#siblings by bloodshed

[nerdie-faerie]

Thinking about how most of the times we see Kol in tvd he's acting as errand boy for his siblings, starting with Rebekah asking him to kill Matt at the ball. If he cared solely about killing someone to spit in the face of Esther's rules he could have killed anyone else after Rebekah changed the plan. The second time, he's in Denver with Jeremy and texts Klaus to let him know if there's anything else his brother needs from him. And later Klaus calls on him to use his presence with Jeremy to threaten Bonnie into undoing the linking spell. Then he's there again to kill Mary when he finds out from Klaus that the mfg are trying figure out who they're sired from after breaking his cover in Denver. He's not even in series 4 up until Rebekah gets undaggered and suddenly he's there to retrieve the professor for her

I just think it's interesting that he's characterised as the volatile and reckless sibling and in the originals we learn that he constantly feels like an outsider in his own family with Klaus, Rebekah and Elijah making up their own little trio with Finn daggered. And yet anytime they need something he's there, almost as though he's still desperately trying to endear himself to them until he inevitably lashes out and gets daggered for it, his efforts constantly unappreciated. The only time he asks them for a favour that I can recall is when he swears Rebekah to secrecy about the dagger he's working on against Klaus only for her to tattle and get him daggered

[jikimo-world]

What was supposed to be just a walk a little further from home, turned out to be an unexpected encounter with the past...

(At some point, after the fall of the Western Roman Empire in 476)

(The poor boy's heart is breaking for not knowing enough, but soon he'll be getting some more awful news)

[tillman]

really attached to my specific headcanon that millia is a really fucking sore loser about games and shit . venom attempts to pester her into playing chess with him and he castles once and she gets so fucking mad she just gets up and leaves and venoms stuck playing with eddie again. this ones just for me

[potatoesandsunshine]

some of us will write a run on sentence. to cope.

[twospiritstooprideful]

to give up is to lay over and die

Don't die

Fight

for every inch

Don't make it easy for them to take away your rights, your values, and your life

It's gonna be hard

You're not likely to like it

But it is better than letting them do it unimpeded

Claw with your nails, bite with your teeth—whatever

Fight—live

BE MAD BE SAD BUT DONT U DARE GIVE UP

[godzexperiment]

nix having like tasks, little missions on earth but pretty strictly meant to keep to himself doing do? the way nix 100% is engineered and could be quite an weapon/messenger.... especially given he quite literally isn't meant to be perceived by anybody- his extra energy reserves and all that.

just the difference between not so direct actions/direct actions made and how much more it matters that he's so soft,etc

[spider-stark]

THE BRIDGE

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!Reader

Summary - Your wardship with House Blackwood was meant to bridge the chasm between your families. Years later, you return to Stone Hedge as the whispers of war spread—only for Lord Tully to call for a hunt.

Warnings - fem!reader, complicated sibling relationship, fighting, (probably excessive) mentions of blood, talks about hunting/killing wild animals, !angst!, adult language, reader def suffering from identity crisis, probably deviates from canon some, kieran burton fan cast for benji, all characters 18+

Word Count - 5.6k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

When Grover Tully, the Lord Paramount of the Trident, sent word for each of his bannermen to send forth a handful of their finest House members to a most desolate area of the Whispering Woods, no one thought it wise to object. 

“Lord Grover is an ornery old crow,” your father, Humfrey Bracken huffed as you readied the horses. “But you would do well to earn his respect.” He clamped a hand on your brother’s shoulder, pride gleaming in his eyes as he said, “Whatever he’s planning, I want you to show him that House Bracken stands strong. Understood?” 

Keeping his chin held high, Amos hesitantly mutters, “If you wish to impress Lord Tully, you might think twice about sending her.” 

Even with your back turned, you could feel the weight of your brother’s stare, his eyes boring a hole into the back of your head. 

Your father shrugged, a disinterested gesture. “Grover said to send our best,” he said, “and when it comes to a bow and arrow, no one's a better shot than her.” 

For the next day-and-a-half, you rode at a distance from the group your father selected—your brother, Amos, and two of your male cousins. And while they laughed and jeered and yapped, you remained stuck in your own thoughts, playing your father’s words on a loop. 

It’s the only compliment he’s ever paid you. The closest he’s ever come to acknowledging you as Bracken. 

You hate him sometimes, you think. For agreeing to peace all those years ago—for sending his only daughter to ward with his rival of all people. He must have known it was futile. Must have known that one girl could never bridge such an ancient chasm. 

He must have known—and yet he sent you anyway, only to call you back years later, tearing you away from the only home you had ever known and leaving you to feel like a stranger in your House. 

Grover said to send our best. 

Are you a Bracken, then? Is blood all that determines a House? 

No one’s a better shot than her. 

But your skill is that of a Blackwood, born under their tutelage. 

Deep within the Woods, a steady mist of rain falls from the sky, leaving your skin uncomfortably damp. In the distance, a low hum of chattering voices signal that the four of you are drawing close to Lord Grover’s camp—and that the other House’s have already arrived. 

Your thoughts shift, wondering who Lord Samwell sent to represent House Blackwood—fearing that you might already know the answer. 

A strange tightness floods your chest, coiling around your lungs. 

It’s been months since you last saw the heir to Raventree Hall. Many, many months—and you can’t help but think any reunion might end in bloodshed with Amos by your side. 

As if he heard his name ring through your mind, your brother slows his horse to gentle trot beside yours, cocking a neatly groomed brow at you. “Tell me, sister—were you always this dour?” He asks, feigning intrigue. “Or did half-a-decade with the Blackwoods simply drain the joy from you?” 

You don’t pry your eyes from the path ahead, refusing to look him in the eye as he continues without waiting for an answer. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised—a mere day with those insipid cravens would have me wishing to swallow my own blade.” Removing a hand from the reins, he pantomimed the act—gripping an invisible hilt and shoving it towards his lips, letting a dramatic choke rip from his throat. 

Riding a bit ahead, your cousins chortle at his jest, shooting amused glances over their shoulders. 

“No need,” you answer without thinking, your tone impassive. “Aly would have an arrow in your eye before the day was up.” 

Your cousins fall silent. 

Amos stiffens, jaw clenched tight. “She could try.” 

You know Black Aly would try if given half the chance—and you have no doubt that she would succeed, too. She was the one who taught you how to string a bow and sharpen arrows, how to aim and never miss. 

When you don’t respond, Amos pulls his horse in closer—as close as he can get without spookings yours. “Look,” he utters, low enough that your cousins can’t overhear, “I don’t know how things were done at Raventree—but you’re home now, and you would do well to remember where your true loyalties lie.” 

Again, you don’t speak. Don’t think, either. 

Amos sighs. “Your blood runs gold, sister. You’re a Bracken, through-and-through. Take pride in that—and don’t bring shame upon our name. Understood?” 

Strange. 

You had seen your own blood before—more times than you can count, actually. Scars mottle your skin like stars in the sky, a reminder of the years spent training and the memories of nights spent with friends who were supposed to be enemies. 

Never once had it looked gold to you.

Only red. 

“I understand–” a pause, a breath, a heartbeat– “brother.” 

Nausea twists your stomach. The familial title curdles on your tongue even as Amos grins at you. There’s nothing affectionate about the gesture—how could there be? He doesn’t know you. Not really. 

Blood or no, you’re little more than strangers to each other—and yet, even so, you can see he’s trying. Trying to know you. 

Ahead, the camp comes into view. Banners hang above tents: white for the Mootons, blue for the Pipers, purple for the Mallisters. 

And red—for House Blackwood. 

Amos gives you one last glance, a pall mimicry of what you believe is meant to be love in his eyes. “You’re home now,” he reminds you again, as if you need to hear it,“be glad for it.” 

With the Tully’s guards now in earshot, Amos doesn’t bother with waiting for a response. He snaps the reins, urging his gelding back to the head of your group, already bellowing his greetings. You watch him go, transfixed on the yellow-gold of his tunic—identical to yours. 

Approaching the guards, you tell yourself that your brother is what home is supposed to look like. That if you were to slice your veins, gold would pour from your wrists. 

Not red. 

After checking in with the guards and tying your mare up in the makeshift paddock, there was no time left to freshen up before you were expected to join Amos and your cousins. With all the Houses now gathered, Lord Grover wasted no time in calling you all to the heart of the camp. 

Still, you try to make yourself presentable—using your fingers to comb through tangled, windswept hair and smoothing the wrinkles from your gold tunic, careful not to disturb the ornate brooch pinned above your heart. 

According to the guards, everyone was given one upon arrival. “All Houses are required to wear them,” they explained when Amos pressed them on it, “Lord Tully’s orders.” 

They were all different, it seemed. Yours was a delicate thing, fashioned from silver and pearls in the image of a blooming dahlia, while Amos’s was clunky and shaped like the sun. He’s still fumbling with it when you finally push through the small crowd, taking your place at his side. 

To your left, separated only by a group of five Frey men, you feel the wary glances being cast your way. You almost turn your head—almost glance back at them, if only to see what they might do. What he would do. 

Would he even acknowledge you? Or simply look away? 

The answer, thankfully, is one you don’t have time to learn. A servant garners attention, dragging a simple, plush chair to the group’s center. Following suit, another two servants assist the aged Lord Paramount from his tent, guiding him into his seat. On his right stands his eldest grandson—and your favorite Tully. Tall and dark-haired, Elmo looks more fearsome than he actually is, sparing you a quick, discreet wink when he spots you. 

“You may all be wondering,” Lord Grover wheezes, his lungs fighting for breath, “why I have called upon you all today—the many great Houses of our land.” 

As he speaks, old, gnarled hands punctuate his words, gesturing out to the many men gathered ‘round. His fingers shake with effort, his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of his many, many years. But his chin remains high, and his tone commanding—if a touch quavery. 

“I hear rumblings,” he continues, “from the South-East.” 

Lord Grover’s eyes, milky with cataracts, shift in the direction, staring blindly into the towering trees of the Whispering Woods. Beyond them, even. 

“Whispers of a great danger brewing in the Crownlands—within the King’s own court, if rumors are to be trusted.” 

Your spine turns to steel. 

Those rumors, you know, are as true as they come. Over the past several months, they had moved through the realm like a venomous serpent. Slithering from mouth to ear, hissing tales of the two factions that now divide King Viserys’s council. 

The Blacks and the Greens. 

The rightful heir and the first-born son. 

And the very reason your father had called you home. 

“War is coming,” a deep, foreboding warning, “and should it reach the Riverlands, I wish to know that we might stand united in its wrath. That we will not allow petty rivalries–” a pointed glance at your brother, and then to your left where, without looking, you know the Blackwood heir stands–“to tear us apart from within.” 

A heartbeat passes. Then another. 

The forest holds its breath. Cradles the Lord Paramount’s words in the air, weaving them around the many great Houses of the Riverlands. 

You wonder if this is what strength looks like. What it sounds like. 

You fear you already know which side of the war Lord Grover’s strength might fall—and you pray that you’re wrong. 

Placing a firm hand upon his grandfather’s shoulder, Elmo takes a step forward. “In an effort to promote civility between our Houses,” he announces in a tone that demands respect, “we have arranged for a hunt.” 

Your brow furrows. A hunt? 

“You will be divided into two person teams, working with an individual outside of your own House.” His gaze shifts to you, dark eyes gleaming with mischief. “Teams have already been decided. Upon your arrival, each of you was given a pin—your partner will bear a matching one. And while there will be no winners or losers, you should know that once you leave camp, you will not be permitted to return without a trophy of some kind.” 

Discontent spreads. Low murmurs fill the air. 

Amos voices his frustration louder than the rest.  “And when is this hunt to take place?” 

Elmo grins. “Now.” 

Instantly, murmurs grow to shouts. 

“You cannot be serious, my Lord!” 

“It is already sunset!” 

“Is this a jest?” 

Elmo’s grin never wavers, unphased by the protests—and Lord Grover appears content to let his grandson contend with everyone's bickering, exhausted from what little talking he had already done. 

“Might I suggest you move quickly,” Elmo speaks over the crowd. Glancing upwards, he squints at the black clouds rolling overhead, an amused lilt to his voice as he adds, “Lest you wish to be caught in the coming storm.” 

With no more than a curt nod to the crowd, Elmo turns on his heel, already veering off in the direction of his own tent as servants begin to help Lord Grover rise. 

“This is absurd,” your brother grumbles. 

You ignore him. Storming right past him, you make a beeline for the fleeing Lord. 

“A hunt?!” 

Fond as Elmo is of you, you know better than to shout at the future Lord Paramount of the Trident. Your voice remains no more than a harsh whisper, even as you shoot daggers into the back of his head. 

“At night, no less! In the middle of a gods-damned storm! Have you lost your mind?” 

“What? You think it’s a bad idea?” He chuckles, keeping a steady pace. “Of all people, I thought that you might appreciate the challenge of it all.” 

You stay on his heels. “Who is he?” 

“Who is who?” 

Further from the crowd now, you grow bold. You reach out and snag his arm, forcing him to stop and face you. “Ignorance isn’t a good look on you, Elm.” You grind out, “Swear that you didn’t pick him to be my partner.” 

A wrinkle forms between thick brows, feigning innocence. “What makes you think that I chose your partner?” 

“Because I know you. You’re always scheming—jutting your big nose into places it very well does not belong!” 

Elmo opens his mouth—hesitates—and then frowns. “Am I truly that transparent?” 

“You may as well be made of glass, Elm.” 

His pout deepens, still dancing around your question. “Well, let's say that I did choose your partner—theoretically, of course!” Your eyes roll. “I think you would find my choice to be quite suitable. If anything, you might even thank me-” 

“This isn’t a game, Elmo!” Desperate now, you can’t stop your voice from rising. “If you paired me with him, then Amos will–” 

“Kill him?” Elmo ventures. 

“Yes!’ 

Pursing his lips, Elmo’s gaze falls somewhere over your head. “Well,” he sucks in a breath, “it seems we may be past the point of stopping that from happening.” 

Your mind goes blank, your thoughts scattering like shards of glass. 

You spin on your heel, head whirling around in search of Amos in the throng. Less than a second and you spot him—not because your gaze was drawn to the familiar gold color of your own House, but because of the wall of stark scarlet standing before him. 

Blackwoods. Two of them on either side of the Raventree heir. 

And Benji—his hands pressed to your brother's chest, roughly shoving him back into one of your cousins. 

��Do me a favor,” Elmo's sigh cuts through your panicked haze. “Keep the two of them from plunging a sword in the others’ belly, would you?” 

Any other time and you might have told Elmo off, cursed him for putting you in this position—future Lord Paramount be damned. 

But not now. Not when centuries of rivalry serve as proof that nothing is more dangerous, more unpredictable than this—

A Blackwood and a Bracken—your brother and Benji—standing toe-to-toe. 

Mindless adrenaline is all that thrusts you into motion. Mud splatters up the legs of your trousers as you practically run in their direction, demanding as soon as you’re in ear shot, “What is this?!” 

Amos doesn’t acknowledge you. Neither does Benji. 

Chests-puffed, they remain locked in their foolish staring match, neither of them willing to be the first to back down. 

Finally, one of your cousins sneers, “Seems that Benji-boy here thinks we’re gonna let him take you out into the woods.” 

A sharp, nasty laugh rips from Amos’s throat. “As if I’d let that happen!” 

“We’re partnered for the hunt, you imbecile.” Benji’s tone is that of lethal calm, even as he glares down his nose at your brother. You look to his chest—spotting the silver dahlia pinned at his breast. “If you have a problem with it, take it up with Tully.” 

“You think I’m stupid, Blackwood?!” 

Benji’s brow lifts a fraction of an inch, as if silently proclaiming—I just said so, did I not? 

Scowling, Amos juts his finger against Benji’s chest. “I refuse to give a Blackwood an opportunity to defile my sister!” 

Benji’s answering grin is something wicked as he purrs, “Oh, if I wanted to defile your sister, Bracken, I could’ve done so a long time ago.” 

Your pulse pounds—caught somewhere between offense and desire as Benji’s words echo in your head. 

Both feelings fade to fear when Amos reaches for the hilt of his sword, wrenching it from the sheath at his hip. In a blink, more weapons are drawn—your cousins holding swords, the Blackwoods holding daggers. 

Not Benji, though. 

Benji doesn’t flinch, even with your brother's sword poised at his throat, ready to kill. Something flickers in his eyes—a shift that you know all too well, sending ice skittering across your bones. 

“I won’t have this,” Amos seethes. “You will find another partner—or I swear on my House that blood will be shed!” 

Benji leans closer. Let the tip of the blade dig into his flesh, a rivulet of blood rolling down his throat. 

Red. 

“Is that a threat, Bracken?” 

You can hear your brother swallow—feel his panic as if it were your own, as if it was his fear coursing through your veins. Still, his voice remains steady. “Consider it a promise, Blackwood.” 

A blink and steel was glinting before your eyes. A single breath and Amos was out-maneuvered and out-matched—the clash erupting and subsiding in one seamless heartbeat, ending with your brother's sword in Benji’s hand. 

A shuddering breath slips from your brother's lips as Benji presses the steel to his throat, a perfect mirror of the position they were in just moments ago. 

“What’s the matter, Bracken?” Benji croons sarcastically, head hilting. “Do I frighten you?” 

There’s a lull to his voice—an eerie stillness that sends a chill scuttering down your spine. 

Amos was ignorant—to pick a fight with Benji, to think he might actually win it. But he’s your brother, too—and you know that if he were to be slain right now—right here—an even larger chasm will take the place of the one you were once meant to bridge. 

“Stop.” 

The demand is no more than a breath. A soft, terrified sound. 

Yet still, it makes Benji’s focus waver. 

“Leave him.” You force yourself to speak louder. Stronger. “Now.” 

You take a step closer—a hand outstretched, reaching towards Benji. His attention shifts, settling on you. He blinks—his stormy eyes, dark with rage, finally starting to clear. 

Benji’s movements languid as he steps away from your brother. Your cousins rush to Amos’s side as he stumbles back, frantically checking the heir of Stone Hedge for any sign of injury. 

They found none. Not even a scratch upon his throat, where his own sword had just hovered. 

Benji passes you the sword—a silent conversation passing between the two of you. 

You could have killed him, you glare. 

I could have—Benji agrees with a small, self-satisfied smile—but I didn’t. 

One of your cousins, bold and stupid, steps forward. “Is that all it takes to keep you at heel, Blackwood?” He glances between the two of you, his lip curling into a sneer. “A dog and his bitch,” he taunts, “how sweet–” 

A cry rips from his throat, cutting his insult short. You expect it to be Benji, having noticed the way his fists had clenched from the moment your cousin so much as looked at you. And perhaps it would’ve been—if your brother hadn’t grabbed the fool by the scruff of his neck, yanking him backwards and shoving him to the muddy ground. 

“Say what you want of him,” Amos tells your cousin, his voice gruff, “but you will mind how you speak of her.” 

You don’t know what to make of that. Of Amos defending you. Of knowing that if he hadn’t, Benji would have. Or that, even after that, Amos doesn’t quite know how to look you in the eyes, looking to the grass and the sky and anything that isn’t you. 

You’re a Bracken, through-and-through. Take pride in that. 

But did he take pride in you? 

If you wish to impress Lord Tully, you might think twice about sending her. 

“What’s done is done.” With a pointed look towards Lord Grover’s tent off in the distance, you say, “Now is not the time nor the place. If you wish so badly to fight, save it for when the war begins.” 

On one side of you, Benji remains silent, watching you with a curious glint in his eye. On the other, Amos hesitates. 

“I don’t trust him,” he says. 

You wonder if he doesn’t know how to say: I’m worried about you. 

“You heard our father,” you tell him, chin high, “when it comes to a bow and arrow, no one’s a better shot.” 

Perhaps there are things you don’t know how to say, too. Like: But I do. I trust him with my life. Maybe even with yours, too. 

Begrudgingly, Benji meets your brother's gaze, fighting the urge to scowl at him. “For years, no harm befell your sister under my watch—and you have my word that none shall befall her now,” he vows. “I swear it upon the Old Gods.” 

“And the New?” 

You consider stomping on Amos’s foot. 

Ignorant. To continue pushing— 

“Fine.” Benji’s brusque answer takes you by surprise. “Upon your false Gods as well, then.” 

Amos, to his credit, argues no further, only echoing the Raventree heir. “Fine.” 

For a fleeting moment longer, they stand there, eyes locked. Amos is the first to turn—the roaring tension dissipating into a hushed hiss as him and your cousins storm off. Benji stays, even as his own men begin to back off, as if listening to a silent command to go find their own partners. 

You look at him. And he smiles—a shy, awkward thing. 

“I’ll wait for you,” he says, a barely perceptible pause in his speech. “At the edge of camp—you can find me whenever you’ve gathered your things.” 

You open your mouth to speak, to say something—but the words take root in your chest, leaving vines to crawl up your throat. If you speak, you worry about what might come out. Worry it won’t be as delicate as the dahlia pinned above your heart—above his, too. 

So you close your mouth. Say nothing. Nod—and turn, trying to keep your legs from shaking as you walk back to the makeshift paddock to get what you would need for the hunt. 

True to his word, you find the heir of Raventree at the edge of camp, leaning against a towering oak and using the tip of his dagger to idly pick dirt from his nails. 

You brought only what was necessary—your bow, strapped between your shoulders, and a dark-leather quiver slung over your shoulder, stocked with already-sharpened arrows. 

Light rain mists over your face, the sky groaning with a low rumble of thunder. The forest floor squelches beneath your feet as you trudge towards him. Forever on-guard, Benji wastes no time in pushing himself off the tree, adjusting the dagger in his palm so that it can be easily plunged into another's belly if necessary. 

But then he sees you, dressed in Bracken gold with damp hair sticking to your cheeks, and looses a breath. Relaxing at the sight of you—his rival, according to centuries of precedent. Your rival, too, you suppose. 

Benji doesn’t look like your rival, though. 

Sheathing his dagger at his hip, you see no trace of the lethal Lord who, mere moments ago, was willing to go head-to-head with the heir to Stone Hedge. This boy—stuffing his hands in his pockets, a light flush crawling up his throat—is not Benjicot Blackwood, the heir of Raventree Hall. 

He’s just Benji. 

“Ready to go?” He asks when you’re closer, his voice a familiar caress so unlike the eerie lull it held earlier. 

It takes everything in you to erect an icy wall around your heart, colder even than Northern winds. You shove past him, your shoulder knocking into his as you go and earning a perplexed stare. “Let’s get this over with,” you snap, plunging into the depths of the Woods and leaving him to follow behind. 

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. 

Dusk crept swiftly through the Riverlands, casting a pall shadow over the Whispering Woods. Overhead, dark clouds seem to grow thicker, obscuring what little light the moon has to offer. 

A fool’s errand. An impossible task. 

That is what Elmo Tully had arranged—not a hunt. 

With the sun hidden beyond the horizon and a near-constant rumble of thunder, any animal in these Woods would either be asleep or hiding by now, trying to escape the incoming storm. To find a trophy to bring back to camp—even something as simple as a hare—was unlikely. 

Still, knowing the guards won’t let you back in without one, you keep walking. Keep plunging further into the Woods, praying to the Gods that you might find something to take back to camp. 

Twigs snap a few paces behind you, wet foliage squelching beneath purposefully heavy steps. A low, careless whistle tests your patience. 

With your bow hanging from your hand, you grumble, “You’re being too loud.” 

Benji feigns innocence. “Am I?” 

“Yes,” you hiss through gritted teeth, never slowing your pace. “Be quiet—unless you wish to scare off any game and spend the night sleeping on wet soil.” 

He chuckles—loudly. “Have you looked up lately?” Benji asks. “The sky looks as if it’ll crack open any minute now! Any animal with sense is hiding right now, anyway.” 

True. 

“Then we find one without sense, then.” 

Benji snorts. “The only thing without sense in this forest is Amos Bracken.” 

Without warning, you stop dead in your tracks—leaving Benji to nearly stumble into you. You cast a glare over your shoulder, cold enough that a chill seeps right into his bones. “You’d do well to keep quiet, Benjicot.” 

His lip curls, revealing a flash of slightly crooked teeth. “And since when do you call me Benjicot?” He asks, a ribbon of disbelief lacing his own name. 

Your jaw tenses, a muscle feathering there. 

I don’t know, you think, a pang of uncertainty cracking the ice wall around your heart. 

You reinforce ice with steel—turning fully now so that you’re face-to-face, dropping your bow to the ground by your feet. “I won’t let you speak of him that way,” you say, ignoring his question. “My brother is the heir to Stone Hedge–” 

A bemused laugh cuts through your words. “Oh, he’s your brother now, is he?” 

You speak over him, voice rising. “To insult him is to insult the whole of House Bracken–” 

“Fuck House Bracken,” Benji growls. 

He takes a half-step closer, towering over you with no more than a foot between you. You don’t falter—don’t look away. 

“I am a Bracken."

His head tilts. “Are you? Last I checked, you were practically raised on Blackwood soil.” 

“Perhaps,” you admit. “But my wardship is over–” 

Benji cuts you off. “Tell me, where was your brother all these years, then? Your father?” He doesn’t let you answer. “No more than a brisk-fucking-walk separating you and yet neither one of them cared to visit with the forgotten daughter of Stone Hedge!” 

You’re a Bracken—

“You don’t know them,” you protest weakly, your resolve crumbling. 

—through-and-through. 

“And you do?” He challenges. Another step, his chest inches from yours. Warmth radiates from his body, seeping into yours and melting melting melting. “Why did your father call you home?” 

His words are no more than a breath fanning across your cheek. 

Vulnerability permeates your gaze, bearing an unspoken truth. Because war is coming, you convey with no more than a flicker of your lashes, and fate has already decided my role in it. 

Benji’s lips tighten to a thin line—and you would’ve thought him ashamed of you, if not for the pain glimmering in his stormy-eyes, lined with silver. “Your father,” he utters, “he will declare for Aegon Targaryen—won’t he?” 

You’re a Bracken—

You debate the merits of telling him the truth. Of betraying the plans of your house. 

—Take pride in that. 

“Aegon Targaryen is the King’s true-born son.” You speak, though you know the words are not your own. “To sit the Iron Throne is his birthright.” 

The birthright of a drunken craven. 

The betrayal of a beloved princess. 

Benji blinks. Shakes his head, his tongue darting along his lips. “He called you home to fight. Humfrey Bracken’s forgotten daughter—useful at long last.” 

Rage coils in his tone. Instinct makes your muscles tense. 

Nothing is more dangerous than this, your thoughts whisper, a Blackwood and a Bracken, toe-to-toe. 

There’s nothing dangerous about the way Benji’s looking at you, though. His gaze soft and tender, calloused hands clenched at his sides—holding himself back, you realize. Not from fighting, but from reaching out to touch something he’s not certain is his. 

“Will you do it?” Benji asks, hesitant. “Will you fight for the pretender?” 

I don’t want to, you think. 

It’s your brother's words that slip past your lips. “I have no choice. My blood runs gold, Benji—a Bracken, through-and-through.” 

His brow furrows. Then a hand shifts to the sheath at his hip, sliding his dagger free. “Give me your hand,” he orders, nodding to where they hang at your sides. 

You remember his vow to your brother—that he would let no harm befall you. Even without it, you would’ve trusted him. Wholly. Unconditionally. 

You lift your hand and, without hesitation, he grips it on his own, pinning the steel tip of his dagger against your palm. 

You hiss—hand stinging as the blade drags along your flesh, leaving a thin, shallow cut. 

“You’ve always had one foot on either side of the boundary,” Benji starts, his words rushed. Carelessly tossing the dagger to the ground, he grabs your wrist tightly, lifting your palm up towards your own face. “But your blood,” he tells you, his eyes desperate, “has always run red.” 

It drips down your wrist—a rivulet of crimson, spilling between his knuckles as he refuses to let go. Red as the color of his tunic—as the specks of blood dried on his own throat, drawn by your brother's sword. 

Gold on your back. Red in your veins. 

A Bracken by name, but… 

“It’s not too late,” Benji says, his words slow and cautious, still cradling your hand in his. “You can come back to Raventree.” Thunder rumbles. Storm-cloud eyes fall to your lips. “You can come home.” 

You think of Amos. Of your brother. You’re home now, he had said, a shadow of love in his eyes, Be glad for it. 

But home was ancient stone, crawling with moss. Home was the deep, muddy moat that you always threatened to push Benji into when he was getting on your nerves. Home was Black Aly’s voice, scolding you whenever your arms were still too weak to string a bow. 

Home was a dead weirwood tree and a boy with stormy eyes. 

But duty… 

That was something else entirely. 

Closing your hand around Benji’s, your chest fills with water as the last of the ice melts. Hard steel turns impossibly soft, your feet shuffling until your body is flush against his—still-entwined hands pinned between your chest, trapped between fabrics of gold and red. 

Benji leans down, his forehead pressing against yours. There’s nothing dangerous about him. Nothing unpredictable. 

You know him—from the crook in his nose to the scar above his lip. From the lull of his voice to the weight of his steps. His quick temper and his shy smiles. 

High above, the sky cries out. Thunder booms, lightning cracks. Misty rain turns to a violent downpour. 

And he leans in, oh-so carefully. A trembling breath against slick skin, chapped lips hovering over yours. 

“You can come home,” Benji whispers, repeating himself. You can’t think—can’t breathe, as he utters against your mouth, “Let me take you home.” 

And he kisses you. A tender, desperate kiss—the kind that drives your lips apart with the sheer force of it. He tugs his hand from yours, slips it out from between your bodies and brings it to rest on the back of your neck, tangling his fingers in damp, rain-soaked hair. 

Restraint is no more than a breath in the wind. Desire curls in your stomach. Your pulse pounds in your veins, rich with red red red. 

But then there’s your brother’s voice in your head: I don’t trust him. 

And you know what he meant was: You’re my sister—my blood, red or gold—and I’m worried about you. 

You pull away, breathless and broken, one half of your heart lying on either side of the boundary stones resting miles and miles from here. 

Lips still close enough to brush against yours, Benji pants. “Say yes.” The love in his eyes isn’t a shadow. It’s a bright, blinding light. A proud declaration and a howling plea. “Say you’ll come home.” 

You look down—to the sigil embroidered on your tunic, to the still-drying blood on your palm 

An estranged brother and a forbidden lover. 

And you. 

The bridge to a great chasm. 

The futile remedy to centuries of enmity. 

You take a step back—reaching inside of yourself, pulling shriveled vines up your throat, knowing that the words hammering in your chest will be anything but delicate. That they’ll taste of rot in your mouth. 

“I’m not sure I have a home, Benjicot.” Pain echoes across his face, each syllable a rusted dagger in his heart. Another step back, grabbing your bow from where it laid in the mud, abandoned what feels like a millennia ago. “Not anymore.” 

When you turn to leave, thunder crashing overhead and a sob caught in your throat, you go alone.

The heir to Raventree Hall doesn’t dare to follow. 

You walk in silence, your bow hanging at your side. Behind you, there are no snapping twigs and no low, careless whistling. There’s only rain and—

A branch creaks overhead, halting your steps. Your bow is drawn in a single breath, the cut on your palm stinging as you  slide an arrow from the quiver slung over your shoulder, readying to shoot. You look up, drops of rain splattering against your cheeks as you scan the trees. 

There. 

Perched on a wet, mossy limb was a pair of beady eyes staring down at you. A raven, letting out a low, curious croak. 

A single shot and you could go back to camp. 

A single shot, you tell yourself, and your blood might finally run gold. 

A breath—and then the bow string goes slack. 

You slip the arrow back into the quiver.

a/n - does any of this even make sense? idk, you tell me lmao. overall, just wanted to play around with capturing the confusion that might ensue for a reader who has no clue where their loyalties lie anymore, lost in who they are and who they think they're meant to be--anyways, hopefully the ending makes sense to you because it makes sense in my brain

anyways

benji tag list (so sorry if I missed you!) - @jacaerysgf @lenasvoid @valdezthg @xzydra11 @snixx2088 @lianna75 @kennafild @ghostinvenus @heystaystray @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @a-song-for-ages

[ghosts-and-glory]

Is Shamura training martial arts after being taken into Lamb's cult? If they enjoyed complexity and bloodshed of war than it'd be probably dissapointing for them if they had to... drop it all

Full under the cut because this turned out really long

Upon joining the cult Shamura was a shell of their former self. They join the cult dissenting, the long term effects of the crown still clawing at the edges of their mind, but after a few days they’re mortal, just themself. Without the crown to hold them together they suffer like their injury was yesterday.

The Lamb has the doctor, Puar, perform their usual tests on them. Shamura is hardly there. They don’t know their own name, can hardly speak, can’t stand or track movement.

There was no wisdom in their slurred words. No power in the way their hands shook.

The outlook is bad.

The Lamb doesn’t really want to help them, after everything, why should they. Shamura who had The Lamb’s entire race and family killed, who killed them aswell and countless of their followers. It would cost them so much, to try and help someone who spent so long just trying to destroy them and everything they had. The time, energy, resources it would cost and they didn’t even know if they could get better.

Deciding it wasn’t worth it was one thing, but getting the other ex bishops to understand was a whole other, even the doctor disagreed with them.

Dr Puar took on being their primary caregiver. They’d been a doctor for the past hundred years and seen concussions and dementia but nothing nearly as severe as this. They wanted to help Shamura but didn’t know how.

It wasn’t until Narinder joined the cult that The Lamb saw any reason to help Shamura. But there was something wrong with him and Shamura knew something, they just had to get to it.

Kallamar was the ex bishop Puar wanted the help from the most. He was scared of the lamb and red crown but he loved Shamura more.

The Lamb took Puar and Kallamar to the ruins of the temples in Anchordeep and Silk Cradle. They spent days digging through the decimated remains of the libraries for something, anything on this type of injury.

It seemed that they where looking down possible years of intense recovery. Needed herbs and medicines that may no longer exist, techniques Puar had never heard of. But they would try.

Puar took careful and detailed notes. Timed Shamura’s responses, wrote down everything they said, tracked eating, drinking, sleeping and every symptom they displayed. Improvements where slow and sometimes nonexistent at first. They took full minutes to respond and only in single words, barley moved, couldn’t feed themselves and suffered constant migraines.

The one thing that seemed to help them the most was their siblings. They didn’t remember them most days but every time one of they came to check in it raised their spirits. One of their faces was the only thing they could focus on sometimes.

Kallamar insisted he wasn’t a doctor but still worked around the infirmary, helping Shamura was the only thing he’d do without complaining. Heket spent hours sitting in silence with them, brought them food and flowers and changed their bandages. Leshy was the only thing that could get them to smile and they where the only person he would ever lower his voice for, he told them stories even though they hardly listened.

Improvements brought new challenges. They got better at speaking full sentences and following conversations but it revealed how fractured their memory was. Forgetting names, places and important events, how often they forgot where they where, they asked the same questions over and over again.

They complained of seeing and hearing things, phantom pains with seemingly no rhyme or reason. The sun hurt their eyes, rain gave them headaches, always sleeping but always tired. They would suddenly backslide constantly. One day could walk with minimal help and the next, couldn’t even hold a pen in their hand. Have a full conversation one day and hardly spit out their name tomorrow.

Until the day Puar looked Shamura in the eye and for once they saw him. Didn’t look past them with their blank stare but looked at them. They would ask to sit outside at night in the fresh air. They seemed to know now who they are, what they where, what they lost. A tinge of grief in their words.

Improvements brought frustration. On days they remembered who they where they were overcome with a mix of anger, guilt and despair. They where a god. They had bore down on armies, killed men with a twitch of a finger, brought other gods to their knees, and now they could hardly bring a cup to their mouth.

Emotionally, their siblings said they’d never seen them like this before. Before Shamura could be frustrated but their temper was cold and quiet. Now they wore a short fuse and suffered constant mood swings. It angered them that they couldn’t read, that their hands were numb, that they couldn’t walk without a cane, couldn’t go out in the sun, couldn’t string a full sentence together, couldn’t recognize their siblings faces, couldn’t feed themselves, couldn’t sleep without drugs, everything they lacked and lost wore them down.

Regardless, they where unusually steadfast. They would always pick back up. If they got frustrated they would try again in a few days. They tried anything Puar asked of them, anything for the smallest iota of improvement.

The outlook was better.

—————

This got out of control and took me like three days between the art and write up. I got really excited when I saw this ask cause the answer is so devastating. If I was taking Narinder’s trauma seriously I’m not gonna just ignore Shamura’s traumatic brain injury.

As a side note, I’m very unsure how to write the medical stuff, my guess is that cotl is based around 1300’s-1700’s but that’s a wide net to cast. My excuse for the stronger understanding of medicine and trauma is magic.

[tossawary]

"Fullmetal Alchemist"'s use of fantasy elements is interesting to me because of the way it... reduces... certain horrors to these unflinchingly direct basics. (Warning for spoilers and unorganized overview discussion of canon-typical violence.)

Like, the violence and pain is depicted in hideous, nightmarish detail, and/but the pursuit of power at the expense of other people's lives is simplified at the climax into an equation so straightforward that it hurts. All previous prizes of land and resources, which are forms of power, have been stolen by the Amestris military by way of terrible, hateful bloodshed. Father's Promised Day array then throws all that aside, throws it onto the fire, and takes a step further to directly exchange human lives for godlike power.

Another example is that Roy Mustang is not permitted the false distance of a bomb, but has the effect of one using his own two hands. The result is the same, but State Alchemists are not permitted separation from their tools: they ARE the weapons of war. A gun is nothing without someone to hold it. It really underlined to me that if Roy HAD used bombs instead of alchemy, it still would have been his hands that killed an unimaginable number of people.

I don't think FMA is above criticism, but this specific aspect felt to me an incredibly effective narrative tool, especially because things like "our military was created from the beginning to do evil" are accompanied by / backed up by normal humans knowingly going along with Father's plans out of greed and fear, as well as normal humans supporting the country's crimes out of idealism and fear and hatred and selfishness and confusion. It's not just "oh, it was inhuman monsters secretly manipulating everything from the shadows all along"; it's "oh, it was inhuman monsters secretly manipulating everything, representative of humanity's most deadly sins, appealing to our most selfish desires and basic fears, and we all WENT ALONG with it".

From the very first chapters, all of the friendly adult characters were directly saying things like, "Edward, you shouldn't be a part of the military. It's corrupt. I have killed innocent people for nothing and it haunts me." In the final battle, inside the command building, the Armstrong siblings and their allies are straight-up fighting against mindless, starving, created soldiers that kill everything they come up against and stop for nothing. The fascist Amestris military, after years of violent, fabricated conquest and violent, inhumane research, is EATING ITSELF FROM THE INSIDE.

And, of course, the characters cannot use their magic system to escape reality: the Elric siblings cannot undo their mother's death. Life is so incredibly precious because some things cannot be undone. And grief and arrogance allowed to run rampant takes heavy tolls on Edward, Alphonse, and Izumi's bodies.

The only way to miss the messaging in FMA, to have the point go over your head, is to intentionally duck it, because the author is throwing it at your face like a brick. Repeatedly. There are so many bricks. It's not subtle. And I enjoyed it.

[bumblesimagines]

War Between Kin

Request: Yes or No

Summary: When Rhaenyra Targaryen takes her throne back, she ensures to take care of the remaining Greens in the Keep. Jacaerys attempts to figure out the whereabouts of the Usurper King Aegon by questioning his younger sister.

Pronouns: She/Her/Hers, F!Reader

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, AU where what happened in the Gullet does not occur, for plot purposes Jace and Baela are not engaged, potential spoilers for S3/events in the books, mentions of Targcest, brief mention of arranged marriage, bastardphobia,

I'm about to fill up the fucking tag because of this man. Super short but here you go for my fem readers!

~~~

"Where is Aegon Targaryen?"

"I've already told you, I do not know."

Jace had long grown tired of repeating himself, and he knew for certain his aunt had grown tired of the questioning the first time he asked. A rough near twenty minutes had passed since he'd first entered the bedchambers she'd been confined to when his mother returned to her rightful home, and he'd learned nothing new about the whereabouts of his missing uncle nor who could have had a hand in smuggling the usurper out of King's Landing.

Truthfully, Jace's patience always had a tendency to run out. He certainly felt it reaching the end of its line as he bounced his knee and laced his fingers over his stomach, eyes tracking his aunt as she paced the room back and forth clad in that godsforsaken shade of green Dowager Queen Alicent often wore. His legs ached just watching her continuously move, although he suspected if she stopped and sat across from him as he'd asked her to numerous times, she'd likely strike at him until someone tore her off him.

"He is your eldest brother, is he not?" Jace spoke through near-gritted teeth, the bouncing of his leg intensifying with each passing second.

The longer they went without locating Aegon Targaryen, the longer his mother went without rest. He remained a threat to them all, even in his battered and ruined state. Half his body burnt, they'd said, and hardly able to walk by himself without help. Jace hardly understood why anyone would desire someone in his state on the throne.

"I am not my brother's keeper." (Y/N) seethed lowly, voice laced with irritation and legs continuing to move back and forth across the room. Her hands tightly clutched the skirt of her dress, keeping it barely lifted to avoid tripping over it.

Despite the rather eyesore of a color reminding Jace of her traitorous family, he'd be a fool to deny it wasn't a beautiful dress that suited her well. She looked regal, if not incredibly furious with him and the rest of his family. It'd been expected after all the fighting and bloodshed between their families even before the war began.

"Do not lie to me, Aunt." Jace scoffed, bracing his arms against the table before him. "All my life, you've always been the watcher amongst your siblings. I doubt not a single thing happened in this castle, in this city, without you learning of it. You must tell me where your brother has fled before Daemon's patience with your stubbornness runs thin. He will not be as kind as I have been."

(Y/N) scowled at him and finally ceased her mindless pacing, her back turning to him and hands raising to her face. In all the years Jace had known the beautiful woman before him, he'd only ever seen her lose her icy demeanor once when Aemond's eye was taken and she'd bitten the skin around her nails until they were raw. He disliked it. He much preferred her snarky attitude over her anxious habits unbefitting of a lady such as her.

"What of Helaena?" She questioned abruptly, her dress swishing when she spun around to face him and her eyes squinting with an unspoken accusation. "You have kept your dogs at bay, have you not? She is not of sound mind." 

"Helaena is the most innocent out of the lot of you! Her Grace would never bring harm upon Helaena, of all possible people." Utterly absurd! Jace hardly believed his ears, hardly found it within himself not to snap at her and remind her it'd been her brother who'd killed Luke mercilessly. Still, (Y/N) released a dry laugh, her shoes smacking against the ground as she stormed up to the table.

"Do pray tell, Nephew," She spat the word venomously, as if it were full of filth. "What were Rhaenyra's intentions when she hired those animals who forced Helaena to choose between her sons? What were Rhaenyra's intentions when those animals killed my nephew before his siblings, mother, and grandmother? Helaena has lost her mind. She relives that night every waking moment. A son for a son, they claimed, justice on behalf of Rhaenyra the Cruel."

Jace shot up from his seat, nearly knocking the chair back from sheer force, and slammed his palms against the table with his lips pulled back into a snarl. "Her Grace did not order the death of any of Helaena's sons!" 

"Oh, even better, she cannot keep a leash on her own people, then?" (Y/N) laughed again, dry and bitter. "Let us pray Aemond and Daeron arrive quickly with their army, shall we? At least then we will be spared the reign of a queen who cannot control her own allies. It's pathetic, Jacaerys, utterly pathetic. Even if the Realm allows a queen to sit the throne, they will never accept a bastard."

"Mind your tongue, Princess, before I-" 

"Before you what?" (Y/N) rounded the table swiftly, gliding along the floor until she reached his side. He managed to turn sideways to face before their chests pressed together, their faces mere inches apart and noses threatening to brush against each other. Jace stiffened, his hands rolling into tightly clenched fists and eyes struggling to remain focused on the lilac of her irises. "Before you cut my tongue out as your grandfather once threatened? Do it, then. Cut my tongue out, here and now, and show your subjects you will not be a king of words alone."

Jace remained silent, his nostrils flaring with his deep inhale and jaw clenching. A challenge, a rather blatant one from his aunt of all people. His cheeks warmed against his will, the embarrassment trickling in because he'd never dare to lay a threatening finger on a lady, much less a beloved princess of the Realm. Jace stared into her eyes and swallowed, his mind searching for words he could shoot back at her. 

"A bastard and a coward, then? You will be the end of our dynasty with your tainted blood." She hissed lowly, her breath fanning against his face. "The Gullet did not make you a warrior, did it? Not when you had to be dragged out of the waters full of arrows by another bastard."

"You-" 

The sound of a sword unsheathing filled his ears and made his blood bubble with dread, unable to do anything else when she stepped back and pressed the tip of his sword against his throat. Jace's head instinctively tilted up, his heart beginning to drum against his ribcage when his adams apple dragged along the sharp blade threatening to cut his skin. Her lips curled up cruelly and she shook her head slowly, her earrings swaying with her movements.

"The Realm will never a bastard such as yourself to sit the Iron Throne. It'd be an insult to each of the Great Houses. I could end this pathetic display of a boy pretending to be man right here... but your inheritance would fall on the shoulders of young Joffery, and Gods know what Daemon would do to that boy with the line of succession so close to reaching his own sons. I would rather witness Daemon stew in his desperate desire to see his own blood on the throne than offer him up a child on a platter. Unlike your mother, I am not that cruel."

"Daemon knows his place." Nobody would ever believe those words, not even Jace himself. "He is King Consort. He's achieved what he's always desired."

"Has he?" (Y/N) slowly retracted the sword from his throat and tossed it onto the table with a clatter. "Or is he merely lying in wait as he's done time and time again? When he was refused the throne, he waited for the opportunity to arise to bring humiliation on your mother. When he was exiled, he waited for Ser Laenor to be no more so he could take the heir for himself. You are not his son, Jacaerys. You are an obstacle, and Daemon obviously despises obstacles. It will only be a matter of time before he realizes if something were to occur to your mother, he would rule as regent, and as regent, he'd do whatever he desired."

(Y/N) turned away from him once more, her skirt dragging along the stone floor as she walked toward her open window and stopped by it, staring out into the long expense of ocean. Jace took his sword and slid it into his sheath again, internally scolding himself for having grown distracted before he approached his aunt, his steps slow and cautious. 

"Rhaenyra should have never been named heir." (Y/N) murmured, and Jace's eyes fell down to her hands, watching her scrape her nails along the skin of her fingers. Her eyes danced, never focusing on one thing for longer than a second as her mind continued working with thoughts and ideas Jace surprisingly longed to hear. 

"And yet, she is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms... and by late morrow she expects you to bend the knee publicly before the court." 

"Or what? She shall behead me as she did my grandsire? I hear the executions have become a daily occurrence. Rhaenyra the Cruel's bloody reign, they shall call it. You will see in due time that we would have all been better for it if she had accepted the terms for peace. Your brother may have yet lived, and you would not have nearly met the Stranger in the Gullet." 

"We are still at war, Princess, and we'd be fools to keep traitors in our midst," Jace spoke, but he could not stop the tremor in his voice. It'd been satisfying at first when they spilled the blood of Otto Hightower and his son, as well as the Small Council members who'd so openly opposed his mother. But then, blood continued to be spilled, and neither Rhaenyra nor Daemon would stop to hear of it. "It is... for the good of the Realm." 

(Y/N) shook her head but otherwise remained silent, the fury she'd contained in her body dissolving. She continued watching the distant waves in the water, her nails only digging harder and harder into her skin until they threatened to break through to her flesh and blood. Unable to help himself, Jace clasped his hand over hers to stop the constant scratching, his lips pressing together and a quiet sigh escaping him.

"I am here to question you about Aegon Targaryen's whereabouts... but I suppose I should also inform you that your mother has made a proposal in an attempt to stop the bloodshed and put an end to the war. She's offered up a betrothal between you and I so that both sides may come together in marriage. Her Grace agreed to some of the terms that came with the proposal, among them a promise to not bring harm upon Helaena, Jaehaera, or Ser Daeron if he bends the knee. She will have the heads of Aegon and Aemond regardless." 

His aunt stared at him for a good long while, her body eventually tilting to face him fully. Her arms dropped down to her sides, forcing Jace to drop his hand as well. She wet her lips and turned her gaze away, the news finally beginning to settle into her body. She opened her mouth, looking back at him: "I would rather fling myself from this window than marry a bastard and further tie myself to a hopeless cause." 

[kanotototori]

The welcoming and friendly and bright facade of "Mother" and the family she raised at the Hearth, whose cruelty was hidden just beneath the surface - raising children as brothers and sisters so that they might slaughter each other in the future for the title of "King",

Versus

Arlecchino as the "strict" and "unfeeling" and cold and emotionally distant Father, who teaches her children that they should rely on each other, love each other, cherish each other and their own lives, stand on their own two feet in the world. The names of Arlecchino's constellations - "You shall become a new member of our family / You shall love and protect each other henceforth / For alone, we are as good as dead / From this day on, we shall delight in new life together" - are her teachings to the children of the House (and her hopes, too - we shall delight in new life together).

And the warm gentleness in her voice when she begins speaking - "come with me" - that turns into cold monotone, "like a strict and unfeeling Father". You can literally hear the moment she creates the persona of that "cold", "unfeeling", "strict" Father, when she puts on her mask.

And that's not even getting into how it's also a continuation of this vicious cycle - "I will raise you as my child" - because while Arlecchino's House is certainly leagues better than Crucabena's, she is still raising soldiers and ultimately leading many of them to their deaths* (despite her best efforts, it seems), she is actively priming Lyney to be the next "King", and the throne of the "King" is upheld by much death and bloodshed.

*As an aside, I gotta wonder if Arlecchino's crimes were pardoned only in exchange for her becoming a Harbinger, so now she's locked into a job where she has to raise more child soldiers and send them to die, just like her siblings were sent to die. It would explain why Childe clocks her loyalty to the Tsaritsa as being very shaky (him being a Tsaritsa fanboy in the first place, anyway). But if she didn't become "King"... well, wouldn't that mean all her siblings' sacrifices would be in vain? That would be kinda fucked up innit.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

the sandman but i've never read or watched it

Hello this is the Good Omens Mascot and I am currently being kidnapped again. Into the Sandman fandom. Forcibly. Brutally. By several people. There will be bloodshed. There will be livestreams, probably, when I watch the show. My struggle is Endless and I can only Dream of an escape (I'm hilarious). But before I watch it, I'm legally obligated to make this post. Soooo... here goes, based on like two edits on YT I watched:

@neil-gaiman created it. Of this at least I am sure.

There is Dream/Morpheus, and he is a sad wet cat of a man.

He has a sister Delirium, and apparently I remind everyone of her. This concerns me. Also, she used to be Delight.

I am not sure what these people are but they are Endless.

I'll tell you what's Endless, it's my gayness, because MY GOD, Dream is beautiful.

The sad wet cat of a man has a friend (/homoerotic) named Hob.

Hob is also a sad wet cat of a man.

Dream has a raven. The raven dies.

Someone is blamed. But Dream says it's his own fault.

Dream's family thinks he's deserted them. Dream also thinks this is his own fault.

I'm started to think Dream maybe has some repressed trauma.

Despair and Desire look gay for each other. Or they're siblings. Idk. Despair was in Dead Boy Detectives. That I do know, because FUCK YEAH DBDA.

Death exists, and she's kind. I think. She was also in DBDA.

It's gay. This I am assured of.

What's gay? Who's gay? I don't fucking know. But it's gay.

Did I mention I'm gay? Because god I'm now a sucker for yet another sad pathetic wet cat of a twink.

There's someone with glasses who tells Dream stuff. idk who they are but they seem important. So uh. They exist.

Dream cares a lot. But he Hides It Behind A Facade.

Did I mention he's fucking pretty?

...Please don't kill me Sandman fandom I was kidnapped here I swear I'm innocent.

[champion-of-love]

ever after high having a halloween costume party would be so chaotic and just end in bloodshed and tears tbh. some shenanigans i think that would happen:

poppy shows up with her hair in hunter's hairstyle (as the thing that scares her the most) and everyone laughs and it hurts hunter's feelings that no one defended him. poppy and ashlynn spend the the party trying to cheer up hunter as he sulks in the boy's bathroom for the entire night.

sparrow arrives crossdressing as raven with her guitar and raven tries to (rightly) strangle him. he gets away after the first attempt and raven hunts for him the rest of the night. duchess puts away her rivalry with raven for the night and joins her because sparrow spilled coffee on her dress last week.

the charming siblings decide to dress up as each other. daring as dexter, dexter as darling and darling as daring. apple's jaw falls when she sees darling in princely attire and goes into a gay panic. she spends the night running away when she sees darling and darling thinks apple needs help with something so she follows apple whenever she runs away. this is hilarious to everyone except for the two of them.

daring realizes he doesn't get as much attention from other students when he's dressed as dexter and spends the night trying to get his fans to notice him again. lizzie notices his (frankly pathetic) atempts at fishing for attention and calls him out on it. he realizes that he actually enjoys not having all the pressure on him to be so charming all the time when in costume. they spend the night just chatting together and eventually ditch the party to go for a moonlight ride on legend.

dexter forgets to add his glasses to his darling costume and had to walk around wearing heels for the first time (he had to commit to the entire costume okay, he wasn't a coward). it's because of this combination that he trips, stumbles and gets trapped inside a coat closet during the party. he then tries to use morse code to get help (since he couldn't yell loud enough over the music playing) but maddie's the only who hears his tapping and she thinks that he wants to make a beatbox song together.

[a-hell-of-a-time-archive]

Get. Her. Ass.

Oh, PLEASE give her the word. She'd happily rip the wings off of that angel bitch.

[impish-baby]

I am made of clay that's worn - platonic yandere pantheon x godly reader introduction 2/2 - 🔆

"You have no purpose being here." The war god hisses, scowling at the smaller diety hovering by his side. "Leave. This is a battle field, not some playground."

Ivros does not understand why they insist on shadowing him, he can't imagine that the bloodshed is a pleasant sight. It's obvious they do not enjoy it with the way they cling to his arm despite his attempts to pry them off. The hammering of war drums called to him and it is his duty to answer, they have come for no reason other than to be a hindrance.

"You're a pest." He mutters gruffly, placing a hand on top of their head. "What use do you think you have? You are not skilled in combat or strategy, do you come just to annoy me?" Ivros sighs when they just press their face against his arm, not saying a word. "Of course.."

The god allows himself to ruffle their hair for the breifest of moments before continuing his rounds, surrendering to the fact he'll have to allow his sibling to follow.

Corpses line the ground, some already being picked over by scavengers, fights breaking out over the scraps of meat. He is half tempted to shield the godling's eyes, but they have already seen. Ivros does not understand why they care so dearly. It is childish.

"You are pathetic." He glances at them from the corner of his eyes, "but what else would I expect."

[grandlinedreams]

|| set in Archeron sibling!reader setting || last installment [here]

|| suggested music: Unknown/Nth; Hozier

|| warnings: lil smidgen of angst, mention of Az's past, soft pining on both ends, I'm in my feelings abt this dynamic today

Azriel doesn't understand your fascination with his hands.

He wonders if he's unknowingly put a glamour on them, tricked you into perceiving them as something else ㅡ and by extension, turned himself into someone he is not.

He's a lot of things ㅡ Illyrian (bastard), Spymaster for Night Court, Shadowsinger. To you, however, he is just Azriel.

The first time you reach for his hand, he yanks it away ㅡ and though the hurt in your eyes makes him want to apologize, he doesn't. Instead, it's you who apologizes to him.

"I should have asked," you say, and he thinks maybe that will be the end of it ㅡ he's never been good with people that aren't the Inner Circle (though you are now part of that too) ㅡ but instead, you try again a couple days later.

"Can I see your hands?"

He doesn't know why you want to. They've seen so much death, destruction, bloodshed. Truth-teller has sang its lethal song in his hands so many times that he's lost count.

But you ask, and he can't truly find a good reason as to why he should deny you. Your own are so small compared to his as you turn his palms up first, settle your fingertips against his skin ㅡ and despite the slender taper of your fingers, he can feel the callouses. Proof of a life he's slowly learning of, now made timeless and immortal. (That too, is something he's trying to help you ease in to.)

You trace the crease of his palms, studying them ㅡ and then his heart stills as you turn them over.

He expects to see the reflexive horror of seeing the gnarled skin, scarred by his step-brothers, the aftermath of flame against his skin ㅡ and then perhaps pity, and a little disgust.

He sees none of it. There is no recoil, no sudden pull away ㅡ you simply study, then stroke your fingers against the scars.

He wonders if you can hear the hitch in his breath, too afraid to move, to speak ㅡ you have him under your spell, body and mind.

And then your lips are on his knuckles ㅡ the coaxed curl of his fingers over yours so you can bring his hand to your lips. The brush of your mouth is soft ㅡ the whisper of affection that's so sweet that Azriel thinks he might break for how gentle you are.

He's afraid that you may ruin him. That you are so wholly unaware of the effect you have on him, the way he would lay the world at your feet ㅡ all you would have to do is ask.

You ghost your kiss over his other hand and then lower them ㅡ but then it's Azriel who takes your hand, one into both of his. He straightens your fingers, brings your hand up to the soft skin of his cheek ㅡ leans into your palm as your fingers press in answer.

He isn't done though, greedy as he is for these moments ㅡ so often in the late hours of solitude from other people, he goes a step further and tips his head just enough to let his lips graze your palm.

He follows the soft press of your thumb, down ㅡ to your wrist, where your pulse jumps as his eyes ㅡ molten honey and sunlight ㅡ lock with yours.

The shadows that always accompany him wreathe down, dare to ghost against your neck ㅡ and you let them. Because even though you are Cauldron-born a child of starlight, you would happily let him eclipse you in your entirety.

All he would have to do is ask.