions. “House Tyrell is honored by your consideration.” 

Cregan watches her carefully. Studying her for a glimpse of masked pride and pleased simpering. This is what she wishes, is it not? Power and wealth through an ambitious match.

She reaches up to twist a strand of hair out of her way with a purposeful breath, wisps of lashes aflutter once more. Her beating heart is a weighty stone inside of her chest. “If it is what you wish, I would hardly feel the need to present my opinion upon the matter, my lord.” 

“It is only that you know your sister so much better than I,” Cregan tells her with a raise of his thick brows, a hand coming to rest on his chin as he leans back in his chair. His gaze remains cast to a bookshelf, as if lost deeply in thought. “Perhaps you might have some insight upon the nature of such a union.” 

There is a heartbeat where not a single thought occupies her mind. Lady Tyrell merely looks upon the man in front of her with empty, unblinking eyes. Her smile twitches at the corners, the edges of her cheeks rounding at the movement. It feels as if her hands are beginning to grow numb, as if an hour has passed before her dry lips part with disturbed slowness. “I beg your pardon?”

It is all that she can manage to breath, giving her a moment to collect the wild frenzy of thoughts. Where there had been silence only a moment ago, floodgates have been shattered to splinters as the torrent of words spill into her brain like the ocean itself has descended upon her mind. If she could sound alarms, she would. Their blares would better suit the panic in her heart than the silence of the castle library. The nonchalance of Cregan’s tone is not lost upon her.

“Your sister – the Lady Cassia. I have been told she is quite beautiful, and of a very agreeable countenance,” The Lord of Winterfell talks as if he is simply commenting upon the shade of blue in the sky or the taste of red wine at dinner. It has been some time since she has been this shellshocked. This utterly thrown by anyone, this completely caught vulnerable and off guard. She knows her smile no longer reaches her eyes; it barely remains upon her face at all.

The obvious question is to ask him why he would not simply wish to marry her – she knows well she has not imagined the way Cregan Stark rakes his eyes down her figure and about her face. Like a man starved. But far be it from her to understand the whims of men, Northern men even less so. She gives another slow blink. He is waiting for her to say something, she realizes. With a swallow, she does at least attempt to carve something resembling pleasance onto her features.

“She is but five and ten, my lord.” Her lips hesitant around the words, betraying a slight nervousness that makes her blood spike with irritation and worry. Rapidly, she attempts to pull for excuses she can offer to prevent him from marrying Cassia. The task proves rather difficult given the quickness with which she must accomplish it. She can feel fear dulling her senses, which only sets the feeling alight further. The jumping of the candleflame between them nearly makes her draw back.

“The age of marriage, is it not?” Cregan easily provides an answer with a heavy shrug of his shoulders. Lady Tyrell knows his words to be true, but it does not stop her eyes from darting about. She lowers her chin, trying to bring a semblance of composure to herself. There is too much to think of at once; she needs time to consider.

But in her head, she knows with a sinking feeling what her mother would say. Her eyes grow dull as she realizes that if Cregan follows through with this proposal, her mother will happily send Cassia off with this stranger if it means securing peace and the future of their House. His words cannot leave this room. The realization rises with a crushing swell in her chest. 

“I do not believe she would be a suitable match, in truth.” There is a sharper edge to her saccharine tone than has ever been present, and she does not meet his eyes as she usually does. She imagines her sweet sister, who adores flowers and the fields of Highgarden and the sunshine, whisked away to a castle surrounded by snow and ice and dying trees. “Cassia is a delicate girl. I cannot imagine she would fare well in the North.”

Cregan finds it a refreshing change of pace to see her squirm for once, the delicate balance of her performance shattered by his words. Yet he still has not found the answer he is looking for.

“She would adjust, in time,” Cregan offers politely, his red hair shifting slightly to frame his face. She takes no note. “If it is for the sake of peace. Especially if she is as agreeable as is suggested.” A slight smile spreads to his face.

Her eyes flick to his with the sharpness and severity of a sword.

And she holds his gaze for quite some time. For the first time since their meeting, she looks at him without performance. Lady Tyrell meets him upon the battlefield of their game free of armor and weapons and nauseatingly sweet illustration.

Her eyes are piercingly jagged, wider as they bore into his own, and her lips are parted. A loose strand of hair falls into her face, catching stray candlelight in a haunting glow. She is just as beautiful, Cregan realizes with a start, when she is staring him down as if she intends to have his head on a spike by the end of this conversation. 

Lady Tyrell will have just that before Cregan Stark lays a hand on her sister. He will spend his final moments in agony if he believes he will take Cassia anywhere, if he thinks he can demand her. She will not be threatened by the prospect of war or the destruction of her House. The Lord of Winterfell would soon see just how many men she would let burn before she sacrifices her sister to be taken by a man who wants a quiet and submissive bride to use as he wishes. 

“It would seem I misread you, Lord Stark,” It is chilling to hear her true voice after Cregan has grown so accustomed to the gentle manner in which she presents even the few biting words she has allowed pass her lips in his presence. There is a haunting emptiness to the phrase and in her eyes that takes him aback. “It does not happen often.”

Her brows lower darkly, a shadow passing over her gentle features.  There is a barbarous sting in her tone that pulls to mind images of snakes, still yet poised to strike. Disgust curls at her lip, the look she gives Cregan as her eyes rinse over his figure dripping with poisonous distaste. “Here come the carrion birds, whispering of frost-bitten savages who will wet our gardens with blood. I watched and I waited and foolishly drew the conclusion that as great of an irritation as you are, you are not a conqueror. Not a man who would seek a young girl as a spoil of war.”

She does not blink one time as she speaks. Eyes wide as saucers, thinly veiled anger simmering beneath her skin. “Do you think I will allow you to sit across from me and demand I hand my only sister to you because it will bring about peace? Because it will ensure the enduring security of my great House? I imagine you did.”

A huff of cold laughter quite nearly twists its way past her lips. The pumping of her beating heart feels akin to nails being hammered into her chest. Anything else she would gladly sacrifice to fulfill her mother’s wishes and win Cregan Stark’s favor. But never this. “No, my lord. You shall not have my sister, nor peace.”

With the screech of a chair scraping against wooden paneling, Lady Tyrell pushes her chair back and draws herself upright, body as tight a strung bow. She glares down at Cregan with such ferocity that he briefly wonders if she might try to fight him then and there in the castle library. But she merely glowers at him, scoffing with disgust as she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Find your submissive bride among the many Houses that will happily offer up their daughters as lambs to slaughter. You will not lay a hand on my sister in this lifetime.”

His eyes catch sight of the way her hands are trembling. 

She spins with such a violence that her skirts billow out in an angry storm cloud about her, the heels of her shoes echoing in the silent library. Never in her life has she been so utterly fucked, so desperatelystupid and brash. Her shaking hands ball into fists as she stalks towards the library door. Fear prickles at every nerve in her body, the immediate regret washing over her in a chilling wave. 

The sound of a chair tipping over makes her jump, her shoulders jerking and her hand hesitating on the gold doorhandle of the grand library. She does not know whether to freeze or run, unsure if Cregan is getting up to strike her for her insolence, or to simply leave. It was idiocy to speak to him as she did, she of all people knows this painfully. She turns her head over her shoulder, palms shining with sweat, catching a glimpse of him as he approaches.

Anxious helplessness claws its way up her throat, stifling her breath at the sight of his imposing figure drawing nearer. She does not have enough time to open the door, he will reach her before she leaves. Neither can she imagine she has much time to scream. As breath evades her further, she parts her lips to murmur a shaky apology against the thrumming of her rapid heartbeat. But his voice carries out into the space between them first.

“Please, my lady, a moment.” Cregan speaks the words quietly, his rich Northern tone softer than she has ever heard it. Her back presses into the great oak door as he draws nearer, stopping in front of her. She does little to hide the worry upon her face, her brows drawn together warily. There is a horrible guilt that has begun to spread in Cregan’s chest.

Confusion stirs in her gut as she looks up to find only a stoic concern in his eyes, his lips parted slightly as he searches for the words he wishes to say. A part of him wants to reach out, to try and comfort her, but he imagines it would do little but set her off. “Lady Tyrell, I did not wish to frighten you.”

His voice is scarcely above a hum in his deep tone, the quiet and tender manner in which he presents it only serves to deepen her misunderstanding. She gazes up at him with suspicious concern, searching for some sort of ploy or deception. A heavy sigh lowers Cregan’s shoulders, drooping his figure slightly. This is why he despises these ridiculous court games. “I have no intention to marry your sister, in truth. She shall be perfectly safe, I assure you.”

A shudder of a skeletal breath rattles its way out past her lips. Her eyes flicker, crinkling with confusion, as she regards him with wary unease. But there is nothing but seemingly genuine worry for her wellbeing as the Northern lord hovers hesitantly in front of her. 

“I do not understand.”  There is an almost petulant softness to her words as she looks up at him, clawing for an explanation so that she might regain a semblance of control as she remains pressed to the oak door, Cregan only a step in front of her. Gazing down with such eyes. 

The man opens his mouth to speak but finds any explanation he can provide for his actions will only seem cruel. Cregan has been so blinded by the toxicity of the Red Keep and the politics played by the nobles that he had acted with prejudice against her, assuming her some power-hungry bird of prey, trying to sink her talons into him to raise her own status. But here in front of him is a girl who loves her sister, who would risk incurring his wrath to tell him directly that she would do anything to protect the girl. He does not consider himself someone who toys with people’s feelings. Perhaps the capital has had worse influence on him than he realizes.

“I only wished to determine your intentions with me,” The man quite nearly winces from how stiffly aware he is of the callousness of his actions, and how terribly he is excusing them. He tilts his head, a pained expression flickering across his face like the lighting of a tea candle. “I had believed you wished to marry me yourself. I could not determine whether it was for your own gain or your House so I…”

Lady Tyrell sees it quite clearly now, even through the dense fog of her anxiety. It is a good plan; she can give him that compliment at the very least. Had he used anything aside from her sister, she might have caught on. It is Cassia above all that is her weakness, especially after the death of Helaena. She is foolishly and vulnerably blindsided when the girl is brought up. Cregan Stark likely does not even know to the full extent. Truly, a masterful scheme. 

But the anger burns hot in her chest, fueled by her fear, the flames wildly licking and spitting about in her lungs. 

Her wide eyes look up into his as the realization settles upon her face like an unforgiving dawn. A heavy silence falls between them and Cregan finds himself longing to fill it, to apologize further for behaving in a manner unbecoming of his character. 

“You must think yourself very smart, Lord Stark.” The lady’s tone is dangerously low and airy. That sickly sweet smile peels its way onto her face, an eerie ghost of the look she has given him time and time again. 

Cregan’s heart plummets in his chest. All he had wanted was to know the truth. He has seen it, clear as day, the depth of the love she has for her sister. The bravery and ferocity with which she will meet him with in order to defend the girl, even in the face of the lady’s own fear. His head tilts, his brows drawing together in gentle apology. 

“Lady Tyrell, if you would please let me-.” But Cregan Stark is not given the chance to do anything nor say anything. She turns quickly, hand gripping the golden doorhandle to yank the library door open with such force that Cregan steps back. Her body slips through the partially open door. It closes with a violent slam and Cregan is left staring at the wood, alone in the vast and silent library.

When she hears the muffled sound of a man’s footsteps behind her as she walks down the hall, she does not bother to turn around. The hour has grown late and most of the castle has drawn away to their bed chambers or to skulk in shadowy corners. She parts her lips to snap something rather barbarous about not wishing to be followed, but the words are lost in her mouth as she feels a hand grab her wrist.

After much heavy pacing, Cregan Stark finds his boots carrying him to Lady Tyrell’s bedchambers. He simply cannot allow the night to pass without the deliverance of proper apology. Despite getting the answer he had been seeking, the truth behind the nature of her character, there is no satisfaction in his chest. Far be it from him to engage in such deceptions, and yet he has offended and frightened her in a manner that is so deeply against that for which he stands. The capital will not turn his heart rotten nor dispel the sacrosanct honor he strives to uphold. 

Guards are stationed outside of her door as the lord rounds the corner, the Tyrell rose blooming in vibrant gold against the silver of their breastplates. Her personal guards, whom had not been stationed there when Cregan had knocked upon her door earlier that evening. A deep unsettling wariness finds its way into his mind, and it only increases when the guards move to intercept him as he draws nearer. The flicker of torchlight upon the walls ripples across the shining armor as Cregan’s narrowed eyes flick between the two men.

Lady Tyrell can hear the muffled exchange of words through her thick door, her eyes jumping sharply to stare at the oak.  Sharp anxiety shoots through her frayed nerves, but simmers to a hum at the deep rumble of a Northern tone. The fire in her hearth crackles as she sits on the floor in front of it, the plush rug beneath her partially balled up in one tightly closed fist. With an eerie stillness, she rises from her place upon the ground and steps slowly towards the echoes of voices, her bare feet soft against the cold wood. 

When she draws the door inwards, opening it, all parties involved in the exchange turn their heads to meet her. She hovers at the edge of the frame, one hand curling delicately against the thick wood as the remainder of her body remains obscured. Her guards turn and the taller one, Leo, gives her a deep and apologetic dip of his head.

“I apologize for the disturbance, my lady, we were sending him away at once.” Leo assures her firmly, one hand resting atop the shining hilt of his golden sword. But her tired eyes fall upon Cregan Stark’s face instead. He is beholding her with faint surprise, his lips parted and brows low, his red hair loose about his face and falling down to brush the tops of his shoulders. His eyes rest on her lips – far from the first time such a thing has occurred, but it is not through half-lidded desire with which he stares now. It is shock.

A ripening cut pulls at her lower lip, ruby against reddening and swollen skin. Her eyes reveal nothing as he finds a stern and questioning expression twisting its way onto his face as he takes a slow step back. One of the guards moves to further push Cregan away, but with an unreadable neutrality, she shakes her head, loose hair spilling down about her face and over what little can be seen of her ivory nightgown.

“It is alright,” Her voice is hoarse, as if the act of speaking is foreign in her throat. Her grip tightens on the edge of the door before she draws it open further. “If Lord Stark wishes to speak with me, he may.” 

There is no need to acquiesce to his wants, nor to prevent her guards from running him off. Performance is no longer required as she has already destroyed all of the time spent crafting a sweet disposition to charm him with. But now that her heartrate is steady and exhausted, the veins connecting to her heart too tired to thrum with the rush of adrenaline and anxiety, she can see Cregan quite clearly. There is nothing false about the firm worry he extends silently to her, a demanding question barely bitten back upon his tongue.

“But my lady--.” Leo begins with a start, concern in the man’s eyes for his lady. She shakes her head again, stepping back in an unspoken invitation for the Lord of Winterfell.

“I shall scream if need be. Do not go far.” It is a quiet order, a bitter amusement bubbling in her throat but stifled down by a rush of exhaustion yet again. The guards exchange a worried look but know better than to argue with her. Cregan stands as still as a stone statue, as she turns her back to him to walk further into her room. His stormy eyes trail after her, uncertain if he should ask her if she truly wants him to follow her inside. Yet his feet carry him forward before his mouth can form words, the closing of the door behind him. The sound echoes with a quiet tolling of finality that Cregan cannot identify.

Lady Tyrell’s chambers are expansive and comfortable, the large bed on the far side covered in satin and silk blankets and a mountain of fluffed pillows at its head. The warm oak posters of the bed spiral upwards, a sheer canopy of pink fabric shimmering softly in the firelight of the hearth. Two plush chairs stand before the hearth, before a thick rug that the Lady Tyrell stands upon. There are shards of glass at the base of her bedside table, shining like small knives as they catch light, and interwoven into puddles. A bunch of dried roses rests upon the floor, scattered haphazardly, their crisp petals soaking up the water that had once been in their vase.

Cregan’s eyes cannot be torn from her figure, and he imagines that would be the case even if the castle around them began to collapse in that very moment. Her hair is completely loose, messy strands falling in front of her face and down her back, and her eyes are dull and red-rimmed from the remnants of shed tears. There is a gaunt look to her skin, only strengthened by the small wound on her soft lips.

Even though it was her own decision to invite him into her quarters, she has to resist the urge to squirm under the heaviness of the Northern lord’s stare. It is too steady, too intense, and her eyes narrow in challenging response despite herself. When her lips open into with a callous twist, her voice comes out dry and rather cold. “Have you come simply to stare at me, my lord?”

“What has happened?” The heavy lowness of the phrase morphs it into a demand, rather than a question. Cregan’s hands are gripped in tight fists, his shoulders raised. The man is always serious, but the severity of his tone has her remembering just who this man is – the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf from the North who has forced King’s Landing into submission and rules in all but title. Towering within her chambers, mandate weighty upon his lips. The storm clouds upon his face darken as she does not answer immediately. “I have only just seen you, but hours ago. Can I not take my eyes off of you for a moment?”

The growl in his normally politely resigned tone sends a chill down her spine. She does not understand the rough urgency of his voice.

If she asks after it, she will discover he does not understand it either.

Unconsciously, her fingers reach for her reddening wrists, her eyes lowering and gazing about the room while a syrupy swallow makes it way down her throat. Cregan’s eyes flick down, taking sharp note of the marks that blossom upon the skin of her arms. His anger burns hotter, and when he meets her avoidant gaze, it is clear that he wants an answer immediately.

Letting out a huff of breath, stopping just short of muttering something about brutish Northern impatience, she turns elegantly. Wrists wringing in her hands, she lowers her eyes and opens her mouth, shoulders drawn back gracefully even in the disheveled state of her appearance. “I do not know, to be perfectly honest, my lord.”

Her eyes find their way to the fireplace, willing herself to still her hands and folding them over top of her stomach. She smooths a wrinkled portion of her nightgown before continuing, her back partially turned to him. “I was not paying much mind to where I was going, the hour was late. A hand came upon my wrist and when I pulled towards someone, I screamed. He smelled of wine and strong spirits and my shouting must have made him panic.”

A slight wobble of her damaged lower lip makes Cregan’s heart plummet further. This is not how he wishes to see her, eyes dim and thinly veiled anxiety covered with a cloak of indifference. He has grown used to the pleased glimmers in her pupils when she believes him to not be looking, that bright intelligence reading his every move and word. The sound of the crackling fire fills the pause.

“He struck me when footsteps could be heard, and then ran. He did not say what he wanted from me. He did not need to.” The vacancy that occupies her stare is ghostly, and the burdening truth hangs between them weightily. Neither of them are fools. Her chin lowers, lashes against the tips of her cheeks when she pulls her gaze to the floorboards. The rug atop them is soft upon her feet. 

Cregan takes in her bruising wrists and the cut upon her mouth, before his attention turns to the fallen roses and shattered vase. When she catches this, a bitter smile cuts through her thoughts and she lifts her shoulders slightly, hands clasped together as she walks towards him.

“That was my own doing. Perhaps not very ladylike of me.” Lady Tyrell muses with tiredly cool sarcasm, her brows raising. Cregan turns as she draws near, looking down at her with a cross between concern and frustration at her breezy nonchalance. 

There is a dimple between his brows due to the severity with which he is furrowing them. With little effort to conceal his anger, he shakes his head slowly. “Who did this?”

“I did not get a clear look at his face.” A rush of an answer, a breath she lets out while she begins pacing in small steps, the wood panels creaking slightly as she glides to and from. 

The fists at his sides tighten, pressure squeezing his fingers as he stares at her, looking every ounce the fearsome Northern lord that he is rumored to be. “Then I shall drag the men of this castle before you so that you might point him out.” 

“There is no need for theatrics, Lord Stark.” She fixes him with a dry look, seemingly unimpressed by the severity upon his face and the intensity with which he speaks. His visage darkens thunderously at her easy dismissal of his words and he has to force back a sharper retort, attempting to be gentler with her instead.

“It is a matter of justice–.” He begins, but she is quick to interrupt with a wave of her hand. A gust of cool air blows in through her open balcony, sending the sheer curtains blowing about.

“Oh, spare me your monologue on justice and duty and honor for one night,” The words drip from a curled lip with soft irritation as she casts him a rather scornful glance, drawing her arms across her chest protectively. The fabric of her nightgown is soft against her skin. “If I wished to be lectured upon righteousness I would summon a priest instead.”

In exasperation, she gazes to the balcony with a huff, eyes falling upon the moon and stars that dazzle brilliantly in the dark night. The sound of leaves can be heard outside of her window, plants growing on the outside wall blown about in the wind. A foghorn blares in echoed low tones, drifting in from the harbor.

Cregan’s jaw clenches, tightening as he wrestles back the desire to meet her stubbornness with equal force. But as his eyes drop to her lip again, he remembers with a tightening chest that he had come here to apologize to her, not to bicker like children. Before he expresses this to her, his eyes soften. “I had come to apologize, my lady. For my actions in the library earlier that were callous and frightened you.”

Although she had been quick to direct her ire at him, the start of the quiet apology draws her pacing to a pause. It is the reason she had allowed him into her chambers in the first place, that genuine concern that he displays so openly upon his face, as he had in the library once he had seen the truth of her fear. 

“I had believed you to be seeking power, to marry into my House for your own gain. Hoping to determine your intentions, I wished to know whether your loyalty was stronger to yourself or the strength of your own House.”  Cregan does his utmost to explain himself in a quiet yet quick tone, lest she might decide to interrupt and throw him out at her whim. The look on his face captivates her attention. “But I was wrong to level your sister as a weapon against you. I did not know – how much you love her. I am truly sorry.”

Lady Tyrell’s eyes lose some of their harsh edge as she watches the rugged Northern lord express his regret so genuinely. Rare is it that she has been apologized to, rarer still that the apology is of such a truthful and straightforward nature. Cregan stands quite still as he anticipates her reply, the seriousness upon his face giving him the appearance of a man awaiting sentencing. 

“Do you think I enjoy playing darling here at court?” It is a softly posed question, her hands tightening as she keeps them together in front of her. “That this is a hobby I do for my own amusement?”

Her voice is laced with a weary exhaustion that does not quite fit her age. Cregan has heard a similar tone leave his own lips many times before. 

“The safety and security of my House – a house whom has no male leader at present – rests on my ability to hold my own in this twisted, toxic den of vipers. I am weak, I cannot fight. But what I can do, I have honed my skills in. I will not claim to be a saint, but I am not scheming for the sake of seizing power if that Is what you think.” Her voice quivers slightly but her eyes remain firm as she holds his gaze steadily. 

“Yet you would risk the safety of your House for the safety of your sister.” Cregan points out quietly, his hand extending out as he speaks. Lady Tyrell gives a frustrated shrug, keenly aware of her own foolishness, and shoots him a withering gaze.

“We all have something we would sacrifice the world to protect. What your suffocating honor is for you, my sister is to me.” She has always been protective of the girl, who had been her only sibling until the recent birth of her younger brother. But since Helaena’s death, the paranoia and anxiety that gather her mind in their clutches are persistent and cruel. She fears, perhaps irrationally so, of all manner of terrible fates that might befall the girl. Waking from nightmares, clothes and blankets soaked in sweat and lungs burning as she gasps for ragged breath.

Cregan keeps his gaze upon her, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. For a lady which such a delicate frame, she seems to love with a strength rivaling any warrior and a determination that is as clear as the moon in the sky outside her balcony. It is obvious to him that she is willingly to do whatever it might take to defend those in her heart, at the risk of her own safety or peace of mind. 

She stalks across the room, returning to the plush armchair by the hearth. Sinking into the soft red seat, she picks up the bandages that she had been attempting to wrap around her bruising wrist. The last thing she wishes for is for someone to see and ask questions. Adelin normally assisted in such manners, but Lady Tyrell had been in such a state that she had demanded to be left alone.

“Your apology has been heard, Lord Stark. You may leave.” She murmurs quietly, the fireplace casting a warm light upon her face and her messy hair. Stretching the bandages in front of her, the lady bites back a curse as she fumbles with the ivory cloth. Cregan watches her for a moment before a heaving sigh moves his broad chest, and he crosses the room to her with large steps. Her eyes jump up to him, slight worry and fear flickering like fireflies, but when he drops to one knee before her chair, she finds there are no words upon her mouth.

“Allow me, my lady.” The sternness to his rumbling tone makes it seem more like an order than an offer, but it is said with such politeness that despite the way suspicion swims in her eyes, she pauses. There they remain, the Lord of Winterfell on his knee in front of her armchair, the golden light from the fire bathing his features. As he looks up at her, she realizes that despite the gruff, masculine stature of his imposing figure, the brightness of his eyes and the soft nature of his red hair give him a fairness that she hesitantly describes as beauty.

The sound of a clock fills the darkness of her chambers, tick after tick reverberating into the silence.

Wordlessly, she hands him the roll of bandages. Cregan takes no time to gingerly reach for her wrist, taking it into his much larger hand. He holds it tenderly, intentionally drawing his mind away from the softness of her skin and the way his hand can wrap around her entire arm. The faint smell of vanilla fills his nose, and he feels his stomach jolt at the imperceptible breath she takes as his thumb ghosts over the pressure point on her wrist. He reminds himself to breath.

The ivory bandages are wrapped around her reddened wrist slowly, glowing in front of the firelight, the warmth carrying over to both of them. Yet Cregan’s body has already grown hot. Neither of them breathe a word, eyes cast down to the simmering points where their skin meets. When he finishes his work, Cregan’s hands jerk back slightly, as if he has been burned. Lady Tyrell’s lashes flutter slightly at the motion, and she draws her wrists to her with a small frown. He remains on his knee a moment longer, before rising to his feet and breaking the spell that has fallen between them. Cregan swallows thickly, his eyes cast to her wrist as she stares into the fire with an unreadable expression.

“Rest well, my lady.” He murmurs to her, before his heavy boots carry him with unnecessary quickness across the wooden floor panels and out of her door.

a/n: this was supposed to be a short chapter, but it is another monstruous piece and half of it was written on an airplane so please bear with me. i know the ‘who did this’ trope is low-hanging fruit, but i fall for it every time so here it is. i cannot believe i have written so much of this work so quickly, and i am even more surprised at the lovely interactions it has had. thank you for every like, reblog, and comment on this little story that i love.

[mxchineherald]

[starter for @runes-menagerie.]

 He’d made a promise to her that he would take her with him, and he’d already broken it. She had a bad feeling about the meeting, but so did he. “I’m so sorry,” he said to her as he put her back onto the configuration table, “I cannot risk you being taken by them. I will be back! I won’t let anyone hurt you.” he activated the table, locking her in place to it so that she couldn’t follow him.

 And then he left her behind.

 Jayce had told him about the raid on Silco’s shimmer plant on the way to the meeting. He heard about the lives lost, including that of a child. His disgust was only measured by his iron will and patience, otherwise he would have beaten the walls with his crutch in his anger. A child. A child! There was no way to preserve peace, at this point, without giving in to Silco’s demands. He feared for his people – their future – under the rule of such a vindictively blind man, but this was their only choice. Jayce had made it so.

 And they were successful. After hours of debate and argument, the Council gave in, voting unanimously to grant Zaun its independence. There was something powerful about being in the room where it happened, but he wasn’t sure he would want to tell the tale.

 Then, there was a loud crack. He felt a shove against this augmented limbs, forcing him out of his chair and away from a bright gold dome that formed over Mel Medarda and Jayce. The BOOM left his ears ringing, but he could still hear Cassandra Kiramman’s shout of pain as he went flying. He slammed against a chunk of the now shattered round table. Two ribs snapped under the pressure, and something ripped open in his gut. His back came into hard contact with a stone column. Something plucked in his upper spine, sending a burning twinge up to his neck. He fell amongst the rubble, unable to get up while dust, ash, and bits of heated ember landed over him. The golden dome still persisted, but within it, he could spot the silhouette of Mel and Jayce, locked in a ducked down embrace. His augmented hand outstretched for Jayce before he lost the last of his strength, falling limp against the stone and wood. Vision faded, and soon with it went his hearing.

 Life came to him in brief flashes. Something jostling him from his uncomfortable position on the ground. Hands against his chest and neck. “Vi..tor? Viktor… Ope..y..eyes! Please!” Jayce. He was trying to wake him. Pointless. He could feel it. He was dying. There was a burning, torn feeling in his insides. He could feel his blood leaking into his abdominal cavity like a trickling river. Dread seeped into his core. Sky. She was in the lab, helpless. Without him there to explain, what would happen to her? The sound of tearing cloth caught his ears past the ringing, and he felt fresh air against his skin. He was so cold. Was he even on the ground anymore? No, he was moving. He was being carried, quickly.

 Jayce burst into the lab by kicking the doors open. Rushing up to the exam table, he set Viktor’s limp body down, being extra careful with his head. “Come on, Viktor… Stay with me…” He leaned down, gently stroking some hair out of his lab partner’s face. He felt so chilled to the touch, like there was barely any life left in him.

 Then, he rushed to the table, where Viktor’s notes were still spread across. Details on the Hexcore, its evolution, its transfiguration of his limbs. Seeing a journal set on top of them, he opened it up, flipping to the most recent pages, trying to find something – anything – that could help him understand what had happened to his partner.

 He was running out of time, and he couldn’t risk bringing Viktor to a hospital, not in his current state. They still had an Ethos, and he knew Piltover would be quick to use it against any Zaunite they could, now. If only Sky was here to help him. She was always quicker at reading Viktor's handwriting.

 He hadn’t yet noticed the Hexcore on the configuration table, but he was close enough to hear it.

[minoment]

ofc ofc ofc, sub!jack sparrow supremacy✨ So I didn't really plan this out, but something about jack getting the cockiness fucked outta him…it just does something to me. I don't mind presentation, so you can keep it gender neutral if you like!! Now i'll proceed to obsessively refresh the 'dom reader' tag until you publish it <3

Pairing: CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow x Dom GN!Reader

Type: Draft

A/N: Posting this because I promised to get it out <3

Minors DNI <3

You and Jack had gotten off on the wrong foot, to say the least. Well, in your opinion. He didn't seem quite so bothered by it, more.. excited? That definitely ticked you off. He was so.. so infuriating.. so carefree. He treated you like some alluringly gorgeous god of war and that he was some un-killable fool who dared question your presence. Like he was the special one who would never ever be shown your wrath. You hated it.

Jack Sparrow was known across the seas as the luckiest, unlucky but admirable alcoholic to ever stumble upon the slippery decks of a ship. You however, were known as a vicious, territorial, almost Nordic pirate who guarded their claimed land with iron and steel. No one dared to venture near your territory, the pure amount of fear had made you almost forgotten to this day. Not that you minded of course. Stories of your cruelty and maliciousness spread an elaboration of what you were truly like, the tales isolating you in an almost comforting sense of loneliness.

You almost wished you had back that loneliness. But no. Of course not. That fool had made sure to never give you a sense of tranquility ever again.

"HELLLOOOO??"

A shouting voice was heard over the waves, it was slightly slurred and incredibly obnoxious for this early hour. The golden sun peeked over the horizon, sending golden slivers dancing across the waters surface.

You grunted softly, opening an eye and slowly picking yourself off the deck of your ship where you had peacefully been napping. You were an intimidating figure, at least 6'4" and toned from years of taming rough oceans. Your skin was tanned and mottled with scars and tattoos. Your braided and decorated hair glowed a fiery auburn in the growing daylight, 'like molten copper' as your late mother used to say.

Silently, you moved over to the ships edge, raking your cold green gaze over the sandy expanse of the small island you were moored next to. And there he was..

That daft moron got himself stranded a few days ago, somehow separating himself from his crew AND the Black Pearl. You had moored here a few weeks prior, reading the stars and waiting for the perfect time to sail back to your hidden cove you called home. He had dragged himself drunkenly out of the sea not 16 hours ago and your tranquil peace had disappeared from that point forward.

You had no intention of helping him, his constant chatting and one-sided conversations making him insufferable. He was doing it on purpose and you knew that, but it got on your nerves either way.

"What tha fuck d'ya want?" You snapped crossly over the well-kept railing of your ship. Your gaze narrowed as a triumphant smirk played across his lips. He was admittedly handsome, you'd give him that.

"Mornin' lovely..." He singsonged flirtatiously, gazing up at you and shielding his eyes from the now fully-risen sun.

You scowled in disapproval, not appreciating this levelling sort of flirtatious friendliness.

"You know.." He continued thoughtfully, mockingly speaking as if you were some sort of Lord, "I'd really like some food and water.. if you'd be so gallant as to spare some?"

You scowled once more and moved away from the railing. As much as it was 'survival of the fittest' and a constant battle with your stubbornly cruel personality, you couldn't watch a man starve to death with your help right in front of him. Besides, apart from being an infuriating pest, he hadn't actually hurt you.

A neatly coiled rope lay near your mast and you picked it up, carrying it back over to the railing. You secured the end firmly to the rail and dropped it down so the other ratty end dipped into the salty water.

"Climb up before I change my fuckin' mind.." You snapped, tilting your head in a sort of aggressive invitation aboard.

Jack wasted no time in scrambling up the rope like a monkey, your powerful grasp steadying his shoulder and body as he helped himself aboard. He stood to the side as you untied the rope and started to reel it up. His hand absentmindedly rubbed where your fingers had gripped his collarbone, his gaze flicking to your veined, clearly weathered hand as it worked the now sodden rope.

You turned and looked down at him, your gaze becoming ever so less furious as he looked back up at you and thanked you for your generosity. For some reason, you felt a little guilty for not letting him on sooner. He looked like a curious little mutt, his beautiful brown eyes seeming to warm you up from the inside out. You bit the inside of your cheek and looked away, scolding yourself for getting in your head. You motioned Jack to follow and brought him below deck.

Your boat was large yet you were the only one on it. It was decorated beautifully, showing off what obvious peace you had by yourself. There were maps and tapestries in some rooms, others having shark skulls and ornately engraved longswords hung up with bent nails. Apparently you were incredibly creative as well as a ruthless killer.

Jack marvelled your boat before his gaze curiously roamed your broad form. His keen eye took note of your clean clothes, the neat Nordic pattern embroidery and the occasional stain of spattered blood. Your belt held pouches and sheathed knives, all made by you. He admired your physique too, the way your muscles flexed under your skin as your opened the heavy door to your main living area. You didn't smell like the usual pirate either. An alluring scent of spices, fabric, seawater and blood seemed to follow you wherever you walked.

Eventually you sat him down, taking note of his ripped clothes and dirty features. You motioned for him to hold out his hands, working in complete silence as you wiped off his hands with a wet rag. The salt water stung a few scratches but Jack patiently held still, letting you wipe off his neck and face area. You almost did this as a sign of respect before standing up and getting him some clean clothes. You held out the rag and the pail of sea water, wordlessly telling him to get dressed and clean the rest of his body. He did as he was hold and you turned, moving to the other side of the cabin to find some stale bread and dried fish for him to eat.

When you finally turned around, he had washed himself and was getting dressed. Only Jacks upper body remained unclothed and your green gaze wandered over his tan skin. He had many bullet and knife wounds, adding up to the lucky part of his reputation. Personally, you found them quite beautiful although you would rather die than admit it.

"Here.." You said gruffly, handing him the plate of foot and a pouch of rainwater off your person. "Rest for a while.."

"Ah.. thank you.." Jack replied, finishing dressing himself and taking the plate and pouch from you. "I knew ya soul would be as beautiful as your pretty face.."

You sighed silently, moving to pick up his discarded clothes. You walked back up to the sunny desk, laying out Jacks clothes so they would dry and be parched of their salty sea smell.

You moved back below deck, your gaze raking over Jacks now-clothed chest and opening your mouth to ask about his scars.

"You really are nothing like the stories say, are ya?" Jack said as he interrupted your train of thought before you could speak and looked from his food to your eyes.

You paused, momentarily re-arranging your thoughts before speaking.

"No I'm not..." You said eventually, motioning to your own chest in reference to his bullet wound scars. "But you're definitely as lucky as the tales tell.."

Jack looked down and smiled slightly to himself, unable to form a response to that. It felt odd to be complimented by such a stoic and feared persona like yourself.

"What are ya really like then?" Jack asked, drinking the last of his water and letting you take the plate from him.

"I- don't really know.." You replied, stowing the things away before turning back to him. "Well no.. I just can't remember.."

"Why not?" Jack asked with a tilt of his head. "You look like you'd have quite the personality.."

"Near death experience can blanch the personality from your soul I s'pose.." You shrug, leaning back against the ships wall and crossing your arms. You watched him closely. "You definitely have had your fair share of near death experiences, how come you're still an arrogant shit?" You say flatly, making Jack laugh.

"You've got quite the mouth huh?" He smirked, his gaze flicking to your scarred lips in a much more suggestive way than before.

You were a little taken aback by his suddenness but you regained control of yourself and narrowed your eyes. "Answer my question.."

"I guess I'm just better than you.." Jack shrugged with a cocky smirk, obviously trying to rile you up. The annoying thing was, it was working. You gritted your teeth, your jaw tensing.

Jack easily picked up on that and grinned, a soft chuckle escaping him. He knew this was a dangerous game; that only made him want to play it more. It certainly solidified his reputation of the stupidly brave captain.

"You aren't better than me.." You scowled, your hands moving behind you to grip the wooden counter as he began to approach you.

"Oh but I am.." Jack smirked. "You would have killed me by now if I were anyone else in front of you.. am I special?"

The audacity he had. It made your blood boil, but nonetheless you stayed against the wall, watching him like a hawk.

"It makes me wonder.." Jack continued, moving ever closer so his body was mere inches from yours and his calloused hand reached up to cup your face. He leant up and in a little closer, his lips only centimetres from yours. "A great pirate like you.. maybe you've gone soft.. maybe you could even be a whore and-"

That word set something ablaze inside of you, a boiling pit of rage and frustration overflowing within your guts. The only thing you could think about was teaching this cocky brat a lesson. Just before he could finish the rest of his insulting sentence, before he could kiss you; you snapped.

You pushed him back, slamming him against the opposite wall and knocking the breath out of him. Before Jack could get a single word or gasp out of his mouth, you crashed your lips against his and silenced him. His eyes widened in shock before he relaxed. He attempted to bring his hands up to cup your face but you gripped his wrists and slammed them against the wall with your iron grasp. This was a lesson.

You bit down on his lower lip and squeezed his wrists tighter, earning a low whine of protest from Jack as your larger body pushed him up against the wall. Soon your hands left his wrists and he got the message, holding onto the edge of the counter lining the ships wall. Jack gripped the polished wood so hard he thought his rings would splinter the expensive timber. His breath hitched as you wrapped your hand around his neck, only needing one to pleasurably restrict his blood flow.

Heat pooled between his legs when your hand tightened around his neck, a choked whine escaping his lips as lightheaded pleasure filled his senses. You took this opportunity to slide your tongue into his mouth, making his legs almost buckle. Your kisses became even more aggressive and vicious as you tasted him, pinning him roughly up against the wall. The fiery taste of rum and salt on his lips spurred you on as Jack mewled in your grasp. You were so good, it made him lose himself almost instantly. The way you squeezed his neck, how your rough fingers pressed against his arteries so he could breathe easily through his nose while you ravaged his now kiss-bitten lips.. he wanted more, oh so much more...

Jacks greed eventually got the better of him and he clawed at your free hand, trying to move it towards his hips. You growled low in your throat, warning him. He didn't listen, desperate for more pleasure as he dug his nails into your hand. You pulled away with a rough curse, gripping his dreaded locks and dragging him away from the wall and down into the next room; your quarters.

The man yelped in a pleasurable sort of pain, opening his mouth to protest. You didn't let him, throwing him down into the messy nest of furs, fabrics, and blankets that was your bed. You held Jack down on his stomach, one hand pressing down between his shoulder blades and your knee in the small of his back. Nothing could be heard except for Jacks laboured breathing, the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull, and the metallic noise of you unclasping your belt.

You dragged the thick, worn, leather strap from around your waist before wrapping his tightly around Jacks wrists. He watched as you wrapped the belt further around an iron ring connected to the wall, unable to move his hands. Now that he was restrained and laying on his stomach in your bed, you could begin his real lesson.

Jack buried his face in the fabrics, your scent making arousal rock through his body in steady waves; yet it was also weirdly comforting to him. He felt you over him, your knees on either side of his hips as you leant down to bite and kiss at his neck.

You moved his hair ever so gently to the side, your lips and teeth leaving dark hickeys all over his sweet, salty skin. Jacks breathing became heavy once more as he tried to hide this fact by muffling his face in the furs. Eventually it became too hot and Jack couldn't breathe, so he just lay his head to the side and took it; not even bothering to preserve his dignity or hide his rough pants and gasps anymore when you suckled marks onto his skin.

You were marking Jack as yours and the very thought made his hips stutter forward ever so slightly. A small whine escaped his lips and you scowled, one hand moving to pull his hips up away from the bed. Jack was now face down ass up, a humiliated blush spreading over his features as he panted. One of your hands was in his hair, tightly gripping his locks and keeping his neck exposed while you marked him. The other held his hips, keeping him pressed against your body but unable to grind down against the sheets where he needed it most.

A choked breath was pushed from Jacks lips as he realized exactly what situation he was in. You weren't going to give him any sort of pleasure. You were going to hold him up like this and mark him up until he was a pleading mess. Jack didn't want that, he was greedy for more, anything more; and you knew it.

Jacks heavy panting and gasps filled the room, occasionally breaking it up with low keening whines as you tugged his hair and marked his neck. Eventually he couldn't take this torture any longer.

"P-please.. Indulge me, I beg you.." Jack panted, swallowing and licking his lips. His own breaking, reedy voice surprised him. "Need more..."

Jack lay his head to the side as you pulled away from his neck, letting out a low groan as you squeezed his hips and silently warned him not to try and thrust back down against the bed.

You decided to treat him knowing that his stubborn greed and wants would get both of you nowhere. So instead of taking away what he wanted, you would give it to him. Oh yes you would, you would give him what he wanted until he was a squirming, moaning mess just pleading for you to stop.

Jack practically melted in your grasp once more as your hot mouth came in contact with the sensitive skin of his neck. Your sharp teeth grazed over the fresh bruises, your tongue gliding over their wake.

The sensation distracted his attention long enough for you to slip your large, rough hands into the soft cotton fabric of his pants. the low whine echoing in his throat turned into a strangled moan as your hand wrapped around his stiff, leaking shaft.

He buried his face in the furs once more, his hips trembling as your mouth continued to work at his neck and your hand tightened around his cock. Jack could feel himself dripping into your tight fist as he bit down on the thick wool of a blanket, his eyes rolling back in pure ecstasy. Nonetheless, he remained obedient and kept his hips as still as possible while your hand worked him into oblivion.

[milksnake-tea]

I'm new to your blog but I just wanna say that you have amazing talent and you should be proud of that (/positive)! Also if it's okay, I'd like to request on your event.

Can I get a Jing Yuan angst prompt no. 6 and dialogue no. 2? Please and thank you!

❀ ˎˊ- prompts: They only confess their love to you once you're already gone. + "Please, stay. Just… stay." ❀ ˎˊ- 1k followers event ❀ ˎˊ- character: jing yuan ❀ ˎˊ- warnings: major character death (its us lmao), war, implied violence/stabbing ❀ ˎˊ- a/n: this scratched my neurons so bad THANK YOU FOR THIS REQUEST !! sorry for the wait lol school is eating at me so bad

Many believe that Jing Yuan does not feel fear.

It wouldn't be a hard lie to believe. The man is always sporting a carefree smile, even in the midst of the Ambrosial Arber crisis. His composure never cracks, his calm never disturbed. He greets scolding with laughter, anger with tranquility, and danger with a steady stance.

Very few have seen him truly enraged, and even fewer have seen him afraid - the latter having long been lost to time.

But rest assured, Jing Yuan certainly feels fear, simply not in the way that others do.

He has screamed out names of comrades, calls that have never been answered. He has seen stains of red that have never stopped spreading, a seemingly endless sea of crimson. He has stood at countless graves, galaxies away from home, watching as friends passed away in unfamiliar territory.

How cruelly familiar he is, with the reaching for what can never be reached, grasping for just a trace, just a hope for continuance, for a miracle.

And here he is again, fingers just within reach of you, but still too far away.

The battlefield is loud - ringing with the sound of flames, shouts, and lightning. His weapon drags against the ground, hanging from his belt and digging a long, jagged gash in the earth as he pulls himself through the flames, your limp body in his arms.

You're barely breathing, little puffs of air wheezing through your lungs as you fight to keep your eyes open.

It's hot.

The searing heat of fire and rage is overwhelming, burning through your skin and filling your ears. Jing Yuan clutches you close to his chest, looking around valiantly for a medic, but to no avail. You two are alone in this desolate battlefield, save for Jing Yuan's spirit standing guard over you.

"Everything will be alright."

You remember the words he whispered to you when he found you. You've never seen horror strike someone so fast, nor have you seen someone hide it so quickly. Those words of consolation... seemed to be more for him rather than you.

Even now, Jing Yuan puts on a brave face as he realizes that help isn't coming. You can see the panic in his eyes, golden swirls that reflect the inferno.

For the first time in years, he doesn't know what to do.

You shift, leaning your head onto Jing Yuan's shoulder.

"It's okay," you whisper, your voice straining against your wound. The taste of iron is salty against your tongue, and you wince at your voice.

It's cold.

The rapid loss of blood was finally beginning to take its toll on you. You shiver, chills running up and down your spine, goosebumps forming on your skin. But still, as your exhaustion begins to take over, you strain your eyes open.

Jing Yuan stares back at you.

He's scared.

"No," he replies, almost defiantly. "Do not give up just yet. Just a little longer, and-"

"I don't have a little longer, Jing Yuan," your voice raises by the tiniest bit, silencing him. Your hand comes to grasp at his clothes, bunching the little folds of fabric peeking out from his armor in your fist. "Just leave me here."

The honor of a warrior, one of the things Jing Yuan hates the most, and yet the one thing he shared with every other Cloud Knight. He knew the pride that ran through your veins, the pride that would not allow you to drag him down with your corpse.

And yet, he refuses to give up.

"I cannot do that," he says, a subtle plea in his voice. "You know I cannot."

Your grip on his shirt tightens. "You must."

He shakes his head, and the mask shatters. Desperation and devastation wreak his expression, premature grief already twisting his face.

Jing Yuan sinks to his knees, his legs barely able to support both you and himself.

"Please," he begs, voice barely above a whisper. "Stay... Just stay."

You try for a smile, but even that is too much for you. Your fingers slacken, and you linger on the cliffside for just a little longer. You want to touch his face, to feel his warmth one last time, but can't muster up the strength to.

In the end, you can only breathe out a quiet farewell.

"I'm sorry," you murmur. Jing Yuan's eyes widen.

"No, not yet!" he pleas, clutching at your bloodstained shoulder. "I-"

But he's too late. Your hand drops to your side, and the light fades from your eyes.

"I... I love you."

Your soul has joined the stars by the time the words come out. The confession is lost among the blaze, never to reach your ears. Jing Yuan holds your body in his arms, strangled whimpers leaving his lips in shuddered breaths, his mind still processing your death.

By the time reinforcements come, Jing Yuan is standing alone, an unreadable expression on his face. Your body is nowhere to be seen, buried in the ground of the foreign planet in a makeshift grave.

He refuses to answer when spoken to, and is silent when his wounds are patched. His eyes are downcast, shadowed and dull as he replays the moment in his head, thinking of how things might've ended differently - of how he could've saved you.

But deep inside, he knows that those are futile thoughts. He'd thought them when his mentor had fallen to mara, when his friends had given in to death and insanity, leaving him and only him behind.

There will always be people he cannot save, situations he cannot control. And it scares him.

He closes his eyes as the starskiff rumbles, succumbing to his fatigue as it takes off into the skies.

And in his dreams, he sees you.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[otherworldseekers]

FFXIVwrite2024 Day 3: Tempest

WoLNero 597 words Domestic fluff Severia suffers from a phobia, Nero gives comfort

A fire roared noisily in the hearth as the tempest raged outside, the crackling of the flames punctuated by the shrill hiss of rain drops finding their way down the chimney and transmuting into steam. The noisier, the better, thought Nero as he ran his hands along Severia’s unbound hair. Though the sound of the storm outside couldn’t be completely drowned out, he knew that the heat and light and noise of the fire helped Severia feel more grounded in the here and now. As did his touch.

His mind went back to the first time he had helped Severia through the terror that assailed her at the sign of thunder and lightning. It had come as quite the surprise at the time. Who would have guessed that the Champion of Eorzea was afraid of storms? And he had found about about it by simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, from her point of view. Forced to cling to her former enemy turned tentative ally, Severia had let him see her at her weakest. And that was, perhaps ironically, the moment that he had truly begun to fall in love with her. 

Now, with Severia curled up in his lap half asleep, Nero smiled at the memory. They had come so far since that day. Never in his wildest dreams, when he had first seen her as an adventurer in Ifrit’s arena, would he have have believed that this simple domestic scene was in their future. Or that someone like him could bring another comfort by his mere presence. She had given him so much, made him a better man with her acceptance and her love. He would give everything to be able to take away these fears from her forever. 

Though at the same time he had to admit that he thoroughly enjoyed it when she needed him like this. She was the only one who ever had. 

Severia had fallen asleep with her cheek smushed into his leg, a tell-tale wetness spreading from her mouth to his pant leg. Nero wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up enough that he could cover her face in kisses. Her face scrunched up in response and he laughed as he continued assaulting her with his affection. 

“Mmph. Wha… What are you doing?” she mumbled. “I was asleep.”

“I know. You were drooling.”

“I was not! I don’t drool.”

“Then tell me what this is?” He pointed out the wet patch on his pants. 

“Don’t blame your accidents on me.”

“Why you little…” Nero changed tactics and began tickling her. “That’s where your head was.”

Severia shrieked and struggled. “Nero, you’re so mean,” she whimpered. 

“Then do you concede?” he asked, his hands poised over her sides. 

“All right! Maybe I drool sometimes. You didn’t have to rub it in.”

“Perhaps not. But I like that I get to see the less perfect parts of you that no one else gets to. I like that you drool. It makes me feel less unworthy of you.”

“That’s silly,” Severia said, cupping both of his cheeks with her hands. “There’s no question of worthiness when you love someone. And I love you.” She kissed him softly. And then again with more passion. 

“I love you,” Nero said, his voice rough with restrained emotion. “I love you and I think it’s time for bed.” Severia nodded and smiled as he lifted her up in his arms and carried her upstairs. 

The storm had passed, the fire was reduced to embers, but the night was still young. 

Thanks for reading!

[raindrop-on-a-spiderweb]

Your characterization is so good, it honestly feels like I’ve known them for more than 18 pages. If you still want to, I would love to read more about them! No pressure, of course.

Thank you, I'm flattered you think so! I used more exposition and tell, rather than show--I was trying to ape a certain period of straightforward, gritty 70s-80s pulp novels. Here is another subsequent scene under the cut for you.

***

Randy was perversely happy when he saw the blonde girl's–Sarah Lee? Jenny Jane? No, it was Heidi Lou–belly resting against the slack fabric of her gray cardigan. She had stopped covering herself in thick wool blouses and dresses, and no longer cared that her bastard pregnancy was out in the open. Now as he took her wrist and led her up the steps to his apartment, she was wearing a modest white button-up shirt and knit cardigan, over a pair of jeans that had at one time ridden high on her hips, but now dipped low below her swollen belly.

She'd all done away with her swishy seductive lace dresses, and dressed like a proper woman now. But Randy still might make her wear those dresses in the bedroom. Yeah, even when her belly got too big from the kids and she started wearing those dowdy sloppy dresses old housewives like his mother wore. But he'd still make her wear lace when he had her bent over his bed and fucking her with her swollen stomach hanging beneath them and that little lace dress hiked up above her waist. That lace dress would always remind him of that fated day when he pinned her to the floor and fucked all his rage into her, and fucked every last remnant of superciliousness out of her. It would always remind him of her blue eyes staring blearily up at him, with her legs spread and his hatred leaking out of her.

It had taken a while to get to this point, but Randall was a patient man. A few times each week–"dates" he liked to call them to her face as she dissolved into sobs. Often it was under the bushes near his newest job site, with his hands pinning her arms to the ground as he hammered her from behind and muffled her screams with his arm.

Sometimes it was at night when he threatened his way into her bedroom, climbed into her window in the sea of faceless moonlit suburban houses, and forced her to run her soft fingers across his hard body as they laid beside each other and his prick jutted into her abdomen. He loved the way he could force her to take his length of cock in her trembling hands and guide it to her terrified clenching pussy.

Once or twice, he'd even snuck her into his rented room while his roommates were raucously partying next door. He'd fucked her against the wall then, warning her that each sound she made would lure them over to take their turn with her. He adored the way she tightened up inside with fear. She really was the perfect woman. He thought of his mother, that fucking fishwife with her dull, shiny hair tied up with a scarf and folds gathering on her waist, always nagging his father to throw his beer bottles away. Heidi was a real wife and mother, someone you could show off to your golf club, someone who kept a tiny waist and pert tits even after she'd birthed five kids.

After a month or two, the hatred he'd pumped into her had made a little tyke swell in that flat belly. Randy had been doing her from behind in his apartment bed when he noticed it. One of his arms had been scrabbling for her breasts and the other looking for purchase on her hips as the girl instinctively tried to buck him off from behind. His hand had gripped onto her stomach for a second to steady himself, and the small pooch below her navel fit perfectly into his palm. That was when he realized.

Randy stood still then, trapping her squirming body between his strong, tense legs with one hand sealed over her womb like a knight's iron greave. He was frozen as a statue, then started to fuck into her harder and harder. The thought that there was a baby inside her excited him immensely–a tiny thing that was half of her and him, the living proof of his final domination over her. A little Randall Puchalski junior that he could teach to fix cars and teach to ride a bike– something that his own father had never bothered with–and that he could send off to school with the brand new fire engine red lunchbox that he had always wanted. A kid he could teach to be a man, who could scrape the serial numbers off a gun and sweet-talk a woman and lie with a smile.

Randall fucked himself deeper and deeper into her twitching canal, his heart thudding spasmodically between her shoulderbones. He came longer and harder than he ever had before, so hard he gasped as every bit of energy sapped out of him into her womb–even if it was fruitless to release his seed in her now. When Heidi Lou rolled over sobbing on his moldy mattress, face flushed and hair messy, he batted away her flailing, pushing arms and pressed the side of his greasy black head into her tummy. He could detect only the slightest curve of her midriff as she laid flat on her back, but it was enough. 

You start moving around soon and kicking, son. You're gonna be a tough little guy. You'll give your Mom no end of trouble when you're inside her, just like your Dad.

"Heidi," he told her dispassionately, "you've got a bun in the oven."

The girl wept and wailed and went into hysterics about that, but a few punches to the face–not the belly–quieted her down immediately.

Heidi Lou sat with one arm around her folded leg, the other on her bruising face, staring blankly at the floor as Randall pulled his weathered jeans above his limp cock. "Go tell your parents about it. Right now. Get out of this apartment and march right into your daddy's law office–or wherever that rich cocksucker works–and tell him some dirty trainhopping tramp knocked you up."

"I don't–I can't–"

He slapped her open-palmed, feeling merciful enough not to punch her this time. Her face was constantly puffy with bruises, and he wondered how she kept explaining it away to her parents. Soon, she wouldn't even have to.

"Can't what?" Randy taunted. "Are you gonna flit around like the airheaded cunt you are and pretend everything is hunky dory until you're ready to pop? Denial is a river in Egypt. 'Oh, muddah and faddah, it was just a one-night stand'–but you don't have those. You're a GOOD girl. 'It was just my old boyfriend'–except you don't have a boyfriend either, because you're a GOOD girl. You only have me."

That sent her into another full-blown sobbing fit, and Heidi Lou wailed as she grasped and tore the sides of her ragged red hair. He helped her along by gripping the back of her scalp and yanking her face to meet his.

The black coins of his irises met her disintegrating, disbelieving blue eyes.

"I don't think your mom and pop are too big on bastards, especially when it comes out of their perfect golden child. So I think it would be better if you told them now you've found a man to shack up with. I don't give a shit how you explain it to them. Tell them I helped you look for your dog and we got busy in the bushes. Tell them you met me at the mechanic's and we did it in the back seat. Tell them I raped you on the floor of your house. I don't care. You're going to walk down the aisle anyway."

"I'll get rid of it," Heidi Lou hissed in a sudden display of defiance.

Her words made Randy freeze still. Heidi Lou's eyes had hardened into chips of ice, and she drew her legs back and tucked them under her to lean forward on her wrists and look him in the eye. "I'll get an abortion. It's gonna be legal soon anyway, with that woman's case making its way through the Supreme Court. I'm not going to have your disgusting child. You can shove your filthy cock as many times into me as you want, but I'll never birth whatever degenerated thing you force into me. I'll do whatever it takes to rip it out of me–it will be like squashing a tadpole underneath my heel, do you hear me?" He had never heard such hardness and cruelty in her voice before, and it shocked him into an uncomfortable silence.

Back in Chicago when his parents still dragged him to St. Stanislaus Church, he remembered the priest telling him something very clearly. Father Janek with the mole on his cheek, and his whispery voice that made the hair on his arms stand up, making him shift and fidget in the pews until his mother whispered he would be sorry when they got home. It was just after the little M's died, when he had approached the priest to ask if his little siblings were in heaven.

“Randall, I am sorry,” said the stern little man. “When babies die before they have a chance to receive God's eternal light, they cannot come to heaven, or know the light of God's love. You see, they have not been freed from original sin--they haven't been baptized. So they… they live in limbo. It's not a good place, or a bad place. They're not hurt–God would never do that to a baby–they just… exist.”

That stunned Randall and haunted him for weeks afterward, listening to his mother sobbing over his little brother and sister that had died before they were born. Their rooms had been right beside each other, and Randall had stayed awake for hours listening to his mother crying and praying. Why did little Mark and Mary go to limbo? He had wondered as his brother snored beside him. They're just little babies. Why can't they go to heaven?

Randy thought about a piece of him, a part of his body, his blood. He thought of his frown and lips and cheeks, floating forever in purgatory and crying alone into a vast dark space. Something that belonged to him; something that was she was predestined to carry inside her womb as a woman should. But this woman was spitting bile, denying her natural place in life and threatening to send his child–that part of him– to a thankless, godless place forever.

Randy didn't like that. He didn't like that at all.

He reached down beside his mattress, into the pocket of his green army jacket, and took out a rusted revolver. He leveled it against Heidi's sobbing crinkled forehead.

In a quiet voice, he said, "If you get the scrape, I'll fucking kill you for it. I'll put a bullet into your empty blond head and you'll go to hell for it. You'd go to hell for killing your baby."

"If I go to hell," Heidi said quietly, "Then I'll meet you there. And you'll never meet your child there either."

His words sent him into an internal spasm. He remembered the streets of Chicago, the Rican kid gurgling on his blood, the dago's face puffed and purple until it looked like a Halloween mask as he dealt the finishing blow to his neck with his boot, the lady at the shop who screamed as he pulled the trigger in the midst of a robbery, and the old black man crumpling facedown on the street when he took too long to get his wallet out, his blood spreading in a pool over the concrete. He thought of his baby torn so soon from Heidi's womb, those genes that were his, that belonged to him. Never being able to hold it in his arms.

This was his last chance, and he had no other choice.

In a roundabout way, Randall's cold, self-centered mind realized that this was his only chance at salvation and a normal life. Cheating and crime were second nature to him, and he would never take an honest way if there weren't a quicker and more illegal one. Ironically, that was the reason it made so much sense to him to do what he realized he would have to do. Becoming a hard-working man, contributing to his community and living an honest Christian life would ensure his survival. Fire and brimstone lit up in his mind again, like he was back in St. Stanislaus Church with Father Janek.

Neither did she.

He lovingly rubbed the barrel of the gun against her blond head. "Are you sure, honey? You sure you want to die? I've killed a lot of people. You would be just another tally on the board. Imagine… a little blond woman found in a flophouse with a hole in her head leaking blood over the floor and a cunt full of cum. What would such a good girl be doing there? Obviously she'd come to sample some working class dick and paid the price for it. The Sherriff would seal your file, especially if he knew your daddy. Everyone would quietly brush your life under the rug. Aunt Heidi? She died before you were born. My daughter? She died unexpectedly. You would be a black mark on your whole family."

Randy pressed the barrel harder into her crying face. "Would you rather die than have my kid?"

In a fraction of a second, he jerked the gun to the side and fired once. A bullet buried itself in the thin plywood an inch beside her head.

Heidi stopped crying abruptly, her high-pitched sobs ceasing with an eerie finality. She looked into his eyes with a dead understanding–the same look she had given him on the floor of her kitchen that one fateful day. She said nothing, but he knew her decision had been made.

He cupped her face between his calloused hands and kissed her gently on her pursing, twisting lips. His tongue slipped between her wet lips to lave softly at the inside of her spasming mouth. He tasted the salt of her tears, and it made blood pump through his dick.

"Go and let your parents know, and your preppy brother, and your pig uncle. You're gonna marry me and have my baby. And see if you can convince them soon enough so that you won't have a bowling ball for a belly as you walk down the aisle."

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

He was turned to steel In the great magnetic field When he traveled time For the future of mankind Nobody wants him He just stares at the world Planning his vengeance That he will soon unfold Now the time is here For Iron Man to spread fear Vengeance from the grave Kills the people he once saved

Nobody wants him They just turn their heads Nobody helps him Now he has his revenge

𝔅𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔖𝔞𝔟𝔟𝔞𝔱𝔥  -   ℑ𝔯𝔬𝔫 𝔐𝔞𝔫

[winters8child]

It´s been a long, long time

There is some dub-con in this chapter, so please beware before reading. <3

Chapter 49

Pierce and his men were long gone, leaving me bound tightly to the chair. The restraints cut into my wrists, a constant reminder of my helplessness. I didn’t feel any different physically, but the looming threat of Pierce triggering my adrenaline at any moment gnawed at my sanity. My heart raced as I scanned the dimly lit room, seeking any possible means of escape. Shadows danced on the grimy walls, cast by the flickering overhead light. Despite my frantic efforts, the restraints held firm, unyielding, and merciless.

After what felt like an eternity of struggling, exhaustion overcame me. I slumped in the chair, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down my forehead. My mind teetered on the brink of despair when the silence was shattered by the creak of the door. My head jerked up, hope flaring briefly as Bucky stepped into the room.

"Bucky, please, get me out of here," I pleaded, my voice trembling. His face twisted with anger at the mention of his name, his eyes cold and unrecognizable. "Bucky, please," I repeated, desperation seeping into my voice as I fought against my restraints.

Without warning, he slapped me across the face, the force of the blow snapping my head to the side. The sting spread across my cheek, and I tasted blood. His eyes, once familiar, now brimmed with unrelenting hatred. I was too stunned to cry, my mind struggling to process the betrayal and pain.

He walked over to the wall and pressed the button to release me from the restraints. Even the way he moved had changed, a cold, mechanical precision replacing his former grace. I watched him silently as he approached, his expression unreadable. He yanked me out of the chair with such force that I feared he might dislocate my shoulder.

"Please, Bucky, don't you remember me?" I asked, my voice trembling with desperation as I tried to pry his iron grip off my arm.

He turned to look me in the eyes, and I braced myself for another slap. His chest heaved with each breath, and I could feel the warmth of his breath against my face, mingling with the cold sweat on my skin.

Without warning, he grabbed my chin with his metal hand, the cold steel biting into my skin. He pushed me against the wall, his body pressing threateningly close to mine. The chill of the concrete seeped through my clothes, and I shivered, both from fear and the contact with the cold surface. The flickering light above cast harsh shadows, accentuating the intensity in his eyes as he loomed over me.

He pressed his lips onto mine without warning, the kiss rough and aggressive. His other hand gripped my waist tightly, almost painfully. I froze, my body tense with fear. This didn't feel like kissing Bucky; it felt like a stranger wearing his face. The tenderness I once knew was gone, replaced by a forceful intensity that made my heart race with panic.

I closed my eyes as he tried to force his tongue into my mouth, biting my lip in the process. He moaned at the taste of my blood, a sound that sent shivers down my spine. Desperation clawed at my mind. Maybe if I gave in, he would remember who he was. Or perhaps I told myself that to make this violation feel less horrifying.

I parted my lips, and his tongue pushed into my mouth, tangling with mine. He tightened his grip on my neck, pulling me closer, while one of his legs pressed between mine, rubbing against me in an unnervingly precise motion. His other hand roamed down my arm, sending a shiver through me as it eventually rested possessively on my hip.

I moaned at the intense friction between my legs and the unmistakable press of his arousal against me. This moment felt wrong, foreign—nothing like the man I loved. Desperation to reconnect with a semblance of reality made me open my eyes, hoping to find some familiarity in his face. He had his eyes closed, lost in the moment, our tongues entwined. With a sudden movement, he lifted me and pressed me against the wall, my legs instinctively wrapping around him.

I could hear the rasp of his zipper as he fumbled with it one-handed, his other arm bracing me against the wall while he continued his relentless assault on my mouth. Without warning, he thrust into me, making me gasp as he groaned into my lips. The suddenness of his movement sent my head lolling back, exposing my neck. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot and heavy. He bit and sucked at the sensitive skin, each touch intensifying the relentless rhythm of his thrusts.

His grunts grew more fervent, his hands gripping my thighs with a force that left bruising marks. Soft whimpers and moans escaped my lips as I felt myself tighten around him, his lips finding mine once more. One hand held my neck possessively, his fingers pressing into my skin. As he bit my lip again, the sharp taste of my blood mingled with the metallic tang in my mouth. With a final, guttural grunt, he climaxed inside me, his body shuddering with the intensity of the moment.

He dropped me abruptly, wiping the traces of my blood from his lips with a look of revulsion. “Bucky?” I whispered, hoping to see some flicker of recognition, but the sneer on his face was a harsh answer. His gaze shifted downward, taking in the evidence of what had just occurred, a reminder of our ordeal staining my legs. He grabbed a rag from a shelf on the wall and tossed it at me with a dismissive gesture.

"We’re leaving in fifteen minutes," he spat, his voice cold and final. He turned on his heel, slamming the door shut with a resounding clang. I sank slowly down the wall, burying my face in my hands. My sobs reverberated through the room, each cry a hollow echo in the oppressive silence.

Next Chapter

[googleitlol]

Wanna add some pre-journey stuff, so here’s a piece from Dove and Wukong’s first encounter! And… some sad stuff too.

Dove Masterlist:

After nearly two months, the wonders of the Jade Palace finally begin to feel normal. No other building you've seen could hold a candle to the magnificence of the Heaven's themselves. Yet, you found yourself becoming bored over the past weeks. As perfect as it all is, that was it.

Nothing of significance ever happens. No demons to stir troubles, no bickering that could evolve into full-on battles. Even the soldiers work long uneventful patrols, which did have the upside of letting you share their company and stories of battles. They wouldn't oppose to sparring either, which kept you entertained.

If they were busy, you found yourself doing odd jobs to keep yourself occupied any way you could. Whether that was running tedious errands for Laozi, cleaning and polishing the weapons in the royal armoury, anything you could find that needed to be done, you'd do. Of course, there isn’t always extra work to be done.

It's fine, though. If Guan Yin says this is the best option for you, then so be it. Besides, the gardens are beautiful here, even if they didn't compare to the bamboo grove you became accustomed to in your home. Your mind wanders to thoughts of your old home and the nearby village.

How was everyone? You could only hope Moksa explained on your behalf why you had not returned. Mei must have married that young man by now, and Guiying had only just started her practice in medicine when she left, how was she faring? There was also Lin, he was always so studious, how much has he learned now? Or better yet, has he finally noticed the fleeting glances of that sweet—

A violent rumble ripples through the halls of the palace, harshly dragging you from your thoughts. The ground shakes, making you stumble to find your balance against the wall. Before you can even begin to ponder what is going on, panicked shouts and screams echo through the halls and realization dawns on you.

Is this an attack? Finally! Something to do!

As swift as your legs can be, you rush to your room to grab your bow and quiver. Whoever this is who had decided to attack the heavenly palace, the panic they caused quickly spread through the grounds. You have to push against a crowd of officials, several residents of the palace fighting to get as far from the sounds of chaos as they can.

It takes time, but once you get through a decent amount of the crowd, it begins to thin out, a few stragglers following behind. Metal clashing against a wall makes the halls quake, quivering in fear of the carnage that took hold of the palace. The closer you get, the easier it is to make our voices through the static of destruction. It isn't until you reach the site of battle that you understand what the others ran for.

There is no army, no group responsible for the disruption. No, instead your gaze lays on a heavenly official, golden whip in hand and striking at a demon. Smoke billows off the monster, who doesn't bother to block the attacks. He charges his opponent, an iron rod held tightly in his grip. You have never laid eyes on the demon before, but can instantly recognize the features of the stone monkey.

Sun Wukong has been released from the Trigram Furnace? But how? The self-proclaimed Great Sage holds a crazed— no— feral look in his blood red eyes. His expression twists and screams in outrage, his attacks like those of a wild animal. The red and golden robes on his person are singed and burnt, the stench of burnt hair slowly filters through the air and reaches you, making you scrunch your face in disgust.

His wild attacks are forcing the celestial to take the defence, the man just barely dodging each swing Sun Wukong makes with his staff. To keep this up will be near-impossible, the monkey is relentless with each attack. With such blind anger, he could kill someone.

Your brows furrow as you think of what to do. Running was out of the question, but you stand no chance against that demon. You remember the force it took to capture him before, there was no way to match that on your own. But you can't just leave the poor official on his own. Is he an immortal that can’t die, or is he only ageless? Could he survive much longer?

As the questions swarm your mind, an idea strikes, your eyes narrowing as a plan begins to materialize. Defeating this monster on your own is out of the question, not while he's in such a crazed state of mind. You just had to take him out of that state.

Nocking an arrow, you draw back the string. You steady your breath, refusing to allow your fear to let you shake. This will have to be quick. One wrong move and you might just die. Guan Yin will not approve of that.

You slow your breath as the man locked in combat falls to the ground. Just as the demon pounces, you release the arrow, letting it strike Sun Wukong. It plunges into his side, and though his reaction is minor, the quick swivel of his head in your directions shows that you now have what you wanted. The stone monkey's attention.

In the flash of a moment, your head collides with the ground as the monster tackles you to the floor. A strangle of a gasp manages to escape your lungs, your breath leaving the moment your back hit the floor. Your grip on the bow is immediately lost as it clatters to the ground, your head pounding as it fights to make sense of its abrupt shift in orientation.

The demon glares down with a murderous look. His breathing is ragged, canines on full display in a snarl. While his eyes from a distance were a fiery red, you only realize now that the colour did not come from his pupils. Those are much too small to discern any colour from, and the slight trail of smoke that escaped the corners of his eyes took most of the attention away from them anyway.

He holds you down with a hand that grips your collarbone in a iron-tight hold, any harder and it might just snap in two. You already know of his strength, having heard stories from the soldiers that encountered him in battle after the festival, but to experience it firsthand was beyond terrifying.

The monkey holds his staff high over his head, your eyes widening at the threat of having your skull crushed under the weapon. With your senses returning, you wrap both of your arms around his own that holds you down. Closing your eyes tight, you begin to focus on your own energy. Just like you were taught... how Guan Yin showed you to envision it.

Everyone had their own pool of energy, their own force that was tethered to themselves. All you have to do was envision that divide between every person, the earth separating each individual's pool, and move it. With a shuddering breath, careful to only share what was necessary, you begin to move the blockage.

The moment your little pool of energy trickles into his own, the demon's breathing slows. His vice-like grip on your person starts to loosen, the bones beneath your skin no longer held hostage. Opening your eyes, you can see how his own begin to dilate. Now with sense behind them, the stone monkey’s golden irises look around in a daze.

Blinking slowly, the monkey lowers his weapon while you breathe a sigh of relief. The ape is back to his right state of mind, hopefully that can even the fight. Was the distraction enough time for the official to recover?

As relieving as it is for your plan to have worked and to no longer have a magical staff looming over you with the threat of death, it doesn't stop the underlying sense of dread created by the Great Sage's open stare. While his gaze is no longer filled with a violent rage, the calculating yet curious look he now gives lent you no sense of comfort.

A few silent moments pass before you attempt to sit up, but the demon keeps his hold firm. Your struggle doesn't seem to do anything to him, the stone monkey tilting his head in a curious fashion. "What was that?" He asks as you continue on your attempt to remove his hand. The action goes ignored as he seems more concerned with his questions. "What did you do to me?"

Despite the steady growth of your underlying panic, you manage to keep your composure and face him with a wry grin. "I kept you distracted, bastard monkey."

"Oh." The response makes him smirk, finding amusement in your words, though it’s clear he's taken aback from the twitch of the corner of his mouth. "Such vulgar words, maiden?"

"Only reserved for those who deserve them." You grin as the heavenly official from before sends his whip towards the monkey, the distraction giving him the chance to recover. The golden whip lashes around the arm holding you down and pulls it away from your person.

Weight now lifted off your chest, you're finally able to scramble away from the Monkey King. "Hurry, go now!" The official calls out, pulling the Great Sage towards him while the other readies his staff. The demon smirks, but before he can make another charge, the sound of thunder crackles through the halls. Yeah, this was now a much more even fight.

With a sigh of relief, you grab your bow from where it fell previously and run back around the corner of the hall. You've done your part, and hopefully now the Monkey King will be more easily subdued. You can only pray that they lock up that demon for the rest of his immortal life.

~~~~

Several hours pass before news catches your ears of the Buddha's involvement. You must admit, the Monkey King's reign met an interesting end, not to say you aren't grateful for it. Hearing of his feats and mischief was one thing, but to see his power yourself was a truly grounding experience. Good riddance to that headache of a demon. It only took about a week or so before a banquet to be held in celebration of his defeat.

That's when the news arrived.

"Moksa!" You couldn't have known your fellow disciple and brother would visit after the celebration. It may have been a surprise, but a welcome one at that.

Not caring for anyone that may have been present, you drop all formalities as you run to encompass the man in your embrace. His laughter is comforting to hear after going so long without a familiar face. "Hello to you as well, little sister."

Your smile could bring light to the darkest of nights in that moment. "What are you doing here? Is it time already? Can I go back home for the journey?"

"No." Moksa shakes his head in amusement, though you notice his smile falter. "No, there are still many years below before that. You're still so impatient." You step back to release him from your hold as he answers, less annoyed than you usually are whenever he makes such side comments.

With a roll of your eyes, you shake your head. "Does Guan Yin have a message for me? Or maybe you just miss me?" The hearty laugh that leaves your brother quickly makes you dismiss the idea.

But the laughter quickly subsides, the air suddenly becoming thick as his smile fades. All of a sudden, the situation feels much more serious than you initially expected. Moksa sighed. "Guan Yin did send for me to retrieve you, but only for a little while. She felt you would want to be back home today."

What does that mean? Of course you want to come back home, that's how you've felt since the day you were left here. But what makes today so special? As excited as you feel, you can't help but frown as Moksa leads you to the Southern Gate.

Summoning a cloud, you both descend onto the earth. Warmth fills your chest at the sight of your old home, the mountains that stretch over the horizons, the winding paths taken by travellers and merchants. It's funny, you never think about those kinds of details until you don't have them anymore.

Nonetheless, the sight of the village brings you a sense of joy you haven't felt in ages. The village was larger than you remember, they must have expanded in the time you've been gone. How much has changed since you left?

It doesn't take long for you both to land, though Moksa quickly began to rise again as you step onto the ground. "I will return to help you back to the Jade Palace once you are done." He explains, the somber look on his face grounding you once more.

"Wait, but what am I..." He's gone before you can even finish. "...doing." Huh, okay. You take a glance around the village, instantly recognizing the houses before you. Moksa had dropped you off just behind the house you busted frequently before this whole peach festival mess even happened.

Walking over to the front of the structure, you see a little kid running towards the house, maybe around ten or so. You pause the moment he locks eyes with you, the little boy frozen at the approach of a supposed stranger. He looks... he's just like...

"Shun!" A voice calls out, and the boy immediately looks past you towards the house. Your eyes widen at the sight of an older man. With hairs beginning to grey with wrinkles only just beginning to crease his forehead and the corners of his eyes, before you is the older face of a dear friend.

Without hesitation, you run to hold the man in your arms. "Lin! I can’t believe it, look at you!" The man stiffens in your hold, his eyes large as you grin widely. He really did age gracefully. "I’ve counted the days since my departure, I hope Moksa kept his word and explained why I never came back. Are the others still here? Has Guiying finally—"

"Father, who is this?" The little boy slowly approaches as you release who you expect to be his father from your embrace. He has to be Lin’s son, he looks so much like him!

As the boy— Shun was his name wasn't it? As Shun approaches, you kneel down to greet him and tell him your name. "I was good friends with your father many years ago." You explain, smiling at the boy. It would be a lie to say that this isn't all a shock for you. Of course you expected Lin to have a family by this point, though the kid is younger than you thought he'd be— unless of course Lin had another older child.

At your words, the boy gives you a look of recognition. "Like the one from grandfather's stories?" His question makes you frown as his gaze shifts to his parent. "I thought those were made up!"

It takes a moment for Shun's words to sink in, and for a moment, you're frozen where you kneel. Did he say... grandfather?

A hand rests on your shoulder, and you look up to see the boy's father a second time. Looking at him again... you begin to notice there are some features that are Lin’s, but his eyes were different. "I think there has been a misunderstanding." He begins as you rise back to your feet. "I am Ru Jiahao, and I think the person you are looking for is my father."

"Your father?" You echo his words, not entirely hearing them the first time. This man, he's Lin’s son?

The man gives an awkward sigh, nodding to the house. "Shun, go ahead and get inside. Everyone else is already in the house." The little boy nods, following his father's instructions and running into the house. With his son no longer present, Jiahao properly greets you. "It is an honour to meet you, my father always told us stories of how you kept our village from harm in the past."

His words suddenly feel surreal, the initial shock exponentially increased as he guides me into his home. Inside awaits the little boy, Shun, accompanied by two older girls and a young man, their somber faces all turning to you in confusion before understanding washes over. Are these all Lin’s grandchildren?

This is all so much, you barely even register the question asked until you feel the room's expecting gaze on you. Blinking yourself from your stupor, you look back to Jiahao. "Apologies, would you repeat that?"

The man frowns. "Ma'am," Ma'am? "you have come to visit my father, is that correct?"

You look over the expressions across the room. Their faces, all sharing the same wide-eyed look of wonder, watching your every move. It makes you shift uncomfortably, the way they look at you. "I... my fellow disciple escorted me back to the village. He said I would want to be here today."

You can't shake the way they all watch the conversation, nor their sorrowful expressions before you entered the room initially. The air feels cold, a looming cloud hanging over the family. "Tell me, where is your father?" You ask the man before two women enter from another room of the house.

One seemed about the age of Jiahao, perhaps his wife, the other much older. The elderly woman has her hair tied into a tight bun, not a single silver strand out of place. Wrinkles carved soft features over her forehead and the corners of her lips, crows feet almost meeting her temples. Holding onto a cane for support, she gasps the moment her eyes rest on you. She calls your name, and though her voice is hoarse and scratched with age, you recognize who it belongs to.

Your eyes widen, and you can feel your eyes begin to water. "Mei?" The woman smiles softly as you call her name, it takes a moment for her to hobble to you while the rest of the house watches in silence.

"My... you look the same as the day you left." Her hand slowly reaches to wrap you in a hug, her arms no longer holding the strength she had in her youth. Her youth...

She quickly turns to cast a glare over our audience. "What are you all gawking at? Jiahao, take them all to see your father and give us some privacy."

"Yes, Mother." Your eyes widen at the reply, barely able to keep your jaw from going slack as the man escorts his family into the room Mei entered from. Mother?! Did that mean Lin and Mei... but what about that man she never stopped talking about? You thought she would have married him, but Lin?! They couldn’t stand each other!

Before you can contemplate all that you must have missed, Mei takes your hands in her own. The smile she has is the same warm smile you remember all those months... years ago. "Is it time for you to go on that journey now? Prince Moksa told us what happened, I never thought we would see you again, old friend!"

Old friend? "No, there's still more time, but... what happened? You married Lin? You— you have a family!" You smile, overcome with a sense of pride and longing for your friend that overlaps with a thousand more emotions of joy and grief.

Mei’s smile falters, her eyes casting down. “Yes, well… you came to visit with a funny sense of timing.” Your brows furrow at her words, and she looks up at you with a sigh. “Here, follow me.”

Taking your hand, your friend guides you to where the others are. The room feels cramped with the number of bodies in the space. A bed lays against the far wall, an elderly man it’s only occupant. The first word that comes to mind is frail. Skin encloses bone with barely any muscle left, his movements are stiff, rigid. “Lin, look at who came to visit.” Mei announces your arrival.

It takes a moment for him to get a good look in your direction, his eyes growing larger in surprise. “Is it true?” He smiles, eyes landing on you and Mei. “My Love, are my eyes playing tricks on me again?”

Mei crosses to her husband, her smile warm as her hand finds his. “Our friend has come back to pay us a visit, Dear.” She answers, looking to you expectantly. With caution, you move to meet the two at his side.

“Lin?” Your voice is barely a whisper. This doesn’t feel real.

The old man smiles, calling your name as you take a knee at his side. “You sure took your time coming back.”

“You didn’t think you saw the last of me, did you?” You jest despite your throat feeling tight. This is all too much, seeing him like this. Of course you know that it’s been decades for him, you know your friends would age without you, the whole reason you’re living in the Heavens is because no mortal human alive now will live to the day you’ll be needed. But at the same time, actually being here, seeing the state of your friend…

You aren’t ready for this. “Lin, you—”

“I know.” His wife let’s go of his hands so he can rest one of his own on yours. “How are you? You promised to tell me what it was like up there.”

Of course, even in his old age, his curiosity is a top priority. “I’m fine, it can get boring, if I’m honest. Right up your alley.”

He laughs, but it sounds pained. Before you can blink he’s jolting upright and lets out a horrid coughing fit. Mei sits on the edge of the bed, her hand running up and down his back before guiding him back to lay down.

Jiahao steps forward, putting a hand on his father’s shoulder. The pain in his expression slams into your chest with brute force, your gaze wandering to the rest of his family. The younger children stand in a huddle with their mother’s arms draping over them. The youngest one you met outside, Shun, has his face turned away into his mother’s side.

Your eyes fall back on your friend, a man you can barely recognize as realization forces it’s way through. A statement you had known but never truly accepted until now. These faces, both new and old, were the sharp edge of the blade of truth, and it cut deeper than you ever thought it could.

Your friends have lived their life, and you missed it all.

“Lin?” Your attention snaps back to Mei, her voice in clear distress. The elder’s breathing is laboured, each intake of breath a struggle. His eyes are unfocused, almost glazed. “My Love?”

His eyes wander the room, looking to each and every person. When he looks to you, he weakly smiles, calling your name that he can barely get out. You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes. “Lin, don’t. Save your breath.”

“No.” He sighs, his voice strained. “It’s been over sixty years since I’ve seen my friend… I’d like to talk with her. Is that… a problem?” Each inhale is a battle, fights that twists your stomach as you witness them.

This is it. “Not a problem at all.” You smile, ignoring the tear that runs down your cheek. “Do you want to hear about the Jade Palace?”

His content smile is enough, and you begin to share with the man everything that happened in the celestial realm. You notice some of the children listen with wide eyes, Mei asks questions in Lin’s place while you try your best to be as detailed as possible. You tell them about the beauty of the palace and the gardens, the deities and officials, and the havoc caused by the stone monkey. You tell him everything, even after the moment he is no longer there.

Several minutes pass before it's only you and Mei left in the room. You've never seen such a pained look on her face before, her hand holding onto her husband's arm. It hurts to see the woman like this.

"...Where's Guiying?" You ask, eyes never leaving your now still friend.

Mei's gaze remains downcast. "You just missed her. She left two days ago after receiving a message for help. Merchants on the road needed medical attention." So she was able to practice medicine? Good...

The air feels thick, stuffed with grief and sorrow. Lin was one of the first people you met after Guan Yin saved you. At the time he was just a kid, like you were. Timid, but able to stand up for himself when he needed it.

Your eyes shift to Mei, her own clouded over. How terrible must she feel now? Losing your friend after ten years, the pain threatens to rip at your chest and crush your heart. Your stomach is heavy, stones of regret pulling down and grounding your body like a steel weight. But Mei's lost her love, her closest companion after decades that proceed your own life more than three times over.

"Mei?" You call her name gently, hand holding her wrist with care. "Do you want me to..."

She shakes her head, eyes now closed. "No. It's alright, I don't need you to use any magic." Her gaze falls back on you, a sad smile now resting over her frail features. "Your presence is enough."

You go to speak, but your throat begins to swell and all you can do is wrap your arms around your old friend. She reciprocates the hug, and you're not sure how long you stay like that, but it's comforting.

When it's finally time for Moksa to bring you back to the celestial realm, you find yourself grieving the life of a friend as well as the life you never got to live. This wouldn't be the last visit.

[generic-whumperz]

OC in 3

Choose 3 pics to represent your OC

Oops, I got overly excited and made 10 three-picture collages

Omg thank you @mj-iza-writer for the tag! I am honored that I came to mind! 🥹

No pressure (& open to anyone interested!) tag: @rainydaywhump @eatyourdamnpears @clairelsonao3 @dresden-syndrome @lights-out-knives-out @snakebites-and-ink

| Aid Masterlist | Aid Character Sheet | Character Info

Soooo, I know I’m supposed only to pick three pics, but honestly, I simply cannot (I know, no surprise there). I have been wanting to do a vibe photo dump for The Aid (the Whumpee & title of the story) but have yet to do it (hello, my ever-expanding Pinterest boards), so I’ll take this chance to explore The Aid’s past phases he’s gone through (pre & post-Wyatt {Whumper #2}) and give some explanations because it’s a lot. However, I don’t know if explanations are necessary for this tag game, but I’m famously too much, so of course, I’m going to over-explain myself because of my crippling fear of being misunderstood!

Ironically, I call his time with Madame Eleanor (technical Whumper #1) his “Aid Era” because that’s when he becomes this character we are introduced to and currently know him as. Yet, this is the part of his life he is phasing out of. **Insert something-something about being haunted by your past.**

(In the current storyline, he is going through a succession of more changes, and his world is about to be turned upside down yet again, but I’ll hold off on showing those for now because they’re spoilers, and I have more than enough here!)

Starting from the top, here we goooo—

P.S. The people in these pics are not what the characters look like, this is simply vibes only!

Day 1

1. As soon as The Aid arrives at his new home, Madame Eleanor gets custom-made Gucci uniforms made for him that looks like this. This is his go-to everyday attire. (I spent too long looking at scrubs and hospitality uniforms on and off for over a month—tell me you like it and think it’s cool and sleek.)

2. He has a special built-in in his closet specifically for all his fancy, jewel-encrusted collars Madame Eleanor gifted him throughout the years, but this is what the facility's standard-issue collar looks like for his designation (Grand Servant: Domestic Aid).

3. His favorite Prada frames Madame Eleanor got him. (Wyatt later breaks them because he’s an asshole, leaving him straight up blind for several months).

Fancy Threads

Eleanor Sullivan was a Rich Bitch™️, so best believe she had her servant dressed to the 9s in designer fits when out and about or for Family events and the like. She may also put him in a butler uniform from time to time when they were hosting a party at their residence—which was often, Eleanor was known for her soirées. (To clarify, he’d still wear a collar even when dressed up, and all those attending knew who and what he was.)

The Host

He loved a good party just as much as Eleanor did! He likes serving and seeing people have fun and enjoy themselves (people-pleasing empath). He was known for his food displays and had a knack for creating a proper afternoon tea spread that garnered attention from all those present.

Speaking of Empath…

We can’t talk about him without bringing up his not-so-secret secret! Lil’ homie has a gang of abilities (telepathic empathy, hyper intuition, premonitions, and psychometry) just bubbling up inside him at all times. His relationship with himself and his sixth senses is complicated, to say the least—he finds them burdensome, yet he cannot function without them, despite how much he argues otherwise. It’s a whole thing, but for a certified Telepathic-Empath™️, he sure is dead inside (which only gets worse after Wyatt OFC).

*Sorry for the shitty upload quality of the Emotional Sponge, idk why it looks so bad!

Domestic Duties

Not only can he slap together the best charcuterie board you’ve ever seen and easily untangle Christmas lights, but he’s also a man who can cook, clean, and keep a house. What can’t he do?

Hobbies? Interests?

Don’t be ridiculous, he didn’t have time for leisure activities! But when he had some occasional downtime, he would spend an ungodly amount of it doing facials and grooming himself. He also loved to go to the spa with Madame Eleanor. As far as reading went, he wasn’t into novels, but he would occasionally peruse short-story myths and legends, old fables, or read picture books in funny voices to Eleanor’s grandchildren. Primarily, he’d like to read trashy magazines, comics, and cookbooks. But let’s be real, he considered cleaning, gossiping, and baking his primary hobbies.

RIP Madame Eleanor Sullivan

(She’s been dead for about a year and a half when they story picks up)

First and foremost—above everything else—The Aid was Eleanor Sullivan’s literal live-in medically trained caregiver, which is why she bought him in the first place. They had a very close relationship for five years, and he did everything for her. When she died, his world was shattered, and he took her death really hard. Wyatt was jealous of his Mother’s relationship with her servant from day one, which is where part of his animosity comes from. Quick note—Eleanor was a posh, vintage-Chanel-wearing Grandma and would never be caught dead wearing a bathrobe outside. Eleanor was Queen of being That Bitch.

Enter: Wyatt Sullivan

These pics are pretty tame all things considered, but after Eleanor’s death, The Aid is now in a World O’ Hurt and the subject of Wyatt’s drug-and-alcohol-fueled rage. The Aid went from a high-class servant loved by his Madame and respected by her friends, associates, and family (besides Wyatt) to a human punching bag overnight. The beef between these two runs deep and maybe Eleanor isn’t as innocent as she seems. Stick around and you’ll find out all the Sullivan family tea.

To: Wyatt

Just some memes directed towards Wyatt and The Aid being painfully aware of his shitty situation (I got too many of these and had to sprinkle some in).

Where We’re at Now…

Quite the fall from grace, wouldn’t you say? Our boy is currently bed-ridden and zombified while having the worst time imaginable. He’s drugged up, fucked up, and can’t move half of his body!

*This took me an embarrassing amount of time to assemble, but I went the extra mile because this doubles as a reference guide.

[bloodandlegacy]

XX: Gaunt

It’s time.

I’ve spent half the summer preparing for this moment, honing the spells that will ensure I succeed. Practicing Unforgivables on the others at the orphanage wasn’t difficult—they’re so weak-minded, so docile, so beneath me. Muggles have no place in my world. They never did.

The time for waiting, for planning, is over. I’ve gathered what I need, pieced together her location, and now I know exactly where that squib is. The woman who tried to strip away my magic, who broke me over and over. She’ll answer for her sins today.

The jail in Gloucestershire looms ahead as I Apparate just beyond its iron gates. It’s not Azkaban, but something about the place feels eerily familiar. The heavy air, the stone walls steeped in despair—it’s enough to send flashes of my father’s face through my mind. His haunted eyes. The madness that consumed him.

For a moment, I hesitate, the pit in my stomach twisting into something almost unbearable. But I push it down, bury it with the rest of my fear. This isn’t the time for second-guessing. I came here for justice, and I won’t falter.

Inside, the air is thick with hopelessness, the kind that clings to you, seeping into your skin. The damp chill, the oppressive silence—it’s suffocating.

The thought twists like a knife in my chest, sharp and unexpected. My father—rotting away in that forsaken place, condemned as a monster, a madman unfit to live among decent wizards. They didn’t care that he was innocent. He was easy to put away—marked by the Gaunt name, branded a Parselmouth, burdened by a bloodline they had already written off as madness incarnate. What did they see when they looked at him? Not a man, but a convenient scapegoat, someone who could bear the sins of others without question.

They didn’t see the chains he was born into, the way his own father twisted and broke him before the world ever had a chance. He wasn’t mad; he was broken. Just like me.

I clutch my wand tighter, the thought burning in my chest. My father’s suffering wasn’t his fault, and neither was mine. But unlike him, I refuse to let the world cage me, to let the weight of my bloodline or my pain dictate my future.

I force myself forward, the echo of my footsteps swallowed by the oppressive silence. The cell is just ahead, and with every step, my resolve hardens. This isn’t about the past. This is about reclaiming what was taken from me.

And then I see her.

She’s older, weaker than I remember, but her eyes still hold that same cruelty. The same disdain she always had when she looked at me. She’s sitting in the corner of her cell, her magicless existence etched into every weary line on her face.

The guards don’t see me. A few whispered incantations, and I’m invisible to their Muggle eyes.

When I step into her line of sight, her gaze sharpens, a sneer forming on her lips.

“So, the little freak found her way back,” she spits, her voice dripping with contempt. “What’s the matter? Still looking for someone to blame for your pathetic existence?”

Her words hit like a slap, but they don’t sting the way they once did. I’ve heard them all before. She only sees the girl she tormented standing before her now. She doesn’t see the power I’ve become.

I step closer, my voice calm, steady. “Do you know what your greatest mistake was?” I ask.

Her sneer deepens. “Letting you live.”

A cold smile spreads across my face. “No. It was underestimating me.”

Her laughter is sharp, bitter. “You think you’ve won, but you’ll always be a curse. Do you even know what you are? What you’ve done?”

She leans forward, her voice dropping to a mocking whisper. “Cassiopeia and I were friends once. Best friends. I promised her I’d take care of you—of the parasite that killed her. She adored you, you know. Believed you’d be something special. But I saw the truth.”

Her gaze sharpens, pure hatred blazing in her eyes. “You killed her, you little wretch. She might have survived if it weren’t for you. You drained the life out of her before you even opened your eyes. And I took you in—out of pity. But you weren’t worth it. You never were.”

The words hit harder than I expect, dredging up a storm of grief, anger, and something darker that churns deep inside me. My mother. The only faint glimmer of warmth in a life so filled with cold. And this woman—this vile, twisted woman—has the audacity to blame me? To speak her name and taint it with lies?

I step closer, my voice low and steady, each word laced with cold fury. “You don’t deserve to say her name. You don’t deserve to remember her.”

“Crucio.”

Her sneer collapses into a grimace of pain, the first crack in her façade.The flicker of unease in her eyes is a fleeting triumph, but it isn’t enough—not yet. My grip tightens on my wand, the weight of it grounding me, its tip steady and unyielding as I level it at her chest.

The air between us thickens, crackling with an energy I can’t quite contain. From behind me, I feel it stir—dark, writhing, alive. The shadows stretch and twist, curling like smoke, filling the room with a suffocating presence.

The Obscurus.

It unfurls slowly at first, tendrils of darkness creeping along the walls, pooling at my feet, then spreading with a force that makes the air itself seem to shudder. It moves as though it has a mind of its own, a will that mirrors my fury, my pain. The chains of smoke coil and twist around her, pinning her to the wall like a prisoner awaiting judgment.

Her sneer is gone now, replaced by something I’ve never seen in her before: fear. Real, raw fear.

“What is this?” she rasps, her voice cracking as she struggles against the smoky restraints. The chains tighten, and the room hums with the dark energy spilling from me, from it.

The darkness isn't just mine; it is me. It moves with purpose, unspoken yet understood, a mirror of everything I've endured and everything I’ve become.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. The Obscurus seems to understand, responding to my emotions, my anger, my need to make her suffer as she made me suffer. It presses closer, the tendrils tightening like a vice, and for the first time, I feel it—its strength, its power, its hunger.

It wants her, I realize. It wants to consume her, to take from her what she took from me.

For a moment, I falter. The rage surging through me fights with the faintest flicker of doubt. But then I remember her words, her cruelty, her lies. I remember the years of torment, the scars she left—on my skin, on my soul.

She deserves this.

The chains of smoke tighten around her, muffling her screams, silencing her hate. My wand stays raised, steady and sure, but it’s the darkness itself that holds her now.

I step back, lowering my wand just slightly, letting the Obscurus surge forward. This is its moment, its revenge. After all, she created this in me—the monster she feared, the darkness she fed with every strike, every cruel word. Now, she’ll face it.

Her defiance crumbles, her sneer replaced by terror, and for the first time, I see her as she truly is: powerless.

She tried to destroy me, to make me small, but all she did was birth this. The Obscurus isn’t a curse—it’s mine. My pain, my anger, my will, all brought to life. A reflection of everything she tried to take from me, now turned against her.

I don’t resist it. I don’t need to. This is justice. The Obscurus moves as though it knows what I want, what I need. It presses closer, suffocating her hate, consuming the very thing that made her who she was.

For the first time, I don’t feel fear. I let it be what it was always meant to be: the reckoning she deserves.

I raise my wand again, the weight of it a perfect match for the fury coursing through me. 

“Crucio.”

Her screams tear through the cell, raw and unfiltered, but they barely reach me. The sound doesn’t satisfy me—it’s hollow, empty, like an echo of what she truly deserves. The chains of smoke tighten around her, the Obscurus responding to my unspoken will, amplifying the pain.

Her body trembles, her breath coming in ragged gasps as I lower my wand, stepping closer, my voice cutting through the haze with cold precision. “You blamed me for her death, but she chose wrong when she trusted you. You were the mistake. And now, you’ll be nothing. Forgotten. Just like the waste of a life you’ve led.”

Her lips part as if to respond, but no words come. There’s nothing she can say now that would change this moment, nothing that could undo the years of torment she inflicted on me. The spell is already on my lips, rising from the depths of my soul, unshakable in its resolve.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The green light floods the cell, consuming her entirely, and then—silence. The kind of silence that feels like it could swallow the world whole.

I lower my wand slowly, my hand steady despite the weight of what I’ve just done. The chains of smoke retreat, curling back around me like a protective shroud. The Obscurus hums with satisfaction, its presence fading but not gone, as if it understands that its purpose here is fulfilled.

She’s gone. The woman who tried to break me, who created this darkness within me, is nothing now. Her existence—her hate, her cruelty—snuffed out as though it had never been.

The Obscurus lingers in the air, a shadow of what it was moments ago, but I feel it within me still—calm, steady, a reminder of the power I wield. It’s mine. And now, it’s hers no longer.

Power surges through me, electrifying and consuming. For the first time, I feel the full weight of the spell—not just its finality, but its potency. It doesn’t feel wrong. It feels right. As if all the rage, the pain, the injustice I’ve endured has finally found its voice.

I don’t feel triumph. I don’t feel sorrow. What I feel is a cold, quiet sense of balance. The scales have tipped. The wound she inflicted on me—on my soul—has been stitched shut, not healed, but bound tightly enough that it no longer festers.

Her death doesn’t erase the scars she left behind, but it takes away her power. The things she did to me, the words she hissed in the darkness—they no longer hold weight. She can’t hurt me anymore.

As I turn to leave, the air in the cell feels lighter, as if the oppression she carried with her has evaporated. The stone walls no longer feel so suffocating. With each step I take, I feel stronger. Not freer, but unshackled.

The image of my father flickers in my mind—his gaunt face, his hollow eyes. He spent years rotting away in Azkaban, haunted by the ghosts of his past. I’m not him, I remind myself. His madness was born from a life he couldn’t escape. I’m not trapped like he was.

I’m not bound by his mistakes or anyone else’s.

I step out of the prison, the chill of the outside air biting at my skin. The sky above is gray, heavy with clouds, but there’s a clarity to it I hadn’t noticed before. The world feels sharper, more defined.

This isn’t vengeance. It never was.

This was about making her answer for what she did—for what she took from me, for what she tried to destroy. She thought she could make me powerless, but all she did was fuel the strength I carry now.

Justice is cold, they say. But so is power. And now, I know I am both.

I straighten my back, my head held high as I take a deep, steadying breath.

The Gaunt name was my father’s curse, my mother’s shame, and my burden for so long. But today, it’s my triumph.

I reclaim it not out of duty or fear, but because I’ve made it mine. And with it, I will carve a legacy that is entirely my own.

[sadboi-in-a-sweater]

Sadboi's Incredibly Strange Multifandom Adventure - Chapter 24: They Love Meeting You, and Your Friends

The next stage of their journey took them to the moonlit world of Rainbow Friends. The atmosphere was eerie, with the silhouettes of the colorful creatures watching from afar. Sadboi knew about the different monsters that lurked in the darkness of the theme park that they just entered, each named after a different color: Blue was the most infamous of the group, Green was blind, Orange was a crafty reptilian creature, the lanky Purple lurked in the vents, the velociraptor-like Cyan with their heightened senses prowled on the ground, and the pterosaur-esque Yellow patrolled the skies with their propeller backpack. Red was their creator, a creature wih a spherical head dressed in scientist attire.

The French Narrator, now in his Kamen Rider Dolphin form, led the way with a sense of urgency. His French accent was more pronounced as he spoke to the group in English, "We must be careful. The Rainbow Friends are not known for their hospitality to outsiders."

Sadboi's vibesense tingled with the emotions of fear and anticipation. She whispered to her team, "Let's stick together and keep our cool." They agreed, their eyes scanning the abandoned park for any signs of trouble.

The group moved cautiously through the park, the clack of their boots on the pavement echoing in the stillness. The lights from the attractions flickered ominously, casting long shadows that danced in the night air. As they approached the central hub, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was Red, the creator of the Rainbow Friends, his eyes glowing with curiosity.

"Ah, welcome to my park!" Red boomed in a cheerful tone that didn't quite match the grim surroundings. "You must be the Guardians of Synthesis! I've heard quite a bit about you."

The French Narrator stepped forward, his Kamen Rider visor glinting in the dim light. "We are indeed. We're here to collect the Time Piece and ensure the safety of the multiverse."

Red's smile faltered for a moment. "Ah, yes. The Time Piece. But, you see, I can't simply hand it over. You must first prove your worthiness by facing my creations."

Sadboi's heart sank. She didn't like the idea of fighting, but she knew that sometimes, battles were unavoidable. She clutched her Element of Synthesis tightly, feeling the warmth of its energy pulsing in her hand. The French Narrator gave a curt nod, understanding the gravity of the situation.

The Guardians spread out, each ready to face their colorful adversaries. SpongeBob's bubble blowing skills proved surprisingly effective against Green's blind rage, while Pearl and Garnet's combined strength held back the swift and silent Orange. The Snatcher's nimble movements allowed him to outfox Cyan, while Tony Stark's Iron Man armor deflected the sharp beak of Yellow.

As the battles unfolded, Sadboi found herself face-to-face with Blue, the most feared of the Rainbow Friends. His electric eyes pierced through the dark, and his mechanical limbs clicked with anticipation. Despite her apprehension, she stepped forward, raising her Element of Synthesis.

"Blue," she called out, her voice steady, "We don't have to do this. We can talk."

Blue tilted his head, seemingly confused by her words. "Talk?" he echoed. "But you are here to take what is mine."

"No," Sadboi said firmly. "We're here to protect, not to take. Can't you feel it?" She extended her hand, her vibesense reaching out to him. "We are all connected, and we all just want to be understood."

For a moment, the tension hung in the air like a thick fog. Then, something miraculous happened. Blue's eyes softened, and he took a tentative step towards her. The French Narrator watched, hope swelling in his chest. If they could end this peacefully, it would be a testament to their unity and the power of their mission.

Sadboi's colors shifted, a gentle blend of blue and pink swirling around her as she approached the giant creature. She could sense his pain, his longing for companionship and acceptance. It mirrored her own past, and she knew that together, they could overcome it.

"We can help you," she continued. "We've seen so much in our travels, and we know that fear and anger are not the only ways to be strong."

Blue paused, his monstrous form seemingly shrinking as he considered her words. The park grew quieter, as if the other Rainbow Friends were watching, waiting for his response. Then, with a heavy sigh, he nodded. "I…I believe you," he said, his voice cracking with emotion.

The French Narrator stepped up, a smile of relief on his digital face. "Then let us join forces," he said grandly. "We shall be the guardians of not just time, but of all who are misunderstood and forgotten."

With a newfound sense of camaraderie, the Guardians and the Rainbow Friends stood together. The Time Piece was returned, not as a prize of battle, but as an offering of friendship and trust. As they left the moonlit park, the group knew that their journey had just begun. The multiverse was vast, but with hearts filled with empathy and unity, they would conquer any challenge that came their way.