#so young and yet has to burden so much...like a lot of the cast

[inseparabiles]

And yeah so about this being fun? Funny? Yeah I remain incapable of that. Like I've written a lot of horrible shit but this easily ranks among the most difficult scenes I've had to put up. Just for the concept of the whole thing. It hits bad in every sense.

---

“We have a decision to make,” Lucilla said then.

Her voice had a hint of sorrow to it, and when Acacius looked at her, she was looking across the table at the two young men - boys, really - seated there, waiting for their judgement. The day’s wait, and whatever had passed between them after Geta had left the courtyard, seemed to have defeated any fight in them. Perhaps they’d come to feel their circumstances again; the reality of death which lingered so close now, inevitable if not for the hope that enough of their enemies would prioritise their execution lower than a mere chance of a smoother transition toward the Republic which they wished to bring forth.

They were not good odds. It was strange to Acacius to feel his own pain at this knowledge: it was becoming harder and harder for him to look at them now, in all their vulnerability, and see the enemy he’d so desperately wanted to be rid of. He could not get past the two frightened children, and the dawning awareness that perhaps they’d never stood a chance to begin with - no one had ever told them how to rule, and here they were, waiting for the final judgement on that inability. How would he have fared, elevated to such a status with nothing to guide him at their age? Once more, he was glad that it had not been his burden to bear, yet he could not help but feel that it was unfair to have placed the twins in this position. In other circumstances, perhaps they could have lived longer, healthier lives; lives which had not ended so many others, and cast thousands more to destitution.

So much damage for such simple incompetence.

“We all have our grievances,” Lucilla continued. “Put them aside; we must think of Rome first, our own feelings second. Before us sit Geta and Caracalla - the Septimius twins, Emperors and tyrants of Rome. The goal of our plan was to put an end to this reign, the suffering it has brought the Empire and its people. Though many things changed along the way, our ends did not, and here we are, at the final turn of that path, and the beginning of another. Of the options we have, each must be carefully considered: the vote after shall be binding. General Acacius; if you could.”

Just barely, he thought. Standing up, he cleared his throat and shifted the now empty goblet out of his way. It felt improper there, as if the occasion was a celebration.

“Our first option, which we have at length discussed: the Emperors will be brought to public trial for their crimes against the Empire, her people and the Senate, and judged accordingly.

Our second option: to bypass trial for its obvious outcome, announce the transition of power alongside its reasons, and finalise the verdict with a public execution.

Our third option: to change nothing so fast, allowing for a natural, slow-paced transition from one form of government into the other, at the cost of withholding trial and punishment.

In every case, our ultimate goal will come to pass - merely the means of how, and the messages we send the people of Rome, differ. The decision is up to the majority. Votes will be cast by hand.”

---

unhinged concept (I'm entering that stage): Lucilla actually does adopt Geta and Caracalla which ruins Acacius's life but also makes him their step-father and they finally get an actual father figure who teaches them how the fuck to hold swords and not be the worst people ever.

and we just cancel Macrinus entirely, which, I don't know what the hell happens to Lucius but that's someone else's unhinged concept to worry about.

And we put Caracalla on a leash because the boy cannot behave. That's no way to treat your mother

[maskedchip]

I wanted to share this little comic I’ve had in my folder for a while, it was actually one of the first mini comics I planned right after finishing the game but I battled with the perfectionist demons so I never posted until now 😭

But yeah, I think Susato is really sweet and caring and deserves little breaks :’) 

[eldrith]

˗ˏˋ Dead Men Don't Sing ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x fem!stark!reader words: 9.5k requested: yes synopsis: ��it is rather custom to marry within the bloodline,” jacaerys admits, hesitating, “but there are other duties,” he murmurs, “–ones that even the Gods cannot ignore.”  notes: thank you to the anon who requested this, it was months and months ago <3 i found this written and dusty in my drafts and realized how much i liked the concept of it so i finished it up, changed up a lot of plot (sry). peace & love (thinking abt when @softspiderling said that cregan & r had chemistry in this fic. fuck you) warnings: canon-typical marriage betrothals. something something heavy belief in the divine right of kings (cringe!), jace is so in love again guys, fluff and flirting, feelings of anxiety & worry, heavy on politics and the targaryen prophecy. doubts of magic and light religious tones. kissing. requests closed. masterlist.

THE CRYPTS BELOW WINTERFELL ECHO WITH FOOTFALL.

A dripping thing, echoing through low ceiling and sliding over stoned walls; your pace moves slow, measured. 

Aboveground yields a morning snow; it is no harvest season, yet you worry so of the rime which curls its way over the tender shoots of crop; kissing a delicate crust atop glacial lakes in the near distance, lining the roofs across Winter Town. 

Down below such crust of earth, the crypt holds no true warmth, instead boasting a rather eerie silence; though you’ve always felt drawn to such quietude in certain times – moments punctuated only by the rustle of fur cloaks, the steady drip of tallow wax candles that burn beneath the proud visages of ancient stone.

A gentle sigh escapes your lips. 

Your breath, barely visible in the cold, dissipates like a whisper of a cloak around a corner; The man beside you paces with deliberate slowness, though still his long strides force you to quicken your own. 

A familiar rhythm from childhood. 

He broods – or perhaps merely reflects; it is difficult to tell, though his introspection proves an unwelcome distraction and concern alike. 

“You think far too loudly, brother.”

Your voice, a stone dropped onto the serenity of a glassy pond; stirring, your brother beside you lets out a soft huff of amusement, turning to glance at your profile. "Aye, it seems I do,” he acquiesces, though he seems more than content to leave it as such.

And the ensuing quiet – his scrutiny of your features becoming almost unsettling. You purse your lips, folding your arms over the furs that ward off the chill, slowing to a halt – he, in turn, slowing beside you.

“Cregan,” you cast a guarded glance his way, “I appreciate your company, but…” You pause, clearing your throat, “Why did you ask me here?”

You cannot ignore the furrow of his brow, nor the weary sigh that escapes him. “I do not wish to burden you with troubles, sister,” he murmurs, his gaze drifting – mindful of spirits; watching, listening. “But there is something we must discuss.”

You, softly gesturing for him to continue under the flicker of torchlight. 

Yet, he does not speak at once; instead, guiding you further along the shadowed path. You allow him the moment of silence, a foreboding drop stirring unbidden in your chest. Has the time come to prepare for the Wall – will you set the Greybeards alone to fight in the Southern war? Dribbling wax slides over the edge of a wyck - a white tear falling to the frozen earth below. Winter is coming, you know; and so does war. 

You stop before a weathered stone – Cregan, his face so hardened even with young age; you recall in the earliest recess of your memories a more youthful visage – the brother who dangled you by the ankle in the Great Hall; who dragged you along to target practice in the yards, who met your gaze with mirth when you were scolded at the dinner table. Much has changed. 

“A raven came from Dragonstone this morning,” his voice is steady – the mention flares a mild concern in you; your brows furrow. 

“Different from the letter that arrived at my chambers just moments ago?” You wonder – the scroll was penned by Prince Jacaerys; though this is an occasion not extremely uncommon, as you’ve grown to write to him often in the past months of his departure. 

But your brother nods. “Aye.” He affirms, “It was signed by Queen Rhaenyra.” 

You blink up at him, breath bated – palms, growing moist though the cold nips gently at your nose: Never has the Queen herself sent letter by raven. Cregan utters your name, and you meet his gaze. 

“Prince Jacaerys has asked for your hand in marriage.”

Of the many possibilities you’d imagined, this was not one of them; shivers of flattery over your spine, quivering your breast in an icy shock.

And a scroll unread, perched upon your drawing table in your quarters – has Jace written to you to ask you himself? Your lip, plump under the pressure of your teeth. 

Though not wholly unpleasant, it is still a sudden shock to you, and your mouth opens – then closes with a soft click. You find yourself momentarily lost for words.

A breath, warm against the cold, escaping your mouth, fingers restless within your thick gloves. “Did–” You pause, clearing your throat, willing your heart to steady its foolish race. “Have you sent a response?”

A flicker in an otherwise stoic facade, gone in an instant: Some amusement laced into his visage that vexes you in a way only a sibling can.

 Quietly, your brother denies. “It was requested by the Prince for you to send a response yourself. The Queen wishes to be assured this is a marriage that will bring strength to the realm – one that will be strong from the beginning. She does not choose the future queen regent lightly, it seems.” 

A heat that grows twofold; and a sprouting dizziness as the proposal hits you. The future queen regent – Gods be good. 

The proposition is far from traditional. 

As the sister of the Warden of the North, you have always assumed your path would lead to a marriage with one of the High Lords of your own region – though with great war comes change, you understand well – and Cregan has mentioned it satisfactory to find a Targaryen princess among your House; perhaps you and Jacaerys will serve in such a steed. 

 A glance to the stone man before you; an ode, to Torrhen Stark. The King Who Knelt. 

A shiver of reality. Leave Winterfell, as a Targaryen bride – to go to the war brewing in the South – and there grows a flicker, beneath your concern. Hunger, pride. 

You’ve always known what’s expected of you; and Starks do not shy nor cower from responsibility. 

“This is no small task.” Your words, quite blunt as they often are – another nod from Cregan. 

“I remind you,” He assures, “It is no done deal.” 

A flicker of your lashes as your breath clouds before you; above your head, you wonder if the flakes which flutter from the sky have ceased in the wake of the day’s far sun. 

It is indeed a thought to consider; the North, your endless horizon of snow and stone – of moors and fields, of steep slopes and commanding eminences, carved by the hands of gods more ancient than the first of men. 

That cold kiss of wintered forests, of towering pines in snowed shadows; gnarled branches of the Wolfswood, icy rivers of threaded silver untouched by the frills of southern decadence; and the cold less endured than revered, a landscape of beauty drawn within the fierce devotion of its people. 

An unshakeable and profound sense of soul that tugs you towards the frozen earth, to the bodies brought back through turns of Winters, of endurance, of love, of life. 

“I would mislike to leave Winterfell,” You admit; a child once more, tucking toes beneath warmed covers as you hid from shadows upon walls. 

Perhaps he recalls those same nights; when you’d stayed awake against the syrupy droop of eyelids, listening to your Lord father’s tales of hunts and beasts beyond your comprehension. 

“As would I regret to let you leave,” His voice comes after a moment. “Your insight is not to be understated. Perhaps this is why the Queen wishes you to join her council in my stead.” 

Another shock to you – to marry the Prince, yes, but to join the Queen’s council? A flash of pride, conspicuous, licking up your spine – though you’re lost in the trappings of memory; of loss, of life. 

“What is it father said?” You muse quietly, watching shadows flicker over a contoured face of stone. “The South…Where men smile with daggers behind their backs.” 

Some huff from weary lips. “I hold no concern for how you might fare against a dagger, sister.” He reminds you; your fingers, calloused in the grooves of a longbow – you placate a wry huff, mind saturated with thoughts. “A serpent's lair, the Crownlands are.” He gruffs.

It is solemnly that you nod; a wistful memory of your Prince, curls entangled with the sharp wind, embedding pearled snowflakes into tresses. 

“I am not without my own doubts,” Cregan slowly admits, “Leaving the North – in wartime, as well – holds few assurances of safety, even at Dragonstone.” 

Your voice is considerably less steadfast than it’d been an hour past, when you’d directed the letter from the Prince to wait until your duties with Lord Stark were through – “I would not leave my home, my charge, merely for some Prince.” You mutter. 

Yet, the glance from your brother brings a small grin to your lips. 

He perhaps agrees with your stubborn resolve; you two, cut and sewn from the same sturdy cloth, borne with the same pelts upon your back. A tilt in his visage, looking at you. 

“Our father’s word was given. It is our duty to uphold it.” He murmurs; and then, a melting of such a look – as if Lord Stark has retreated, yielding Cregan in his wake: “You’d be queen one day, long after the war.” 

Still reeling, a warmth to your face as you consider the Prince – rosy cheeks, with that smile brighter than snow; he, with a fur cloak gifted to him in his visit to treat with your brother those months ago – a regal face, if you’ve the grace to know what such a thing is. 

The boy with kind words and genuine laughter; a fleeting brush of his hand on yours as he’d greeted you to his ancient beast; The square of his shoulders as he’d solidified Northmen for his Queen mother’s banners. A look, shattered and wet, as he mounted his beast in the wake of his brother’s death. Septa’s voice from the vestiges of adolescence: Heavy is the crown, my dear. 

“It is my duty,” you murmur more to yourself than to your brother, “To Winterfell, to the North. To our Queen… and the realm.” 

Cregan’s hand finds your shoulder in a grasp, “Sister.” Your eyes meet his own. “I would not have you do it if I did not believe it was the right choice. Jace is a good man. He will treat you right.” 

Indeed, a union of your house and the Prince’s would strengthen the North; you could ensure the maintenance of autonomy – and loyalty, a venerable duty long upheld by your house for hundreds of years. A marriage that serves not only your people, but such enduring legacy of kin. 

“Just as well,” He adds, “the prospect of marrying Jacaerys might prove rather agreeable to your sensibilities, would it not?”

He jests. The corner of your eyes narrow as you shoot him a sharp look; a smile emerging despite your efforts to conceal it. The warmth of anticipation creeps across your cheeks, a delicate flush across your face despite your valiant efforts to contain it. 

"You overreach, brother,” you speak, though both you and he can hear the fondness in your voice. 

A quiet moment, in which a memory surfaces – Jacaerys, bidding you farewell months past; a pain in his eyes, ragged with grief and urgency to return – his younger brother, killed by Aemond One-Eye.

A shaky kiss upon your knuckles, the cracking of a voice otherwise proud; the last glance of that massive beast swallowed up by the clouds. Your heart skips a beat at the knowledge of him, as your own. 

“I will marry Prince Jacaerys,” You agree, hoping to conceal the eagerness from your tone, “...for the good of the realm."

Cregan huffs, pulling you into a brief embrace, your eyes both stuck on the statue before you. "Aye, and perhaps a bit of warmth for your heart, too.” He jests; a rare occurrence, and certainly in these days of war and the eve of winter. 

“Is that not what you’d wish for your sister?” You jest in return, hiding the fluster of your cheeks. 

His expression sobers minutely. “You bring honor to our house.”

The long, stone face of Torrhen Stark watches your breath rise and fall from your lips. 

Hesitance melts away, leaving a giddiness, a sense of duty softened by an affection in your heart. “A wolf in the South,” you murmur. 

And a dragon at her side.

VERMAX IS RATHER DISPLEASED TO FLY NORTH AGAIN. 

Huffs and whining screeches; saged scales that melt tiny flakes of snow around the saddle - Jacaerys consoles his steed with a huff of amusement. “Se iōrves kessa daor umbagon syt mirre, Vermax.” He insists; The cold will not last forever. 

It is not until the sloping valleys and rolling mountains give way to dusting of snowcaps and frozen-earth that his stomach begins to burn with that odd feeling; excitement. 

Trees that reach up towards the heavens – ever green in their life, barely stirred by the beating of Vermax’s wings high above. 

Otherworldly, the North is; and Winterfell, with towering walls, sprawling courtyards, the frosted roofs that glint even through the thick of cloud – pure earth, that ancient knowledge within the ground, held for thousands of years past. Wisdom, sewn into rings upon rings within trees – depths of icy pools, glistening cold as glacier’s tears even in the dead of summer. 

Something, an aching feeling returns; not an ache for home, but for you. 

Eyes, amber and anticipatory, searching the grounds so far below – a wall, dark and thick in the sprawl of the low cirque. Vermax breaks through the clouds with a call, the whipping Northern wind blowing icy shards into Jacaerys’ inhale. Still, he looks with a fire, an intent – battlements, courtyards, all bustling and brimming.

The familiar banner of black and red, raised by the men sent weeks ahead in anticipation of the Prince’s arrival – and the Stark banner, hanging large enough to just see from the outskirts of Winter Town. 

The East Gate opens; a company awaits his arrival, bustling in the yard of the Great Keep – squinting against sharp air as Vermax circles in agitated descent. It is an odd thing, to see the expressions of men, women, and children become clearer in descent – to see the fear, the astonishment, the reverence in the ancient being in the sky. But he searches each visage turned up towards him; and then, there – with a grin and a flip in Jacaerys’ stomach, he finds you. 

Piled, swathed in thick furs that bring out your hair; standing straight beside your mass of a brother; a warmth that blossoms into heat as your head tilts, tracking Vermax in the sky.  

A heavy thud against the muddy ground encrusted with a fresh layer of crisp rime; the rich shades of green across the North have been kissed by some fae of frost that barely cowers under the heat of his ancient creature – and though it retreats in his molten wake, Vermax huffs at the feeling of frost and snow. 

Jace dismounts Vermax; pressing his forehead to the dragon’s thick neck, the warmth a final solace before he faces the unforgiving weather of the North – a mutter to his steed, running his palm over the scales, “Sȳz, vermax.  Ao ipradtis; ao gōntan sōvegon sȳrī.” 

Good, Vermax. You must eat; you flew well. 

He is accompanied, then; two dragonhandlers bowing to him, draped in borrowed furs as they tend to his weary beast. It is rather comfortable, to hand him off to them; a luxury, he supposes, when they are here to tend to the Valyrian rituals that will come in just over a week’s time. A skip in his heart as he thinks of the night to come: You and he, bound for life. 

His title is announced in the quiet of the Keepyard; he enters, feeling rather foolish as just one man faced with such a company – his eyes, unable to unstick themselves from you. The young Lady Stark; the Northern Star, some have called you; He finds himself agreeing. 

Head high, he walks as the prince he is, nodding to Lord Cregan; Formal proceedings that are blinked away in moments with a very present preoccupation of trying to keep his stare off your face. 

And then, after a lingering moment, ravens circling the sky, wind howling down the slopes of distant mountains, Cregan steps forward, arm extended – Jacaerys returns his grin, a camaraderie returning in his chest. 

In the grasp of his forearm, in the rough hug he shares with his friend, Lord Stark murmurs. “I see now why you were so reluctant to leave the first time, my Prince.” Cregan’s voice, rich with mirth; a sheepish grin that grows upon Jacaerys’ expression. Laughter between them, as easy as it ever was, the weariness that’d built in Jace’s flight northward dissipating. “I’ve been told a wise man knows when he’s found something worth returning to, Lord Stark,” Jace quips in response, the heat on his face deepening when his gaze darts in a glance towards you. Your brow, lifted at his words; full of grace but with a smattering of warmth across your cheeks, a small smile. 

The cold air seems to have brought a flush to you – dipping into a graceful curtsey, the wolf clasp of your cloak catches in the cloudy light of afternoon. His heart flips as you greet him: “My Prince,” and gods, your voice – “I hope you and Vermax found no undue hardship enduring such a journey.” 

It’s all Jacaerys can afford to bow deeply in return, eyes remaining on your own gaze; a gesture of respect and courteousness, but a strike of something far more personal lingering behind his stare. Your palm is bare, he’s shocked to see; and lifted within his own, his lips brush over your knuckles. 

Your cheeks darken, and he feels his heart race. “The purpose is far worth the journey, my Lady.” His voice, earnest, polite. 

Your smile widens just so. 

THE GREAT HALL IS DOUSED WITH LIT HEARTHS. 

The celebration is a swell feast – Jacaerys sits, having dined on a hearty meal and several goblets of wine: Roasted game, honeyed bread, mulled wine. At the high table he sits, and the din of the hall rumbles around him, drifting slowly into the high-beamed ceiling. 

A lingering storm has momentarily lifted in the warmth of familiar faces, of the unrelenting bite of cold that still yet lingers in bones weary from flight. There is a dread that has stayed within Jacaerys for many turns of moon now – a mourning thing, one that has left him with less and less smiles to divulge with each passing day. 

The horizon brews; a clouded thing, one dark and full of smoke and whispers – and yet here he sits, warmed by furs, by hearth, by ale – and by you, aside him. 

A girl no older than himself – a friendship kindled merely in the beginnings of formality, of happenstance; polite smiles and high chins, eyes lingering as he followed your brother into the study. 

A peculiar thing it is now, to sit beside you, to feel that string pull between you so inevitably; and though he is turned away from your warmth, well engrossed in a discussion with Lord Stark, he feels that tension – that tautness that soon will be severed with unseen shears, which will seal a dream conjured years before your birth. 

And throughout the evening, his gaze has more than often wandered to your own visage, carved in those same harsh winds of beauty – a smile warm and true, a depth sinking into his stomach; for as Jacaerys has dined heartily, his appetite for food has given way to an appetite for conversation. 

The hall boasts cheer, laughter; an odd thing, in the tide of coming war, in coming strife even this far North; the Lord returns to the Wall not even a fortnight after the wedding, and with him goes half the rations of crops saved through the Northern harvest. 

With Jacaerys will go his new wife – and with you, a secret untold to any but those who sit the throne. 

The fire in the hearth is great, and it swallows Jacaerys’ eyes as he sips from his cup; licks of flames, screams unheard through halls – the final breath of many, the staggering gasp of death. 

Outside, snow blows harsh and cold against the walls – a breath of winter, howling and iced. 

It is a song that lingers in Jacaerys’ mind, even as the music inside the hall crescendos and the ale flows; and finally, he is torn from his trance with the departure of a lord from White Harbor from before you, leaving you finally by your lonesome. 

Jacaerys turns to you – and at his stirring, you glance to his hoping gaze; your cheeks warmed in the same breath as his own, you glow in the firelight. 

He gestures gently before you, towards the hall brimming with people, “A celebration in our honor, yet it seems finding a moment alone has proven rather difficult.” His voice remains as warm as he’d hoped, though evergreen and mantled by duties, by composure. And you, a flower of grace and stoicism, nod kindly - he's always found the dance of formalities to be amusing.

“It seems the whole land has anticipated your arrival once more, Prince Jacaerys.” Your voice is tinged with that same warmth he remembers from those moons ago.

He ought to accept your kindness with compliment; or perhaps ask how the owl that’d nested in the rook outside your chambers during his last visit fares – but indeed he is met with that insistence of passing time, of his mother’s words fallen onto his shoulders; of a whispered dream of years to pass and years still to come.

When he looks at your visage, honeyed by the glow of firelight, some warmth mixes shockingly with an icy knowledge of what is to come. 

“It has been too long since we last met,” He says - and, perhaps in a moment of insecurity, his lip is bitten and pulled from pearled teeth. “I have missed your company.”

He does not miss the soft growth of affection that blossoms upon your countenance, nor the shift in your hips as you turn to face him more, your fingers absently tracing the rim of your goblet in a mirror of his own nervous habit. 

“And I have missed yours,” your voice is equally quiet to his own, in some conspiratorial hope to remain private while remaining in a room full of guests. Your lip is caught between your teeth just as his was – he wishes to unfurl it with the soft of his thumb. “Though, I confess, it is strange to know that soon we will no longer need ravens to speak to one another.”

A soft chuckle from his lips – a thought indeed that crossed his mind after sending his last raven Northward; and in the shadow of looming war, what a relief it may be to have you beside him. 

If he were any more a fool, Jacaerys might worry indeed for your safety in the coming times – and though that thought lingers still in the stoop of his mind, he is no more ignorant to your abilities than he is admiring them. 

A memory, one of fresh falling snow and the youthful innocence of only half-year ago; before the shift of tides, before the moonlit jaws of Death found his brother – before the death of the young one in the Red Keep, and the fall of Rhaenys and Meleys just days ago at Rooks Rest; before it all, when still the horizon brimmed with a more peaceful hope for settled war, there was time of laughter. Of a hunt drawn about for a Royal Guest in Winterfell, when he came with wishes of an alliance, of oaths sworn in blood and brotherhood. The hunt brought anticipation - and, in his foolish Southern ways, Jacaerys had wondered if you’d see he and your brother off in the courtyard of Winterfell – perhaps with a favour of yours to gift him, and a kiss upon his cheek for well-hunting. 

It was not such delicate smiles and whispers he was met with; no, instead he found another horse, saddled with your frame and a bright grin upon your face, your hair plaited away from your peripherals and a longbow strewn across your back. 

A fond memory, those days watching you traipse across snowstruck Wolfswood – and the snap of a string, the fall of a buck into the earth below. Your grin, your appearance; so unlike your kin, and yet so shared in hardiness with your brother – a warmth now so foreign in a world laced by such ominous ideas as fate. 

Jacaerys chuckles at the memory, and also at your words, sobering as they are light. “Strange,” He repeats, tilting his head to you. “-But welcome, I’d hope?” 

And though it is a tease sent with the efforts of putting the thick tension of betrothal at ease, there still lingers a fear of the answer; and a leak of hesitance in his words. 

When you hold his gaze for a moment, he nearly doubts the flicker of affection that still drips from your rosy cheeks. But your expression softens, and your earnesty is undeniable. “Of course,” You beam and it sends his heart into a flutter, “It will be quite welcome.” 

And it is in this moment, a quiet one, that Jacaerys nearly cracks; a split that would leak out the foreboding world of prophecies, of danger and fear and worry – if only in search of some comfort, of some assurance that the truths he lives are merely the whisperings of a bloodline destined to rule. 

Though he loses the moment when you turn to the revelry before you; and Cregan rises from his seat beside Jacaerys, drawing his attention away from blistering flames and flurries of chill that strike through his heart. 

YOU FIND A MOMENT TO CATCH YOUR BREATH IN THE MORNING.

The sun is high in the sky for such an early hour; perhaps a reflection through of the sheet of thin gray which stretches from one horizon to the other. A sweet light over the rather empty training grounds – and your skirts drag along snow as you brush hair from your cheek, nocking another arrow. 

The target, more than plenty paces away, is riddled with arrows from your work – the bow in your hands, warm and smelted to the form of your grip, carries that same woody scent from youth. You draw back with an inhale. 

Though you know very soon of a presence in the morning courtyard; You can feel the gaze upon you as soon as he enters. And with a small tremble, it occurs to you – no matter where the Prince goes, it seems you can always feel him near. 

You resist a small grin, exhaling as you release the arrow; it embeds itself into the center of the target, a light thud that presses your heart against your ribs. 

Jacaerys watches you; this, you know – and you nock yet another arrow. 

The prince leans rather casually against a post just a few paces to your right, though there is little casual about the heat of his stare upon you – your glance is merely through the side of your lashes, a short thing in effort to pretend you are less effected by his presence. 

Though, you cannot deny the burning in your cheeks, a determination in your throat as you draw the bowstring once more. 

A murder of ravens scatter across the sky to the South – you let the arrow fly; It notches just to the right of your previous shot. A smile, tugging the corner of your lips once more before you drop your arms, glancing to your audience. 

“Impressive as ever, my lady,” Jacaerys muses; his gaze is imbued by lashes and the sun, though there is some esteem within his stare that brings a flutter to your stomach. 

Impressive. 

A heat on your cheeks – as if you’re a blushing little maiden, complimented for the very first time. Though, you remind yourself, he’s spent his life in the highest courts of the land; he himself squired for many years, acquiring fair skill in such trades – and you hum, mind filled with visions of men from all stretches of the realm and beyond – jousts, tourneys, all to show at the King’s court. 

 “Well,” You brush the hair from your cheek once more against the faint wind, nocking and drawing a fresh arrow, much less focused this time, aware of his gaze burning through your frame. “I’m sure Southern men like you have seen feats far more impressive.” You tease, eyes locked down the line of the arrow.

Jacaerys huffs a small laugh at your jest, stepping further into the training yard. The wind blows, and you wonder if you should have taken another fur; but his voice is warm and you are put at ease.

“Perhaps,” He agrees, voice nearing your focus, “But some Southern men certainly know to appreciate what we cannot find back home.” 

You’re lucky you’ve released the arrow just as he finishes his sentence; your stomach flips, butterflies sprouting within your chest at his gentle flattery. He is quite the charmer - and though you find amusement in his attempt, still grows your warmth at the attention.

It is still in the courtyard, and Jacaerys nods toward the target, where your arrow has hit the mark. An approving hum, brows lifted to underscore some coming point: “Like a woman who can outshoot any knight in the realm.” 

A blatant praise – and you lower your bow, hoping to suppress the blush creeping up your cheeks. “Why don’t you try your hand?” you suggest, your tone teasing in attempt to flit such fluster upon the Prince instead. 

He grins in a way that brings to mind a time less full of strife – always one for a friendly back-and-forth; Hands upon the hilt of his sword, Jacaerys shakes his head. “I’m not foolish enough to challenge you, my lady. I’ve learned to respect northern steel – be it by sword or arrow.”

You tilt your head, unable to school such a playful glint in your eyes. “So you’ve come all this way just to be bested by a woman?”

A provocation; perhaps testing the waters. And it shows in his expression, the stark divergence between your brother’s personality and your own; you suspect he is pleased with the opportunity. 

His grin, as you’d hoped, only widens – cheeks reddened by the morning chill, eyes bright against the sun. “I’d consider it quite an honor.” A flick of his gaze to the target and back. 

A roll of your eyes – highly inappropriate for a lady, especially to the Prince - but he only seems to find it more amusing. The smile tugs at your lips; you tamper it with your teeth, “I don’t believe flattery helps your aim, Jace.”

At his nickname, his cheeks seem to glow – a name he’d insisted you’d call him in the dark solitude of the Godswood during his initial visit to Winterfell those many moons ago. 

He shakes his head, ever the charming Prince: “My aim is of no consequence. I am more than content to watch you hit the mark every time.”

The space between you has begun to narrow, and you can just make out the freckles which kiss the bridge of his nose. You hold the bow to him, “Come now, my prince.” You insist – and he acquiesces, stepping forward with a growing smirk. 

You, in effort to see the blush upon his cheeks again, send him a smile. “Aim for the center, and you might impress me.” 

The look he gives you is mildly amused; his shoulders, proud and brushing against yours as he handles your weapon. Deft fingers wrap around the bow as he tries to mimic your stance; and it is rather clear, as it’s been the handful of times you’ve seen him in the yard sparring, that he is far more comfortable with a sword in his hand than a bow. 

And your smile grows at this; the heir to the Iron Throne, trying to impress you with a weapon that is not his own. 

Your amusement is not so concealed; in a moment, he glances to you and huffs, arms still stretched to aim for the target. “I see your confidence growing, my lady,” he chides, and you lift a brow – he grins boyishly, eyes returning to the target, “Perhaps you mean to humble me.”

A feigned thoughtfulness as you tilt your head, tresses of silken hair glinting against your furs, “Humble you, Jace?” You feign surprise, blossoming at the growing smile upon his countenance, “That seems an impossible task.” 

There's a warmth lying low beneath your jest – and whatever sharpness delivers with your wit is softened by the candid affection you hold for your newly betrothed. He laughs, and it is a song you wish to remember for the rest of your years.  

His cheeks are that same very pink you’ve cherished for many moons - and he lets the arrow fly; though it strikes the target, it lands fingers shy of the center, and you conceal a laugh. 

Your prince sends you a look, and though his mouth opens with some likely sharp words of humility, he is interjected by another voice in the yard. 

“–Impressive,” Cregan’s voice cuts through the morning wind, startling you and Jacaerys alike. Jacaerys turns, hands lowering the bow as he nods almost sheepishly; Cregan steps closer – an expression only mildly imbued with amusement. 

He regards you first, then your betrothed. “I see our prince has found a new skill.” 

Flustered as though caught stealing wine from the feast table, you busy yourself adjusting the bowstring; and though Jacaerys chuckles, the sound is tight. 

“It seems I’ll need more practice,” He says easily, eyes flickering to your own warm gaze and leaping away when heat creeps onto your cheeks. Cregan merely claps him on the shoulder, a grin small and amused upon his visage, “Come with me, then. You’d best not distract my sister.”

A sheepish glance with hot cheeks between you and Jacaerys before you bow to him, sending a sharp glance to your brother.

The two leave you to your practice in search of a hearth in which to discuss before; and you nod to them, cheeks alight and eyes trailing over the silver dragon holding together the Prince’s furs. 

THE DAY JACAERYS TELLS YOU IS A DAY BROUGHT ON BY A SQUALL OF ICE AND SNOW.

Since his arrival, days have fallen in succession of clear skies and silent winds; and with the weather has brought a change in your betrothed. You have spent most days watching frost curl over begging pines from your chamber windows with growing unease - though your warmth is still shared well and kind between you, Jacaerys grows agitated in his time away from the war; a thing you understand too well, and wish to ease in the coming days. 

And, unlike the days of his arrival, there is too much to do now to any longer relish in the still-present small moments – the times which bring in the smell of holly and pine, of clove and spiced wine, of wide smiles and the steaming scales of your betrothed’s ancient accompaniment. 

The wedding has been planned – and in only a few more days, you and Jacaerys will become one; you will whisper words long thought and wondered, you will bind your palms, you will share your blood. 

Though in no way unsure of the union, still lingers the presence of something unspoken – in the growingly distant amber eyes, in the insecure stuttering of words, in the shaky palm which soothes over your own underneath leathered gloves. It seems Jacaerys furrows his brow in riddles more and more these days – and a darkness follows, some weight that brings his lips to drop and his voice to taper in the ends of sentences. 

You have begun to wonder once more why indeed a union between you and Jacaerys was so suddenly proposed by the Queen. 

Your breath shows against the casement; The day has brought with it more than a chill – and in search of an excuse, you wonder if the Prince has drawn a large enough hearth, if he has found furs thick enough to stave the chill. Yourself, a girl sewn and grown from Northern soils, still finds a strike of shiver from your veins when you rise from your own hearth; and so, with a small flash of worry and a gathering of pelts from your own bed, you set off to the guest quarters. 

JACAERYS SITS BEFORE HIS HEARTH. 

He welcomes you with a nod and a gesture to join him upon the settee; you deposit the armful of furs upon his bed with a gentle breath and murmured words – and though it is well into the morning by now, Jacaerys looks as though sleep evaded him in the night previous – teeth-bitten lips, mussed curls, a heavy gaze that lingers upon the melting flakes of snow in your hair. 

It is only moments of gentle conversation; a tale of the nesting owl above your chambers that brings a gleaming smile to Jace's eyes, a wonder of the turned crops coming from the Neck; mere half-hour passes before he, ever mindful, shifts towards your visage. 

“What troubles you?” he wonders – a stare that leaks with some unknown vulnerability, that stiffness that has still pervaded the pair of you despite your comfortability. 

And perhaps that very observation is it; you swallow down the rising resistance - a melting of icy hesitance, a heavy weight shared between shoulders so different yet destined.

Jacaerys watches unblinking – you notice for perhaps the first time the signet ring that perches upon his smallfinger, glinting black and ruby in the daylight. Your own ring – a wolf, dark and proud, sits upon your middle; and you wonder how indeed a wolf will fare in a den of dragons. 

You’ve spent enough time with Jacaerys – though this has been swaddled in the nest of the North; your own comfort of life, of family and that sweet soul-binding heritage. Perhaps what troubles you is this – of the impending binding of your life to his own by duty and blood: To know him and be known for the rest and beyond; of fighting a war not of your own making but of your own fate – and yet, with your love and devotion for him fostered and growing, leaking from your very core, it still feels foreign.

“I do not know,” you admit in a surge of emotion, glancing into the open pit of emotion within his gaze. “I cannot help but wonder…why,” you utter slowly, eyes shifting under the uncomfortable embrace of vulnerability. 

And his own vulnerability shows upon his sleeve as he turns to face you fully, drawn in silhouette from the glowing embers that warm the chill in your heart. “Why?” He repeats, eyes searching your own. 

You do not fear your betrothed; you know nothing but faith and conviction laced between your hand and his own. Jacaerys is of good blood; not in the sense perhaps that his ancestors might boast, but that of the same very blood your Northern people acclaim – honorable.

He, even in the unlikely instance of a lack of a lasting affection or love, will always hold you honorably as his wife, and in time his Queen – and this, indeed, you hold in common.

You will perhaps always hold flame for Jacaerys, even if time passes in your marriage and he does not hold such equal affections – and this is some comfort in itself, to know that he will protect you no matter where you lie within his heart. 

 Your words come easier in the passing moment, as Jacaerys awaits your gospel with the veneration of a knelt pilgrim – and you come to understand that somewhere within his breast is a flame alight; an affection returned, with your name burning there. 

Your lips part, and his eyes track the motion. 

“Our union. It is…” You swallow, “Unusual.” 

Your heart aches only in the flickered trace of sorrow that paints his gaze; he leans back to the settee, an expression clouded by unnamed emotions. It is not any absence of affection, then, from either of you – a coupling not lacking in love, then, but instead marked by a trace of fate that drags your heart into worry. 

After some time, your prince speaks. “It is rather custom to marry within the bloodline,” Jacaerys admits, hesitating. Amber eyes, flickering deep into the hearth, as if trying to light the embers that die down with just his stare; you wonder, faintly, if he could. His words are an echo of many nights swirling in doubt above your bedposts – and to hear them, a warmth of relief in your breast.

 “But there are other duties,” He murmurs, “–ones that even the Gods cannot ignore.” 

His tone has reduced to a rather trance-like state; your eyes, roaming the rich of his furs before focusing in the distance; a ring of clouds, circling the light of the sun just out of view. 

Beams of heavenly breath, breaking through the cold sky; a break in the squall, some gasp of mercy from the Old Gods – and a ring of light, sprouting from Jacaerys’s head. It is some ancient song, an echoing you’ve only truly felt in the silence of the crypts low below your feet – you blink twice at the sight of such a reverent sight, his grace outlined in the slope of his nose, the pout of his lips. 

His voice is lower than a whisper when it comes once more. 

“Aegon.” 

Rather struck by the light of heaven’s breath breaking around Jacaerys, your brows furrow; you tilt your head, rising to follow as your betrothed leaves the settee. His eyes are stuck on the flutter of snowflakes from the heavens, his back aflame with the fire of the hearth – and he stops before the window, blinking away frost. 

An odd, ancient feeling stirs in your mind – your shoulder brushes the fine tailoring of his cloak as you join him at the casement overlooking the Godswood; Your voice is clear against the blanket of quiet. 

“The Usurper?” 

His lips are pursed for a moment before a gentle shake of his head. “The Conqueror.” 

It is once again awakened – this seed of uncertainty, the knowledge of the trickling poison which drips from the old blood of Valyria and poisons the minds of those men upon their Stone – but you tilt your head to your Prince, considering his words. 

A breath that plumes against the crawling chill of snow, and Jacaerys’ voice is distant once more. 

 “I’ve heard his song.” 

Perhaps Jacaerys has been kept inside too long: In that way the cold can take a man’s mind – curl around it with frost, trickle ice into veins so sewn with fire; turn him mad. 

You take a small step closer; cold air upon your face, the warmth of his arm brushed against the peak of your shoulder.

It is an attempt, youthful and unsure, at comfort – though he accepts it as he turns to look at you. A gentle gaze, the kind he’s always saved for you, warming the side of your visage; you’re much too gone in thought, eyes stuck at the peek of red bleeding through the pines in the distance. 

The leaves are frosted, though they remain ever crimson, ever watching. You whisper to Jacaerys, eyes upon the godswood. 

“Dead men don’t sing, my prince.”

YOU FIND YOURSELF REFRESHED IN THE BREAK OF WINTERSNOW THAT AFTERNOON.

The Godswood; a sheltered overhang provided by the sprawling branches of the Weirwood – your knees floated within the chasmous snow pelted fresh-fallen and sweet onto the frozen earth.

Jacaerys rests near you – perched on what below lies a boulder, he watches the flakes fall gentle onto the surface of the pooled spring behind you, your quiet words deadened in the blanket of snow. 

The wind is forgiving today – and you can only hope, as you rise from your knelt position before the tree, that it will extend its mercy unto the ceremony in three day’s time. 

There is only the plume of your breath and the muffled compaction of your boots against the settled snow that accompany the short distance to your betrothed. 

Steam rises in tendrils from the warmth of the pond’s depths; a simmering fate from the icy flakes which flutter onto its surface, giving the last breath of their life in sacrifice for its own. 

“How fares Vermax?” 

Your voice carries with it that sullen evergreen repose – Jace looks up at you from where he sits, a small smile gracing his countenance. “He has found a cave to the West.” 

You nod with a knowing smile, lowering yourself to perch beside your betrothed upon the soft snowed earth, your furs dark against the bright kiss of the Gods. “I wondered if he might,” You murmur, recalling the natural springs not unlike the one you sit before; their warmth a relief to any who are graced by their presence within the caves of the slopes. “It would do him well to return home soon.” You murmur, eyes roving over the hands, ungloved and calloused with cold and fight, which rest in Jacaerys’ lap. 

Perhaps in resistance to the weather or from the heat of your attention, he flexes his lithe fingers; and with the breath he takes, he looks to you. “He’s never quite agreed with the North.” He admits with a soft smile. You nod thoughtfully, wondering indeed how such a being of fire could fare against the land of ice. 

“And his rider?” You wonder then, eyes hinged on a swaying pine in the distance, its needles shed of snow as a pile falls to the ground. 

Jacaerys looks at you with that expression once more – a warm one, but one hesitant by nature. “I’d say he is learning to weather it,” Jacaerys answers with a lingering smile, though his gaze shifts momentarily to the horizon, where the faintest sliver of dusk begins to creep through the flurry of snowflakes. “He's come to learn that it grows on a man, much like its people.”

Your lips curve in a bout of shy flattery, and you shake your head. 

A loss for words stretches on into more; the water is calm in its reflection, and you watch snowflakes flutter from the stretch of gray, kissing your hair and tangling in your lashes. The clearing is large, though still so very intimate – it is not long before your thoughts meander to the days ahead, to the many preparations still to be done despite your moment of respite. 

After a beat, you speak into the blanket of quiet. 

“Three days.” You muse, blinking away flurries of white and turning to your betrothed. “Does it not feel strange to you, that in so little time, we are to be bound?”

Jace exhales, his breath clouding the air which swirls before you, and you look up to him in wait. He tilts his head just so, blinking away flakes as they come to kiss his flushed skin. You watch them melt to his lips with some faint lick of envy. 

His voice is hardened by the deadened air of winter, though you know there is nothing but kindness laced within. “There is no hesitation in me, if that is what you ask.”

A warmth pools within you at his chosen words, at the thought of he and you, under the very tree which you now sit, joint in hands and bound by blood. 

Perhaps it is that small yearning that festers unsaid in your heart – or it is the residual worry of his words of songs and men long-dead this morning in his chambers; but you press on gently. “And why is that, my Prince?” 

He looks into your eyes, then – and you see some search for verity amidst the downfall of snow; your fingers are cold, and they itch to hold his own. “Do you hold your own reservations?” In his tone holds no such judgement; merely the curiosity of a boy no older than one and twenty – and you, in the same turn of years, shake your head. 

“No, I–” Your lip is bitten once more, and his eyes remain upon them despite the flush on your cheeks. “I suppose I just wish to know,” You whisper, swallowing thickly, “If it is all… for strategy.” 

Jacaerys takes a moment; you allow it, watching as the flakes fall into the curls, as his eyes skim over the Northern edge of Winterfell, falling somewhere far, far beyond. “It is not simply a duty for me,” He chooses, tracing your visage with the care befitting of one who’s known you for life. “I believe you know this.” 

And perhaps you do; you smile under his accusation, tilting your head. “I suppose so, though I should like to hear you say it,” You admit, looking towards the very horizon he’d worried over. A murder of ravens, cutting dark through the gray blur of afternoon. “You speak too much in riddles these days.” 

It seems as though your words penetrate whatever foggy worries swirl within his sharp mind; and he nods solemnly. 

“You’re right,” and his voice is quieter now, guarded; unsure whether to reveal what such odd whisperings might mean. “I must have you know,” he starts, glancing to you, “that my care for you goes beyond duty.” 

His words are a balm to the brunt of fate that now befalls you; his cheeks as pink as your own, and he whispers kindly. “I have long held an affection for you in my heart, and hoped you might feel the same.” 

Any words of agreement are halted upon your lips when Jacaerys takes another breath, one laced with the weight of a realm divided: “But after Lucerys…” He clears his throat once more and you are struck with his pain.

Your palm finds his knee in some hope of comfort provided; his own falls atop it. “Princess Rhaenys and Meleys fell at Rooks Rest while I travelled North; a war wages still - and yet I had to come. I know you wonder why, and you deserve to know.” 

And you wait with breath bated, as you have for many days in wonder of why indeed now seemed fit for the Prince to come to the North for you. 

“My mother… shared something,” he begins once more, his tone low, “Passed down through our blood, through King and King – from long before Viserys, to my mother, and now me... A prophecy.” 

Your stomach has grown a pit of anticipation, some dreadful cloud gathering above you. Your Prince blinks to you shortly, brows drawn in consternation - as though it is a far crime and violation, what he is to tell you. 

And then he begins: words strung with the cloudiness of destiny, of doubt lingering in a stream of worry – and you sway where you repose, in a blinking dread when mentions come of a common enemy, of a terrible winter long to come.

And you, then, are struck with thoughts – of the long nights at Castle Black; of the men who patrol the wild lands, who speak in hushed voices and train with hard hands – of the old memory of Death, which lingers in the dreams of Northern children and on the tongues of Septas sat before hearths. 

You turn your gaze from the Weirwood’s branches above to Jacaerys, who looks out over the horizon to the breath of twilight leaking through.

A song – a dead man’s dream; of the ice of the north, he explains, and the fire of Valyria. 

It is a cold many minutes in which you breathe, a dread lingering between you and your beloved prince, hands clasped together and hearts beating as one. It does not do well to play on a foolish man’s beliefs – though your prince is no foolish man, and the hands of fate are too tightly bound. 

“You speak of fire and blood,” you whisper finally, “Of dreams that burn through the night?” 

The eve that falls is quiet, and the wind forgives your trespassing. He nods solemnly, your prince; and his absence of further response lets your mind wander.

Swirls of snow dance along the footprints left in your previous wake; the wind blows strands of hair across your vision.

Jacaerys’ eyes are amber pools and you drown in them, in the heat that has grown in the knowledge of words dreamt by a long dead man, in the legacy which leaks through each new crowned Targaryen. You drown in the knowledge that perhaps, in some way, a truth rings within this so-believed prophecy; secret as the lands which lie far to the North.

Your lips are wetted gently, shaking your head as you continue your thought. “But magic does not only run hot,” you murmur, “It does not only belong to the South.” 

His expression turns – and a weight which indeed shrouds him finds you too, cocooning you and your betrothed, binding you with threads of fate long ago tied and drawn. The woods whistle with the breath of winter, and you hear their song. 

“It is in the roots of the tree, in the bones of this land,” You admit, “My ancestors prayed to the Old Gods, and in return they whispered in the wind, spoke in the silence. And they, too, endure.”

Jacaerys shifts beside you and your palm is taken into the cradle of both his own. “I do not wish to burden you with such things.” He murmurs - and a memory of your brother's same words the day this very betrothal became so; it is forever, then, that the men of your life will wish to protect you from harm.

In the moment’s breath, you speak quietly: “–But such things are ours now, are they not?” You wonder aloud; and in the relief of a smile, he nods smally.

“There are threats to face sooner; I know it is no small ask to bring you into the throes of conflict. But perhaps our blood,” He murmurs, cheeks tinged pink, “might one day save the Realm.” 

An odd thought – but still one that does not change the truth: You go into the heart of the fire in three days’ time; but you will go with Jacaerys, and you will not be alone. A wolf in the South – and a dragon by her side. 

In the lingering peace of companionship, Jacaerys huffs gently. “I wish I could have done more,” He murmurs, “Ensured a proper betrothal.” His cheeks remain stained in that crimson colour against the fading light of the sky, and you resist the longing feeling to feel his lips against your own. 

You laugh, a short thing in the muffled quiet, “It matters not, Jace,” You promise, a smile small and kind upon your visage. In his shift, you slide gently between his knees – and your palms squeeze his own. 

“I’d have courted you,” He insists in that boyish nature you remember from those moons ago – and the air that’d frozen your lungs in the moments fallen behind has thawed into a budding giddiness. You smile at his tone, tilting your head. “Is that right, my Prince?” You tease, lifting your brow, “Taken me for strolls in the gardens, picked me flowers?” 

His smile is so boyish and hopeful; your heart skips as he nods. “Of course.” His grin grows softer as you shift. 

It is when the space between you narrows in a moment that you purse your lips gently, eyes tracing the curve of his own cherried lips. “Though my duty is to the North, it is also to the Queen,” You begin. His eyes fall to your own lips. “And to you. I hold love for you in my heart, Jacaerys,” You admit, cheeks warm, “And I am quite pleased to be your wife.” 

His hand leaves your own – and in its ascent, you see a slight tremor; when your face is cradled by his palm, you let your eyes flutter shut. 

It is only a momentary shock when lips, cold and light, press to your eyelid; a brushing so gentle, you wonder if it will not melt into the snow itself. 

Jacaerys’ breath lingers, a quiet warmth as he moves to your other eye, kissing away the flakes of snow which cling to you in reverence. A stirring in your breast as your hands find his cloaked arms, strong beneath your grasp; a whisper into the earth around you as snow falls. 

He pulls away only in a plume of warm breath that you feel against your visage; your eyes open to find his own, warm and wanting. A fire burns in you, and it calls his name – somewhere in the distance, Vermax roars. The edges of the pond lap over a small crust of ice, and your touch warms against your betrothed. 

“I was made for you,” He murmurs, lips chilled against your warm cheek; and you believe it. He says your name, and it falls from bitten lips with a desperation that sets your nerves ablaze; "I will love you with everything I am," He promises; and fingers trace the curve of your jaw, a gentle thing – a lingering of breath with your own, a hitch to your lungs as desire claws at your throat. Your smile is small and melts under the weight of heat.

In a moment, you cannot bear the space which lingers, small and unforgiving, between you; Without hesitation, your palms slide over his furs, kissed with snow – and soon, you card your hands through the curls at the nape of your betrothed’s neck. 

It is a pull towards your awaiting lips, and soon Jacaerys kisses you soundly. 

Hands slide to your waist, dropping from your jaw to cradle you between his legs, flush in the heat of shared life; and you, a blossoming flutter of affection and anticipation for nights to come. Hands tremble – yours, around his neck, his, curved around your waist. 

The snow falls heavier still – and a howl of wind that blows you closer to Jace, a short share of giggles between you, giddy and alight with some small kernel of hope. The Godswood is quiet, and your lips slide together in a shy, lingering sweetness; he pulls away from you only to press small kisses upon each exposed breath of skin you offer, and you laugh into the quiet, heart beating as one. 

“I am yours.” 

And for some time, a soft exploration of affections beneath the sprawling limbs of the tree – and the words fall from lips taking and giving, smiling and sighing, pursuing and pressing. 

The woods sing with the bells when supper is called; and so with hair tangled, cheeks warm, you rise together. 

Arm in arm, your betrothed and you retrace footprints kissed with the gift of fresh-fallen snow; words quiet and half-burdened with the weight of the future – but still remains the lingering of hope, the promise of love even in the dreary eve of fate. 

The Godswood of Winterfell echo softly with footfall; The warmth of the Great Hall awaits you both. Jacaerys presses a kiss to your knuckles, and you push open the doors together.

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[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

jjk chapter 270 spoilers under the cut !!

GODDDDDDDDD I LOVED THIS CHAPTER. I LOVED IT SO SO MUCH . i feel so high rn you guys don’t UNDERSTAND 😭😭😭 it gave me literally everything i wanted (minus gojo stuff but we’ll get to that) AND I’M JUST !!!!!!!!!!!! i feel so satisfied . all is right with the world . i am a happy mouse

i love love loveeeee the fact that akutami finally decided to pick up (most) of the loose ends — at least the ones from the culling game !!!!!! it’s my favorite arc and i really adore all the side characters, so getting to see them all again was so nice 🥹 and my biggest criticism for akutami’s writing in general has been how he leaves these loose threads behind him, so i’m glad this chapter went back to piece them together. there’s still obviously a lot i would’ve liked to see before the finale, but this chapter finally made me feel somewhat satisfied with it all ��..

buuuuut okok!!! let me get through some stuff <3

^^^^ THIS . THANK YOUUUUUUUUU GOD 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 ALL I WANTED WAS SOME FINAL SHOKO CRUMBS . THAT’S LITERALLY ALL. i love her so much chat …………. THE BUN :((((((( i wonder if she’s paying tribute to suguru, in a way. since she can’t make his grave all nice like she did with tsumiki’s. <- WHICH IS ALSO . so heartbreaking :((((( shoko has been the closest to death and corpses out of everyone.

’that moron should’ve let me handle geto’s body, too’……… gojo thought he was doing her a favour by not forcing her to dispose of him, but i wonder if his decision only caused her more suffering? :’) either way i loveeee shoko and i think her character is so wonderful. her not believing in an afterlife is also so in character LMAO, my little cynicist <3333

^^^^^ AND THEN THIS . PEEEEEERFECT. SO PERFECT. shoko and her cigarette motif :’)))))))) SHE FINALLY QUIT AGAIN . SHE IS AT PEACE . also need to mention how fucking cute she looks ……. i neeeed to squish her cheeks !!!!! she’s my baby !!!!!!!!!!

i will say that . obviously . i would’ve loved for her to get a more concrete final moment with stsg :’) like her being at the airport, or something. overall i’m satisfied with this being her ending of sorts (though if gojo is alive i’d obviously like to see them talk)…… she hasn’t gotten as much spotlight in this manga as she’s rightfully deserved, but i do think her character writing has been lovely and consistent throughout everything, and she remains one of my ult favorites <3333333 i LOVE my wife. love all her little quirks . i hope she quits smoking forever and ever!!!!!!!

ahh, it was also nice to see them mention tengen!!!! and how the barrier techniques worked. again, i’m just really happy that we’re not letting plotpoints go unfinished 😭😭 i also think it’s . a little romantic. that tengen’s barriers will exist as long as sukuna’s remnants remain . the tengen / sukuna / kenny trio is very interesting to me (MORE ON THAT . LATER.)

THEN WE ALSO HAVE THIS !!!!!!!!!

^ this moment means . soooo much to me. will try to get my thoughts out coherently but this theme really resonates with me so deeply :’) since the beginning of the manga, jujutsu society has been built on the foundation that is the suffering of youth — adults casting blame and burdens on children. like the higher ups who hide up at the top and force the children to work themselves to the bone. we saw this so clearly in hidden inventory most of all. and gojo is the anti thesis of that society — he wants to preserve youth !!!!!! even nanami, who didn’t really have any clear desires to change the fundamentals of their society, did his best to protect children as an adult.

so to see gakuganji refer to utahime and nitta as young (even though they’re both grown adults)….. and say that ’they needn’t worry over this just yet’…… i think. it shows how much the society is already improving. with someone like gakuganji in charge. and also kusakabe, who basically told the trio to just be kids last chapter, and leave the hard stuff to the adults (can’t remember his exact wording lmao but he said it so perfectly)…… it just warms my heart. jujutsu sorcery is still a shitshow but as least the children won’t be as exploited anymore (or at the very least, there are good adults around them, who will bear most of the burden on their own backs). idk. i just loved this moment sm :’))))))

ahhhhh, and and and !!!!!! mr katana and mr sumo 🥺 IT WAS SM FUN SEEING EVERYONE AGAINNNN and it was so sweet seeing maki try to look out for them a little after they helped her ……..

^ maki and her middle aged man besties …… :3

AND THEN CHARLES !!!!! MY BOY !!!!!!!!!!! just needed to mention him lmao. i love him T_T happy that he’s working on his trashy little manga. keep up the good work king <3333333 SAME WITH THE FORMER BULLY . sorry can’t be bothered to remember his name ….. the pudding guy. you know who i mean. seeing him apologize and try to make amends was rlly heartwarming …….. i really am so happy to see all culling game characters happy and alive . WHERE IS REMI THOUGH . 🤨

…… but okay . okay. okayyy.

actually yk what we’re saving the best for last ^^ ONTO HANA AND MEGUMIIIIIII WHAT A CUTE MOMENT . SOOOO CUTE . i don’t ship them at all i think they’re adorable though …… AND HANA IS SOOOOOOO GODDAMN CUTE I CAN’T EVEN EXPLAIN IT ????? :((( I NEED TO SQUISH HERRR

^ LOVE this line . my brother pointed this out but isn’t it like …. eerily similar to that akiangel scene 😭 lmao. i just really love this. megumi offering to be her right hand because ’he’ was the one who took it from her ……. he’s such a good boy :< also instantly pictured him being her scary knight/guard dog and yk what maybe this ship could sail after all…..

^ THEN THISSSSS 😭 THEY’RE SO CUTE. MEGUMI IS SO FUCKING AWKWARD HANG IN THERE BUDDY ………….

ah i forgot to mention higuruma …… i love him!!!!!!!!! i love him a ton!!!!!!!!!!!! :’3 i think seeing his junior demand a retrial for the sake of justice meant a lot to him. i could go deeper into it because higu’s character is so dense but yeah !!! very fitting ending for him …… i’m kinda sad that he’s cursed to be an overworked sorcerer though 💀 hang in there king…

AND THENNN WE HAVE :333c A NEW MISSION… feels kinda nice to go back to our roots. i have literally NO idea what’s gonna happen though 😭 hopefully tied to gojo….??? for the record i obviously want him to live and will have Many things to say if it turns out he’s really been dead this whole time, but. we’ll save that for the next chapter <3 for now i’m just happy to see the babies back together….

^ noba being gay ……. all is right with the world 🥹

BUT OKAY . ENOUGH. ENOUGH ABOUT THATTTT ENOUGH ABOUT EVERYTHING ONLY ONE THING REMAINS AND IT’S THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS. akutami loves me and only me and this chapter finally confirmed that once and for all…..

I FUCKING . SCREAMED. YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND.

TAKABAAAAAAAAAAAAAA FIRST OF ALL? I MISSED HIM . I MISSED MY BABY 🥺🥺🥺 BUT SECOND OF ALL WHAT THE FUCKKKKK WHAT THE FUCK ALL MY PRAYERS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED???? THIS IS ALL IVE EVER WANTED????????? i’ve been telling my brother that if i could manifest one thing i’d want jjk to end with takaba on stage with kenjaku without it ever been elaborated on AND MY PRAYERS HAVE BEEN ANSWERED . I’M SO HAPPY YOU DON’T GET ITTT

there’s so much to say ……… truly ………. these two make me insane ………… will start with: they’re so funny. they’re so gay. kenny wanting to make sex jokes like the freak he is. THEY’RE TOGETHER GUYS 🥹 THE KENKABA SPINOFF MANGA I WANTED IS RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY EYES .

….. but also !!!!! truly truly trulyyyyy — i love this. i love how akutami did this. this is kenjaku’s final scene, and it’s perfect for them!! it’s so chaotic…. they left sorcery behind for a life of stand up comedy 😭 AND IT’S SOOO IN CHARACTER . IT REALLY IS. what kenjaku wants, what they’ve claimed to want since shibuya, is to create chaos that not even they will be able to control, using cursed energy. and takaba is exactly that. kenny created takaba’s cursed technique using the culling game, and takaba is chaos personified!!! a chaos kenjaku can’t control!!!!!! as dissatisfied as i was with yuuta just swooping in and cutting their head off i did think that the takaba fight was a really clever and perfect end to kenjaku :3

soooo — it makes sense that kenjaku would go back to takaba. they had fun with him!!!! he matches their energy!!!!!! and takaba could easily have saved his life using his ct, which i think is the implication here. i love that kenny’s face is obscured, it just feels like such a fun little thing to throw in at the end 😭 but i doooo genuinely think this is akutami’s way of implying that kenny is alive and living the happy yaoi life with takaba . as they fucking should.

i also wanna say !!!!! that i think it’s so thematically fitting that kenjaku’s ending is soooo different from tengen’s and sukuna’s . i LOVE this aspect of it so much; kenjaku is the most morally corrupt of the three, and also the most human. sukuna is a human turned calamity, who slumbered for centuries, and tengen is a shut-in who ended up mimicking sukuna’s appearance while only maintaining human contact through a barrier. kenjaku laughs at them for it. he hates them for being so passive, because kenny is the opposite of that — he’s lived through it all!!!!!! changed with the centuries!!!!!!! so i think it’s just ….. soooo perfect and tasty that sukuna and tengen now only exist as remnants, as barriers, just like they did before — while kenjaku chooses to live, and takes an entirely different approach. they’re so fucking chaotic and i adore them. i can’t explain how much i love their character …… i really can’t ……… :’3

i’m just . still so happy . i really thought it was kenover…… i didn’t think they’d get an ending so perfect………………. i really, really hope akutami comes in clutch and gives gojo the same treatment :’) even if the chances are slim. i thought this chapter was absolutely lovely and i hope with allllll my heart that i end up enjoying the final chapter too.

……….. i think ……. that’s all 😭 (if you’ve read this far i’m kissing you with tongue btw). THANK YOU FOR BEARING WITH ME !!!!!! this chapter made me feel so genuinely satisfied and giddy and i’m super sleepy and tired but i just needed to rant :’3 i love kenjaku. they’re so silly . such a brat. i wanna kiss them. takaba too actually. we are in a happy polycule

[discordiansamba]

even underground, he still rises with the sun.

swinging his legs out of his cot, he stretches. it's been a long time since he's slept in the dai li base underneath lake laogai- not since he was a child. this was where he'd woken up as a child to discover he'd lost his memories- and upon learning exactly who was, wished he hadn't been told. he'd been born as a pawn of the fire nation in a scheme to supplant the earth kingdom royal family by putting one of their own on the throne-

-but that wasn't who he'd grown up to be.

he gets dressed. there's no mirrors in the small rooms underneath lake laogai- typically dai li agents only sleep there if they absolutely need to. it doesn't matter- he braids his hair without issue, and heads into the main compound. he finds long feng in his secret office there, just where he'd expected to find the man.

"ah, prince dai," long feng looks up at him with a smile, "-i trust you slept well."

"as well as anyone can, in one of those cots," dai remarks, "-has anyone confirmed it yet?"

long feng hums, sliding a missive across the table for him to read. dai skims it, arching his brow- his only one, really. his left had been burned off when his mother had tried to rid herself of what she'd come to think of as only a burden after her schemes had failed and she'd found herself trapped in ba sing se.

she probably would have succeeded, if the dai li hadn't saved him.

it was long feng himself who had decided to spare his life. he'd just been a pawn, after all- only a child. dai had done what he could to repay the man for his generosity- by becoming the dai li's spy within in the earth kingdom palace. people spoke freely around their prince about things that they wouldn't dream of within ear shot of the grand secretariat. for those who said the wrong things...

...well, he couldn't have his half brother find out about the war anymore than long feng could.

"the avatar helped break out a bunch of prisoners from a fire nation prison rig?" dai asked. "are we sure this is accurate?"

"i believe it is," long feng remarked, "-we've verified the claims with many of those who escaped."

dai hummed. if the avatar really had returned, it complicated things. it could be a good thing- it meant this war might finally end- in the earth kingdom's favor. it also meant that things were likely about to get a lot worse- fire lord ozai had doubtlessly already been informed of the avatar's return.

and the avatar was someone the dai li couldn't control.

"i have a proposition," long feng said, "-i want you to track down the avatar. he'll need a firebending teacher."

dai cast a glance towards long feng. his firebending was supposed to be a state secret. it wasn't befitting that a prince of the earth kingdom was a firebender, so they'd gone to great lengths to keep that fact under wraps. why risk it coming out now?

the risk, long feng said, was greater than the reward.

you have the chance to get close to the avatar in a way none of my other agents can, prince dai. you can help provide him with... guidance. help him win the war without disturbing the status quo too much. and i'm sure you won't mind having the chance to travel for a change.

dai thought it over. he wasn't like long feng's other agents. he could always say no if he wanted to. except...

...well. he wasn't sure he saw any reason to.

"alright," dai said, "-i'll do it."

(long feng watched as the young prince left his office. once he was gone, he smiled.

it had been a gamble, kidnapping the young prince of the fire nation. his initial intent had been to use him as a hostage to end the siege on ba sing se, but general iroh had ended it himself after the loss of his son. once that plan fell through...

...well, he'd had other ideas.

brainwashing prince zuko wouldn't have proven an effective strategy- something about the process left firebenders dreadfully weak. so instead the dai li had simply... suppressed his memories, and gained his trust another way.

they'd constructed a new identity for him as prince dai of the earth kingdom- one who was loyal to the dai li. he'd more than proven his worth over the years, and now it was time to truly put him to the test- to throw him against the nation whose royal family he'd once been a member of.

he had great confidence that prince dai would succeed.)

[yuyuytt]

All the times that time has taken you away from me | Hyunjin au| ୧ ֺ   ｡part 1

synopsis: you always believed in the myths of past lives, soulmates, and twin flames, until these beliefs began to materialize in the dreams that visited you every night. Every morning, you woke up startled, feeling a sense of loss consuming you.

You tried to convince yourself they were just dreams, products of your mind, perhaps remnants of past traumas. Yet deep down, you knew everything could change in the blink of an eye. And everything did change when you met Hyunjin. Your world lit up, and you recognized him immediately, as if he had always been a part of your life. The arrival of this young man brought an intriguing mystery and a silent hope that destiny would cooperate.

But an unsettling question arises: would you and Hyunjin be willing to risk everything once again to live a romance, even knowing the inevitable outcome of it all? Destiny hovers uncertainly over your hearts, awaiting your decision.

'there was no greater pain than seeing

you lifeless in my arms.'

pairing: hyunjin x fem reader.

genre: romance, drama, angst (lots of it), mystery, smut, soul mates, forbidden romance, back in time, lovers from the past, strangers friends and lovers.

୧ ֺ   ｡ masterlist

You found yourself unable to translate the sensations coursing through your body; it was an amalgamation of unfamiliar emotions. A joy intertwined with anguish, an anguish interspersed with fear. You detested experiencing these feelings, and the distress was amplified by the certainty that, most of the time, your intuitions proved correct.

Each surge of emotion was a rollercoaster, a chaotic situation between happiness and restlessness, between discomfort and apprehension.

You noticed how quickly your mother had accepted things, especially your marriage. There was something about it that aroused your suspicion, considering how much she had denied and resisted for so long. Though not a surprising turn of events, you preferred to believe she had finally come to terms with the situation. Despite finding her attitude strange, you still cherished the idea of being married to the prince.

You were still adjusting to this new sensation, even unable to fully believe it. After so many disappointments, arguments, and tears, alongside all the persistence, you had finally reached this point. Here you were, barely able to wait to take it all in once and for all, completely in love, involved, and committed to the prince. Every move, every thought was driven by this overwhelming feeling. The hours seemed to drag on as you longed for the moment to finally express these feelings, to make clear how much he meant to you.

Even though that had been clear long before.

You advanced with slow steps towards the prince's room, where he lay, wrapped in expectations and dreams of a kingdom yet to come. The idea of becoming queen still hovered like a distant mirage in your mind, but reality was beginning to solidify as you approached the destiny that awaited you.

Each step was laden with meaning, each thought echoed with the imminent responsibility you were about to assume. It was more than just the title of queen; it was the burden of leading a people, of making decisions that would shape the future of a kingdom.

Small steps echoed against the polished wooden floor, reverberating through the castle corridor almost swallowed by darkness. Torches cast a dim light, enough to reveal the outlines of the weathered walls. With each cautious step, your body jumped as you came upon an unknown figure. Dressed entirely in black, their face hidden beneath a somber hood made it impossible to discern their features. The tension in the air was palpable as you tried to decipher who or what stood before you.

"Sorry, princess," he murmured with a hoarse voice and a tone laden with sadness. You tilted your head in confusion, trying to make sense of what was happening. Your eyes searched his, looking for any sign, while the weight of his words hung in the air, carrying a palpable tension.

"What..." you murmured, surprise taking hold before you could react. Your eyes widened as a gleaming blade suddenly flashed, wielded with determination. A cry of alarm escaped your lips, echoing in the tense air, while your muscles instantly tensed, preparing for the imminent confrontation with this unexpected threat.

Blood gushed in a violent stream, meticulously infiltrating every fiber of your delicate white dress, painting a brutal contrast against your pale, immaculate skin. A shiver ran down your spine, your eyes dilated in a frantic dance of shock and terror, capturing the intensity of the moment in a whirlwind of emotions. The violent impact swept through your body, causing you to collapse against the rough floor, an intense wave of pain spreading as you desperately tried to catch your breath.

Your limbs felt heavy, every movement a tough battle against the dizziness threatening to overwhelm you. A whirlwind of confused and incoherent thoughts assaulted your mind, a cacophony of voices trying to decipher the inexplicable, while your senses struggled to orient themselves in the haze of pain.

In a moment of confusion, you woke with a start in bed, your body covered in sweat and your breathing ragged. A brief relief flooded your mind as you realized it had all been a terrible nightmare. Still trembling, your eyes scanned the room for solace in the familiarity of the furniture.

The dream's images persisted, echoing in your mind, prompting you to reflect on your deepest fears and question the origin of these disturbing visions. With your breath still ragged, you tried to dispel the frightening images, clinging to the reality around you. In the suffocating silence, a familiar voice broke through the stupor plaguing you, rescuing you from the abyss of nightmares.

"Hey, are you okay? Another one of those bad dreams?" Minho inquired, his presence firm at the bedroom entrance like a beacon in the darkness. Concern overflowed in his words, echoing the genuine affection he always showed. Even in the semi-darkness of the hallway, you could glimpse the lines of tension marking his face, silent witnesses to his distress over your suffering.

Since you were 15, Minho had always been vigilant about your dreams, or as he called them, nightmares. Each night was a battle against the monsters inhabiting your subconscious, a fight he waged with determination and courage. You admired his dedication to protecting himself from this nocturnal torment.

Minho's constant concern for your well-being did not go unnoticed by you. It was evident in every gesture, in every attentive gaze. Since the day you met at age 8, you always knew you could trust him blindly. Your friendship was an anchor in life's storms, a safe harbor where both found comfort and support. Even after 13 years had passed, the connection between you and Minho remained as strong as on the first day. It was as if time had no power over the solidity of this bond.

"I'm fine," you murmured, trying to control the tremor in your voice. Your heart still pounded frantically, echoing the remnants of the nightmare that had haunted you. However, something subtly different hung in the air that morning. As you struggled between calmness and restlessness, the dream's images persisted in your mind, as if etched with painful clarity.

You were fully aware of the situation and your feelings, but struggled to admit how emotionally shaken you were, knowing it could affect your sanity. "Sure? Can I get you a glass of water?" Minho asked again, his voice soft and concerned echoing in the room you shared, as he approached slowly.

"It's going to be okay, I'm sure of that," you murmured, trying to instill confidence in your words, although you knew sleep wouldn't return so easily after the nightmare. Minho caught the hesitation in your voice; after all, he knew you better than anyone. With a compassionate look, he gently agreed. "And yes, I'll want some water, and how about a generous slice of that strawberry pie left over from dinner?" he added, with a slight smile on his lips.

Minho's smile returned to his face, lighting up his eyes with a renewed glow, evidence of his relief at noticing his own calmness reflected in your serene expression. "I'll consider your situation," he promised, his voice filled with a mix of compassion and consideration.

The sky began to brighten, heralding the sunrise. You woke up early, ready to start another day. As you glanced out the window, you noticed the serenity of the weather in Seoul that morning. The sun emerged gently on the horizon, bathing the city in golden light and creating a cozy atmosphere. You took a deep breath, feeling the cool morning air enter your lungs, while the sun's rays gently caressed your skin, contrary to the expectations of scorching heat.

Despite the recurring nightmares that never found a solution, you struggled to maintain positive thoughts and move forward. Peacefully observing the bustling streets of Seoul, you noticed teenagers enthusiastically walking towards school, their backpacks swinging rhythmically beside them. A slight nostalgia for your own adolescence began to arise, an involuntary smile forming on your lips as you remembered the days filled with energy and expectations. However, you were aware that you were now living a better moment in life. Attending your dream university and enjoying a fulfilling job was an achievement you deeply valued.

Your trip to the university campus proceeded smoothly. Fortunately, the dormitory you shared with Minho was close to the university where both of you studied. The decision to live and share a room with Minho had proven to be correct. After all, it was much better to share space with your best friend than with a stranger, at least that's what Minho always claimed.

Although you were late for the first class, you knew that in university time was more flexible and professors usually didn't care so much about it. It was one of the big differences from school, where schedules were stricter and responsibilities were more directed at students.

With hurried steps, you decided to make a brief stop at the coffee shop where Yongbok, the friendly barista, worked in the morning. The welcoming aroma of freshly roasted coffee filled the space, awakening your senses and inviting you to a refreshing break. Upon entering, the soft sound of background music complemented the cozy atmosphere of the place.

Navigating through the crowd of hurried customers, your eyes eagerly searched for Yongbok's familiar face. He was there, behind the counter, with a warm smile on his face.

"Shouldn't you be in class at this hour?" Yongbok asked, frowning as you approached the counter. He glanced at the watch on his wrist, a mildly surprised expression crossing his face as he checked the time.

"Oh, right, I should, shouldn't I?" you said, letting out a subtle smile that played on your lips, as you stood in front of the counter. With a teasing tone in your voice, you added, "But I can't go without my coffee and a good brownie." Reaching out, you grabbed a piece of brownie that was skillfully wrapped, ready to be savored.

"But first," Yongbok quipped, his words echoing as he deftly intercepted the brownie from your hand with a swift move. "Pay up first," he teased, a mischievous smile dancing on his lips as he extended his hand playfully, as if demanding payment.

"What?" you exclaimed, feigning surprise, placing a hand over your chest in a dramatic gesture. Your eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief. "I always thought that was reserved for closest friends," you added, letting out a soft laugh that echoed around. You watched closely as the boy's confused expression turned into a mischievous smile, waiting for his reaction.

"Oh, really?" the boy retorted, his voice playful as he shook his head in disbelief. "Brownies as gifts? Since when did that become a trend? Where did you see that happening?"

"Well, since you asked, I saw it on a cooking show where the host mentioned that brownies are a great gift option for friends." "But in this case, you'll have to pay to eat, right?" Yongbok shook his head and said, "Same as usual? Cappuccino and a brownie?"

You expected university life to be busy and hectic, but never did you imagine leaving a class carrying an armful of books, each one ready to be devoured and turned into detailed reports. You had your reasons for choosing history over literature, believing it would be a better fit for you, and you genuinely enjoyed the course, feeling a special connection to history.

As you arrived at the agreed spot, your eyes scanned the area until they found the figure of the boy. His red hair gleamed softly under the filtered sunlight through the leaves of the trees. A broad smile formed on your lips as you recognized him. With determined steps, you approached him, books securely cradled in your arms like a treasure to be shared.

"Hey," you finally said, directing your gaze at the boy before you. "Look who's here, the book girl!" Minho exclaimed, his curious eyes carefully scanning the stacked volumes in your arms. A mischievous smile played on his lips as he watched the scene unfold. "Looks like you've got enough books to start a library," he teased, injecting humor into the situation.

"I know, feels like I'm being inundated with stories from every angle," you replied, a playful sigh escaping your lips as you delicately placed the books on the table. There was a hint of sarcasm in your voice.

"Well, you did choose history over literature. And, look, it shows now," Minho said casually, shrugging as a friendly smile formed on his lips.

"I almost think literature has more books, I'm almost freaking out, Minho," you admitted, sincerity in your tone, feeling the weight of studies pressing on your shoulders. "I feel a real urgency to take a vacation, or I'm going to end up going crazy."

"We're all looking for a little relief, right?" the redhead said sincerely, a smile playing on his lips as he tried to lighten the mood. Both knew university life was exhausting. "But if you need a hand, I'm here. Not as a future psychologist, but as your best friend," Minho continued, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on yours, blinking slightly in a sign of mutual understanding.

"Thank you," you murmured sincerely, a smile lighting up your face. "I still can't believe you really chose psychology," you teased with amusement, letting out a chuckle.

The older one chuckled softly, the corners of his lips lifting as his eyes sparkled with humor. He casually ran his hands through his hair, accustomed to attracting attention, letting the strands settle naturally. "I know," Minho admitted, tilting his head with a mischievous smile lighting up his face. "Should've pursued an idol career, huh?" His teasing was accompanied by a playful twinkle in his eyes.

"Oh my God, I can't imagine you as an idol," you commented, still laughing, shaking your head in disbelief. "What position would you be? Main vocalist? Rapper? Dancer?"

"Don't know?" Minho replied, laughing, at the same time striking a thoughtful pose, tapping his chin with his index finger. "Maybe all of them?" he joked, winking with a smile, "I can be all in one."

"Multitasking," you agreed, laughing again.

"Oh, before I forget," Minho said, as if suddenly remembering something, and walked over to his backpack, pulling something out. "Here you go, your strawberry tart," he announced, displaying the package with a smile on his lips. "Not my recipe, but still good," he chuckled casually.

"Minho!" you exclaimed, surprised, watching the package in the boy's hands, your smile shyly widening. "Thank you, that's so kind, Minho," you expressed enthusiastically, pulling him into a warm hug. You knew life could throw a series of challenges, but Minho was a constant. It would never be a problem; you trusted him with your life.

[sepublic]

So I've seen some people criticize lately the deconstruction of the child hero trope, arguing that it originally existed as a way of empowering kids who feel ineffective and powerless. And yeah, kids DO have a notable lack of agency that as an adult, you really begin to understand more and appreciate, at least on my end. These are all fair arguments, the deconstruction of the deconstruction, and I don't think they're necessarily wrong. It's just...

Some stories are meant for other people? The thing about this generation is that it's got a LOT on its shoulders. This generation is the one that's tired and burnt out, it has to deal with the burden of a world that's imploding in on itself, and the expectation that they have to fix it. It feels like corporations and politicians are casually destroying the world, knowing future generations will be the ones to have to clean it up, so why should they care?

There's a lot of anxiety and angst about the sociopolitical sphere. We've got the rise of Linkin Park, we've got people becoming jaded with late-stage capitalism and wondering how they can even survive in this economy. The fantasy has shifted from large and grand stuff to simply being able to survive and make a humble yet satisfying living. Kids are becoming burnt out, and being gifted is more apparently not worth the hype.

So I imagine THAT's the appeal behind the deconstruction of the kid protagonist for modern audiences, the one that's like "Hey isn't this fucked up? Isn't this messed up? The fate of the world is on this kid's shoulders, they're just a child soldier?" Because I think it reflects a lot of people's frustration with the adults around them, that it feels like the adults have become useless and are just forcing them to do things on their own, and often for them.

For a lot of young people, it feels like they're being forced to do all of the emotional labor while parents and guardians who tend to fail them, especially for being queer, ultimately slack on their duties by guilt-tripping them; Saying they've already done so much providing shelter and food, so you should be grateful, how dare you expect emotional support and the like!!!

It's all a way to vent frustration over the ineffectivity, and even abuse, of parents and guardians. It's catharsis for angst, because it feels like there's so much wrong with the world; The internet and modern communication has led to this phenomenon of "infowhelming" where kids are constantly bombarded by news of all the world's ills. It's sensory overload, it's a Greta Thunberg situation where it's inherently ridiculous that a kid has to step up and fix things, and instead of acknowledging how much help they need, the adults have the audacity to congratulate this child and put them on a pedestal as the chosen one who will fix things for them. Instead of just taking responsibility themselves.

The "Kid Protagonist is a Child Soldier" deconstruction is an outlet for kids to explore darker emotions, to admit their angst is valid, that this is a really shitty situation and this is how they can deal with it. Growing up, I already had Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, which DID play into the idea of kids cast into too much responsibility because of useless adults around them. It felt like a way for kids to cope with the fact that the world can be a very unfair place, it was cathartic in its acknowledgement of the frustration and its validity.

Plus, it's not as if all these deconstruction stories are saying that kids CAN'T have fun, that they can't do things, because kids DO want to do things!!! They want agency, they want to feel like they're making a difference! It's just that a lot of them also want the reassurance that the adults are still there for them as a support network, that they have people more experienced to fall back and rely on when it's too much; They can do their part but it's not ALL down to them, is that too much to ask for? The nuance of being able to do things, but not having to be the only one?

Sometimes kids like it both ways where they can be an adventurer but also recognize when some things messed them up, so they can have space to breathe before moving onwards. Sometimes they need a break because it IS taxing, but they’ll still go back to it. Sometimes they'll still do the work knowing how necessary it is, while wanting acknowledgement for how hard it was. People write about the traumatic effects of 'bad things' for a reason; They still want to see those bad things in media, for the catharsis of the coping and emotional fallout afterwards.

These defenses of the Kid Protagonist trope and how it resonated with kids from, say, the early 20th century is fair. It's true. But these deconstruction stories of today also apply, in that they're a power fantasy in a different way for different kids of a different generation, with different struggles. So I find it disingenuous to simply dismiss these deconstruction-type stories as just CinemaSins bathos, even if I understand that a lot of people are understandably tired of the MCU's "That just happened" attempts at self-awareness.

And I don't think kids of today are completely decrying straightforward depictions, it's just nice to have those, AND the deconstruction, to flip back and forth between as their mood needs. These types of stories where the protagonists realize they're child soldiers, like Animorphs -which itself was written for teenagers in all their angst- might simply... not be for some people. And that's okay, that's fine! Different stories resonate, different stories serve different purposes because they're by different people.

[nilsavatar]

PHOENIX | 2. PARULTSYÌP

Parultsyìp [pa.ˈɾul.͡tsjɪp] 'little miracle, dear little one' is a term of affection for children, derived of parul miracle.

Status: CHAPTER 2 (2/?)

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Parings: Neteyam x Fem!UnknownOriginsNa’vi!Reader

Genre/Warnings: ANGST, sorrow, mentions of nearly death, romance, adventure, soulmate love, destined lovers, possible suggestive content NSFW/MDNI later on, no use of Y/N, clans never seen in films yet. All characters are AGED-UP.

Summary: During the battle with the SeaDragon, gunfire struck Neteyam’s heart. A mortal wound that heals itself under the astonished eyes of his brother, as if the Great Mother still did not want him with her. She has other plans for Toruk Makto's eldest son.  Nevertheless, his body is weak, and he falls into a slumber from which he can no longer wake up. His vital signs are stable, yet Neteyam is slowly slipping away. He is waiting. Waiting for the girl who has been appearing in his dreams since he went into a coma.

Chapter Summary: Title's Burden on Young Shoulders: Future of the Clan, Son of Toruk Makto, Parul. A title that carried both significant consequences and immense fortune. Just like a miracle.

Little note: I FINALLY finished this chapter. It took sooo long to proofread, cause so many things happened in the process. Not to mention there's a lot of action in this chapter (tiny spoiler eheh).

Hope you'll like it and if you want to be tagged in the next posts, just write it in the comments. I’ll gladly add y'all💕

Word Count: 4.5k

Masterlist - Request a fic

2. PARULTSYÌP

"I want to go home," rasped Neteyam, choking on his own blood flowing up his throat. The grip on his face tightened, and he felt a sudden relief in his breathing. “I know, I know,” Jake spoke in a cracking voice, “It’s ok, we’ll go home.”  His frantic gaze shifted rapidly as his chest quivered with intensity. He cast a look at each of those present, but his mind was too consumed by terror for his vacant eyes to truly registering their presence. He struggled to keep his composure, his lower lip trembling, but the pain was too much, and he pressed his lips into a thin line. His father's words had a soothing effect on him, and his tense body slowly relaxed. Savoring the rare moment of tenderness with a smile, he closed his eyes as his father's hand caressed his cheek.

"Dad, I—". His voice trailed off, and his eyes clouded over. The sentence remained unspoken. Against the jagged, stark rock, his body sagged like a marionette with its strings cut. His neck rested against Jake's fingers while his cheek nestled into his palm. Dilated like ink stains, the black pupils were strikingly intense.

Neteyam was gone. They couldn't bear the thought of never again seeing his smile or hearing his soft chuckle. A silence so heavy it felt suffocating marked his final moments. Last words left unsaid and forever unknown.

Neytiri’s voice echoed through the roar of the waves as she called out to him. Once, twice, three times. With each shrill cry and fat tear, she shook him more and more. She conceived her eldest son during the first war against the Sky People. His birth, coupled with their victory, was seen as a splendid gift, a symbol of harmony and renaissance to the People. A miracle. ‘Parultsyìp’ was the nickname she lovingly gave him in his childhood.

Parul: a title that spread like wildfire among the Omatikaya, as he was the epitome of it.

Yet, Eywa’s will had taken him away from her, at the hands of the very people responsible for destroying everything she knew and held dear; who had set fire to the forest, her dwelling, her serenity. The memory of who had torn her beloved father from her still haunted her. It was beyond measure, the depth of the wound so deep that it seemed to swallow her whole, as if she was falling into an endless abyss of pain. A mourning that remained with her in the years to follow, but was tempered by the unending delight and childlike behavior of her small kin. Her smile may have been warm, but beneath it lay the bitterness that had taken root in her heart; an anguish that moulded her into the warrior she is today, much like a parasite that feeds on its host. Beautiful and cruel. The disease had started with the separation from Sylwanin and had now reached its climax with that from her firstborn.

In one fell swoop, they took away her last bit of purity and his young life. However, there was no room for despair, not just now. Their daughters were held captive aboard the SeaDragon.

Jake was caressing her face. The same hand that a minute before had held Neteyam’s, and she almost had the instinct to flinch, horrified. It felt foreign and sinister as it reached for her.  Death had touched them both, though it was his words that left a lasting impression on her soul, resonating more powerful than any misery. Their appeal was so primal and dark that it awakened something ruthless within the deepest parts of her spirit. Like an iceberg, her rage was hidden beneath the surface, waiting to strike. A blind, savage desire for revenge.

"Strong heart," he whispered softly as his breath brushed against her lips. With only a few millimeters between their foreheads, they knew they had to hasten. There was no time to waste: Kiri and Tuk needed them. Lo'ak made to approach his father, but stopped short when he saw the stern expression on his face. Jake’s voice was filled with tangible cold fury as he instructed, “Stay here with your brother.” “Dad, I want to go with you.” Toruk Makto’s eyes met his son’s for a fleeting moment, yet in that instant, he perceived the weight of sadness, regret, grief, and anger that plagued the man. But Lo'ak also read something else lurking within.

Disappointment and judgment.

He raised a hand to halt his rant. “You’ve done enough.” His spatted words stung as he walked away, leaving him feeling small and useless. "But Dad," he said, his voice cracking in desperation. He was imputing the blame on him. As always. 

Neteyam's virtue translated into judiciousness and responsibility. He was prudent and thoughtful, someone you could rely on; had a strong sense of duty and was trustworthy. A wise person who always put the needs of others before his own and reasoned accordingly. Who worked hard to earn his place in the clan - both the clans. Always the good example to follow. 

The golden boy. 

Unlike him, Lo’ak had a mercurial nature, often characterized by fearlessness and impulsiveness. A scoundrel who never failed to drag his older brother into his misadventures. No matter what kind of trouble he got himself into, Neteyam constantly took the hit for things he couldn't control, which often left him harmed. It was his task to keep the younger one in check, preserving him even from his own recklessness.

Lo’ak’s fault that Neteyam had been caught in an explosion in the raid on the RDA train.  Lo'ak's actions led to Quaritch kidnapping Spider, discovering Jake's kids and forcing the family to flee.  They were jolted out of their ordinary, peaceful lives. Ripped their mother from her position as Tsakarem and his brother from his role as the next Olo’eyktan. Neteyam's split lip was a result of the fight he got into with Ao'nung, which was instigated by Lo'ak. If his sisters were tied up somewhere on the whaler off the coast, he should be the one to blame.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he was his liability for Neteyam's passing.

Before he winced at the sound of his name, Tsireya's gentle touch had already reached him. So deep in thought that he didn't even notice how close she was. "It's not your fault," she said, looking at him with empathy, as if trying to ease the guilt he felt. The atmosphere was tense, and the usual cheerfulness was nowhere to be found, replaced with a heavy, somber mood. She looked at him with a liquid gaze, clouded by concern and a desire to ease his burden. And by fear.

The Metkayina had known nothing but peace until now. The ocean was ablaze, and corpses were everywhere, both Na’vi and humans. Alien machines and people's cries fused into an earsplitting noise. The smoke enveloped the air, carrying an acrid stench that she couldn’t place, but she would soon associate it to the notion of war. She embraced Lo'ak tightly, her turquoise irises skimming the surroundings from above his shoulder.  Stars should have been scattered in the eclipse sky, and she should have seen the iridescent outline of Polyphemus. Everything was engulfed in darkness, save for the flickering red and orange flames.

Huddled together as far as the barrier of their bodies made it possible, their faces aligned. Eyes locked in a wordless exchange that seemed to convey everything they needed to say. The warmth of their breaths mingled as their noses collided, and they could still feel the salt water drying on their skin. Their heartbeats filled the space between them, drowning out all other noise.

Even though the timing was less than ideal, they shared the long-awaited first kiss that left them both breathless; uncertainty looming over them, knowing it might be their last. Their lips barely brushed as a sharp whistle rose from Neteyam’s now gaping mouth. Inhaling in deep, erratic puffs, his fatigued eyes widened. He let out a weak cough, a sign that he was still with us. 

Neteyam was alive.  He was still alive.

“Bro!” Lo'ak sprang into action, wrapping his arms around him and lifting him up, helping him catch his breath. "I've got you, bro," he said. “Take short, quick breaths. Keep calm, don’t fidget. You’re fine, you made it. You’re still here.” What was happening before his eyes took him aback. It was almost too surreal to believe. His brother had been awake, crossed over to the other side, and returned. An unrestrained grin plasticized on his face, not resisting hugging him. 

In that moment, Neteyam's agonized throat let out a grunt, and his entire body convulsed with spasms. The growls escaping from his mouth sounding more like painful moans. Lo'ak's instincts kicked in and he ducked his abdomen forward, tapping his shoulder blades. Something was stuck in his windpipe, and he choked violently in an attempt to clear it. Neteyam threw out as he urged him to, spitting out the stale, viscous blood with a loud stridor. He leaned back against him, and he could feel the tension leaving his body. "I can't believe it," he laughed with delight. “You kicked death’s butt, bro!”

His joke fell flat. As he waited for a response, a snicker, the only thing he heard was the sound of his own breathing, leaving him with an uncomfortable silence that hung in the air. He brought his hands to his brother's face, desperate to hold onto the moment, fearing any further separation. Something that would be too much for him to handle. There's no way he could see him fade away again, not after giving him a glimpse of hope. But his eyes were bright; that full, vivid yellow, free of impurities he remembered. Nothing like what they had become only a quarter of an hour ago.

“They’re two highlighters,” Spider quipped during their playtime one afternoon. They were probably around seven. “What’s a hailaite?”  “Highlighter. It’s a marker with a big flat tip. Norm's got a ton of those on his desk. He uses them to make important stuff stand out on paper. Crazy, huh? He's old school, he still uses paper!” he chuckled. "He says it adds a touch of reality to the technology.”

Paper wasn’t a foreign concept to the Omatikaya, as outsiders had introduced them to it. Although they found it almost useless since the Na'vi, except for the Tawkami clan, didn’t have a writing system. Only the Sullys could wield it, as they were the sole members of the clan who could read English, an Earth language. Norm was their teacher. Their weekly schedule included three sessions of English lessons, along with hours dedicated to maths and science.

With the village’s constant rhythms, educating them to the level of an average human being was a daunting task. But Jake and Neytiri believed their children should know of their human side to have a complete sense of their identity. Also, they realized having extra knowledge in science and technology would be beneficial. 

"Super weird," is how Spider described the highlighters. “They're not the go-to for coloring or drawing, but they're hella vibrant.”“Vibrant?” said Kiri skeptically. “It means the colors are poppin'. They look strong. You know, like Teyam's eyes.”

Yes, Teyam’s eyes were bright and energetic. Lo'ak doubted to possess the same vigour they conveyed. The leader's spirit was not passed down to him. 

Only if he had witnessed his father a few decades earlier, he would have finally comprehended how much he had taken from him. Not just the incredible resemblance of their faces. Not just the addition finger on each hand and foot, or the eyebrows, or the irises a shade darker than his mother’s. 

Jake held his youngest son in thrall, for he was his spitting image. - Nothing scared him more than catching sight of his younger self in Lo’ak; his mirror.

There was a time when Jake acted on his emotions rather than thinking things through. He was impulsive, trusting his gut over his head, and was always eager to join in any kind of altercation, to jump into the fray. Whether it was to stand up for a friend or for the sheer sake of a good fistfight.  A disposition that cost him his legs as a Marine, but it was also the reason he was brave enough to step into Tommy's shoes in the Avatar Project. A life-changing decision that led him here, to Pandora. To Neytiri. Where he got something more meaningful and visceral, a sense of purpose filled with hope, love, and a group of people to connect with.

A place to belong.  A home. A family.  And with them, countless worries come along. 

A father protects. That's what gives him meaning.

As his children grew, the somewhat awkward but endearing carefreeness gradually faded. He started to prioritize his role as Olo'eyktan over his role as a father, especially to the two boys, resulting in a shift in their relationship. They looked up to him and strived to match his standards, exceed his expectations, and earn his respect. 

To gain his approval. To live up to him.

To break free from his shadow.

The day would come when Jake wouldn't be there to guide the clan anymore. It would fall on them, as warriors and his successors, to preserve it, and with it, their sisters. They had to be primed.

The reappear of the RDA had merely fomented this authoritarian side, shaped by years of military discipline. One by one, a new tile replaced the playful, jolly dad with each clash. Toruk Makto and Corporal Sully’s puzzle was incomplete until the train episode and the memory of his first-born being thrown into the air came together to form a complete picture. A commanding and aloof individual who responded to the title ‘sir’.

But the proverbial final straw that broke the camel’s back was encountering Quaritch once more, as if resurrected from the dead. Like a ghost from the past. Well, almost. He was now a phony Na’vi of twenty-something years - like his own children. It was a disorienting experience, given that he was at least thirty years Jake's senior, as a human. Still, that voice and its overconfident and defiant demeanour were just as he recalled. Specifically, watching him press a dagger to Lo'ak's jugular.

The past had arrived at his doorstep, and he had a lot, far too much at stake. He had already lost one of his sons, his own flesh and blood, taken away before his very eyes. Little did he know that, as he battled his worst nightmare to the death, Eywa had already granted him mercy and clemency.

Lo'ak told his brother to sit against a craggy outcrop so he could breathe easier and said he had to warn their father. Slowly, he made his way to the edge of the rocks and looked down at the churning water below. With his back turned, he asked Tsireya to take care of Neteyam in his absence, sneaking a peek at her from the corner of his eye. The blinding glare from the sea made it hard to make out the features of his face.  “No!”  "Find someone, anyone - your father, a survivor, an ilu. But bring Neteyam back to the village, okay? He needs Ronal.” “Lo’ak, you cannot...” "I gotta," he insisted, cutting her off and kneeling to cup her face. As he wiped away her tears, he could feel her trembling beneath his touch, her face contorted into a look of distress. His thumbs circling on her cheeks. “I couldn't live with myself if something happened to my sisters. If something were to happen to my parents while they were fighting out of hatred and fury, I’d never forgive myself. Neteyam's alive, they must know. I won't let them think they lost him and sacrifice themselves.” 

All because of me.

He went to get up, but the girl gripped his hand, not wanting to let go, and said, “Don’t go, something might happen to you.” She gritted her teeth as more tears mingled with the salt that had dried on her cheeks. Three fingers intertwined firmly at his four. “They could lose you.” ”I'm down to take that risk. They’re my family. I'd rather me than him,” he said with a bitter chuckle, pointing towards his brother. "You can’t mean it," she said, sounding reproachful. He didn't answer, instead choosing to hold her hand in both of his and look away. Slowly and rhythmically, he stroked her back with his thumb.  ”Lo'ak, you're just as important as Neteyam. They love you. Losing you would be just as heartbreaking.” Again, the only response was a quick, disapproving shake of the head. “For me, it’d be heartbreaking.”

At those last words, their eyes met, languid and full of regret. For the time wasted, for the words left unsaid, for the chances they thought never-ending, when this might have been their last time together. Tsireya’s throat felt tight, but she took a deep breath and gathered her courage, swallowing the lump that prevented her from speaking. She drew him closer, filling her abdomen and feeling her diaphragm lower as her heart raced. She gave him a last kiss, pouring all of her remaining strength into it, all of her torment, and for a moment, nothing else mattered. The silence was a relief, as they no longer heard the ominous sounds of moans, screams, and blasts of machinery blowing up or rifles firing. As their lips cautiously danced together, she tasted the saltiness that roughened his own.  They were in their own little bubble, cut off from the rest of the world. Briefly, all their worries and responsibilities disappeared, and they were just two kids in love again, lost in each other’s embrace.

Unfortunately, that feeling was short-lived. They parted just as the SeaDragon engine exploded; the sound echoing around them. They both froze in fear as they saw the danger ahead, unable to move or speak. Their hearts sank; they had to act fast.  Despite Lo'ak's desire to turn away, Tsireya's palms kept him rooted in place. “Promise me you’ll be careful, that you’ll come back to me. Don’t do anything stupid.” He gave her a condescending lopsided smile, tinged with a hint of cockiness and a flicker of triumph in his eyes. “Trust me.” With a final nose peck, Lo'ak let out a guttural cry to summon his ilu. He mounted the creature, sensing its powerful muscles beneath him, and vanished into the choppy waves.

There was a great commotion in the Tsahìk tent as people bustled in and out, their voices mixing together in a cacophony of sound. The healers bounced from one side of the marui to the other like tennis balls when hit by a racket, rummaging through shelves and baskets. They sniffed and tasted different herbs and powders, hoping to create a medicine or a tonic to wake the patient up. Even just some strange-smelling concoction to place under his nostrils.

But Neteyam wouldn’t wake up from his slumber, no matter how much they tried. His body lay there, placid in its immobility. His chest was moving regularly and his eyes were twitching behind closed lids. 

Ronal passed a sharp needle over the boy’s torso, following the line of tendons from the jugular incisura to the rectum of the abdomen; where the hollow of the navel was drawn. She was chanting tones to the Great Mother in a melody that was exotic to the Omatikaya customs. Her face was a mask of unreadability.

“This ain't working.” Tsireya spoke in a hushed tone, her words meant only for Ao'nung's ears. The two communicated in a silence conversation, their eyes speaking volumes, shutting everyone else out. They had a secret language that only they could understand. Something just closed siblings have.  The elder’s head bobbed in agreement; a quick nod. His aquamarine eyes turned cold, hardening to a steely blue, his lips barely curving into a thin line as he tried to force the words out of his throat. “We need those scientists, sa’nok (mother).”

Silence fell, permeating and thick to suffocation. All the confidence that had prompted him to speak slipped away like water poured over an oil stain. He stood frozen, the weight of the burden on his shoulders threatening to buckle his knees. His gaze lowered to the dry straw floor, suddenly marveled at the intricate weave that made it up. He cowered, ears pressed tightly against his head, tail heavy and tucked between his legs. It was a surprise to see him in such a submissive posture, with a sense of resignation that was rare for him; he usually carried himself with confidence and authority. He strutted around with an air of superiority, fully cognizant of his influential status in the clan.

But with his parents, and especially his mother, was another story. 

Overpowering his mother would be easy for Ao'nung, given his sheer force and her current state. Yet, whether it was because of her role as Tsahìk or as a mother, the woman possessed an unwavering aura of obedience that commanded respect; one look was sufficient.  And as the boy faced the latter, he could feel the tension building between them, a mix of mute fury and surprise. She held the needle so tightly that her knuckles whitened, and her arms stretched along her sides. A conscious effort to redirect her irritation elsewhere, instead of displaying it publicly towards her son. Her refusal to turn away was evident in the stern side glance and stiff back. She closed her eyes, hoping to reset her mind and convince herself that the sentence was a figment of her imagination. She replayed the conversation in her mind, confirming that Ao'nung had, in fact, said what she thought he did. Had, in fact, implied that her intervention was subpar, and Nawna Sa'nok's ways were ineffectual. 

“Pardon?” she snarled through gritted her teeth. "Neteyam is part tawtute (human)," Tsireya said, defending her brother and standing in front of him. “This is beyond our comprehension,” gesturing to the patient on the cot. Ronal turned her full attention to her children, standing tall and proud before them. The regal grace of a queen, although a hint of complacency shone through in her every pore. Her children have blossomed into remarkable adults. With disbelief and shock written all over her face, she handed the tools to the nearby healer. The sight and sound were so extraordinary that people were left speechless. Seeing Ao'nung defy parental opinions or decisions was nothing new, but Tsireya’s reaction took everyone by wonder.

‘Since when did she stand up for him?' everyone seemed to be thinking the same thing.

Ronal looked at the fully healed wound at Neteyam’s heart level and pondered sarcastically if it could be their doing. “They, who killed their own Mother and then came here to repeat the same mistake?” Though rhetorical, Tsireya replied: “A second opinion might help.” ”We need nothing from those demons. They were no aid when Kiri had convulsions and they won’t be now with Neteyam’s lethargy.” “Lethargy??” Lo'ak, who had been quietly observing the curators until now, finally chimed in with a sudden outburst. He couldn't hold back, even if it meant facing his parents' punishment for criticizing Tsahìk — again. “He’s in a coma!”  "Name it what you will, boy.” Ronal’s tongue snapped against her palate as she expressed her firm belief that ketuwong (aliens) would not bring any benefits.

A deafening silence filled the air until Ronal herself broke it. “Notwithstanding, I concur that this is a case that surpasses the expertise of the Metkayina.” “What is your suggestion?” Jake's voice was reduced to a mere echo of its usual force. He looked at his son with a heavy heart, feeling afflicted and impotent.  With a shared understanding, the two wives nodded at each other, coming to a decision. Neytiri spoke up, “We have no other choice but to bring him to the Tawkami.”

“Sa’nok, we cannot assess Neteyam’s physiological condition,” Ao’nung stepped forward with newfound bravery, “now that he is in... coma,” he intoned, the word heavy on his tongue; his pronunciation tentative and labored in scanning the alien language. ”He might stop breathing any second,” Lo'ak warned. Neytiri, who was skeptical of the Sky People, unexpectedly found herself agreeing with the two young men. “He requires constant monitoring. If his condition worsens, they’ll have to put him on respirators. Moreover, transporting him via ikran may prove fatal.”  The woman brought two fingers to compress her septum. Her eyes narrowed as she sighed. “Alright, we will dedicate a temporary area to the lab. In the meantime, you…” she pointed at the Sullys, “You will travel to Greenhome.”

The bluish halo of neon lights that surrounded him once again was familiar and yet disorienting at the same time. A perpetual twilight that contrasted with the sterile walls inside greeted him. The monitors cast a gentle glow, illuminating the otherwise dark room, while the medical area streamed a bright white light through the small porthole. 

Neteyam was there, his eyes closed as he lay on the comfortable, ergonomic mattress. The hospital gown, an ugly replacement for his clothes, was accompanied by the beeping and whirring of the machinery. His now hideous accessorizes. An electrode attached to his temple where a single braid would normally be, and an IV instead of a band on his forearm. A pulse oximeter put to the forefinger of his hand, which rested on his hip, while a mask pumped Pandorian air into his lungs, covering his nose and mouth.

Max couldn't provide any answers for Neteyam's miraculous recovery, just as Ronal had assumed. He hypothesized the coma resulted from the traumatic event, and it left a greater impact on his psyche than on his body - his brain was still operational, but in a dormant state. He was in a stable condition, although he couldn't predict how long it would last. 

He shivered as a delicate hand trailed down his spine, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake.  He interpreted the gesture as a sign that it was time, and the girl nodded meditatively before burying her face in his chest. With her long arms wrapped around him, she held him close, anchoring him to herself with a tight squeeze around his waist. She rubbed the tip of her nose on his sternum before pulling away just enough to look into his eyes and say, “We’ll take care of him.”

Lo'ak examined the transceiver attached to the young woman's ear, running his fingers over the smooth surface. “You remember how to use it, right? It’s already connected to mine in the case — “ "Don't worry, I'll keep you in the loop," she grinned. However, as soon as the thought of his impending departure crossed her mind, her composure collapsed. He hugged her one last time, savoring the sweet scent of her wavy hair that reminded him of a warm, sunny day. “I'll be back before you even miss me.” With his chin on her head, it was at that moment that he saw something strange beyond the glass.

Behind the oxygen mask, Neteyam was smiling.

@cinetrix @scorpiomoon-444 @wh0rezs @sweetdayme4427

[masked-and-doomed]

So you want to talk about your ocs? Speak about UG. I demand /pos /hj (please talk about her she's so silly :3)

Waugh!! I do have a big post planned for her that I need to get the art done of, so for this, I'll talk about relationships of her to other chars !! (f.unger 1) :] (I hope this isn't that ooc for them Augh they haven't fully wrapped around my head yet..)

D'a.rce

UG loves her and wants to try and sway her over le'ga.rde. She knows it won't happen, but she definitely wants D'a.rce to get attached to her and the other party members so she has other people she can find solace in after le'g.arde's betrayal and him leaving her. D'.arce is protective of her and is worried for her well being. She does realise she can manage quite well on her own, but she doesn't want the burden of responsibility on such a young girl. D'ar.ce finds her quite strange and rude, sometimes pointing out her unladyness, but she gets over it soon enough.

C.ahara

UG loves Caha.ra and tends to joke around more with him. She makes sure to hand over every valuable item or money she finds to him, for his quest to get money out of the dungeon. He, like D'.arce, is worried for her. He won't exactly voice out his concerns but they both get his caution. Ca.hara also jokes more to her, them both using the humour of their situation to lighten the mood. Though, unlike him, UG actually finds the situation humourous. Penis monsters. Hah.

Rag.nvaldr

UG loves Rag, she sometimes consume the enemies too, offering him some of the remains. He reluctantly takes it and feasts with her, somewhat concerned that she is enthusiastic about devouring the carcasses of the monsters. Rag thinks she's cocky but can understand her skill shining through this dungeon. He likes her, not necessarily as outwardly protective. More so sees her as an ally in battle with her proficiency in murder. Still sees her as a kid, but doesn't worry too much.

En.ki

UG's most loved out of the 4 main adventurers. She tries to one up him and sticks her head in his business a lot. She loves annoying him. And it's not like he can kill her either, she's somehow more advanced in magic than him, pulling spells he hasn't even heard of. How ego crushing. Enk.i acknowledges her skill but only barely respects it considering how annoying she is. He's learned to tolerate her antics. He won't admit that he likes her a bit too. >:)

The Girl

UG and Girl are besties forever! With their shared experience of being doomed they find understanding in one another a lot. UG is the one that teaches her how to fight the most out of the cast, her praising the Girl at every time she helps a kill. The Girl finds comfort in UG's presence, despite how loud she can be. When reaching the tower of the endless and defeating Skin Granny, UG makes sure to get The Girl as comfortable as possible, with her having hard times with sleeping. The Girl feels. Quite safe around her.

Mo.onless

UG loves doggy ! She pampers Moon.less a lot and gives her all the scratches!! Belly rubs!! She's the one most keen on feeding Moonl.ess and handling the maggot infested rotten meat, to be gently taken out of UG's hand and to be scarfed down by the dog. Moo.nless likes her all the same as the others, she'll definitely remember UG's enthusiasm and scent. (wink wink nudge nudge Prehevil)

Le'ga.rde

UG loves Le'garde. (She fucking loves everyone, can you tell?) Not taking him seriously, since she knows about his 'grand plan to ascend' and stuff had been left up to the chances of these 4 saving him. Stupid man. Upon finding him, she jumps to treat his wounds and pats him on the head, in a mocking tone, congratulates him for making this far. Le'.garde can more or less tolerate her, but might consider being alone with Rag rather than being alone with her. He's more focused on his plan. He's quite suspicious of her, as she seems a little eager to follow along to Ma'habre...

Nas'hrah

UG likes Nas'hrah. Hah, first like. Maybe could be love, but Nas'hrah insults her quite a bit that she's taking it a little bit to heart. Not much, but she's getting tired of most of his words being mean ones. She's not sure why she finds Enk.i's annoyance towards her more endearing than Nas'.hrah's. (maybe cause of Enk.i's long hair) She entertains him with his quips often. Nas'hrah more or less dislikes her. Sure, he doesn't like anyone, but her constant energy and stupidity annoys him quite more than the others could manage. He finds some respect in her skill, but she's far too irritating for him to ever say anything good about it.

Pocketkitty

^ UG has mental illness so she uhh is like flip floppy between these about him. Him in return, well.. I'll.. leave you to guess that. He. Loves her, let's say. :) I wanna make a fic/comic of it soon, of their first meeting. She caught Pocketkitty a little off guard. ;)

[over-the-time-flow]

Super Robot Rollcall - The Photon Power Lab Crew

Koji Kabuto

"Mazinger Z is a god! It won't just break down over something like this!"

Source Material: Mazinger Z Age: 16 Hobby: Motorcycling Voice Actor: Hiroya Ishimaru Character Designer: Go Nagai

A young man who was burdened with enough power to become a god or a devil, Koji Kabuto is a cocky yet ultimately good-natured kid.

When the wicked Dr. Hell marched upon Japan with his army of ancient Mycenaean Mechabeasts, the tremors caused a cave in within Koji's grandpa's secret underground lab. With his final breath, he told Koji to wield the Mazinger Z's unmatched power to change the world...

After many tough encounters against Dr. Hell, his minions, and their Mechabeast Army, Koji and the Mazinger came out victorious... or so it seemed. From within the Earth, the Mycenaean Empire merely laid dormant, and awakened not too long after Koji's final battle with Dr. Hell, they were also intent on world domination.

Though Koji bravely fought them back even when clearly outmatched, he and the other members of the Photonic Power Labs crew only barely made it through thanks to the intervention of Tetsuya Tsurugi and his top-secret successor to the Mazinger, created by Koji's own (once assumed dead) father; the Great Mazinger.

Now, Koji, Tetsuya, and their respective teammates work together to thwart the ambitions of the heartless Mycenaeans.

High Melee, VERY high Defense, and a Potential skill that can reach even the max level 9. Koji is one hell of a defensive behemoth, and his Spirit Command learnset matches that. Not much else to add.

You can swap him (and all the other Mazinger pilots) around to other machines, but there's hardly much point in doing so when the side cast's machines are so bad. I suppose you could put Koji in the Great Mazinger in case you really really liked Grendizer vs Great Mazinger.

Fun Fact: Koji was originally to have a scarf, but Kamen Rider came out and became explosively popular around the time Mazinger would come out, and Nagai decided to cut it so as to not look like he was just riding the trend.

We were robbed.

Mazinger Z

Source Material: Mazinger Z Height: 18 meters Energy Source: Photonic Energy Real World Designer: Go Nagai

The sky-soaring fortress of steel that grants its pilot the power to become a god or a devil! The mechanical devil god itself! Mazinger Z!

Designed by Koji's grandfather, it both grants Koji the power to shape the world and burdens him with the tremendous task of controlling its power.

A mainstay of Super Robot Wars, with a nearly perfect track record.

High-ish Armor, decent HP. It's not unfitting for Koji, but it's hard to say it truly lives up to his stats. On the attacking front, it's decent as well, but has the usual issue that Mazinger has in a lot of games with Great and no Mazinkaiser; Great has better finishers on top of having the Great Booster, a one-use only finisher that serves as a proper nuke.

If only Mazinger got its own high damage one-use finishing move... Alas, that is but a dream. Unless...?

Sayaka Yumi

"Don't you know an angry girl is MUCH scarier than an angry guy? Huh? C'MERE!!"

Source Material: Mazinger Z Age: 16 Voice Actress: Minori Matsushima (among others, but she's the one who voices her in SRW) Character Designer: Go Nagai

Daughter of Professor Yumi of the Photonic Power Labs, pilot of the Aphrodite A and Diana A, and Koji's rival/love interest/comedic foil.

As she's rather short-tempered, Koji often picks on her by saying crazy misogynistic stuff. From how he acts around other women in the show, it seems like it really is just to pick on Sayaka. In any case, Sayaka rarely chooses to be the bigger man and instead beats the everliving shit out of Koji. Kids anime in the 70s was not here to give you healthy relationship role models, it was here to make you watch Koji and Sayaka throw furniture at each other, scratch and hit each other, and make the rest of the cast visibly worried.

This relationship might have been a bit more palatable if Sayaka ever got a single W against a mechabeast, but she's below Boss in that regard. Still, she does get her own mini-arc later in the series where Koji apologizes to her for a lot of his past deeds, which is surprisingly nice for a show of its age. She still continues to job afterwards.

In SRW, Toei Koji and Toei Sayaka's love-hate dynamic is usually very toned down if at all present, which is an understandable approach, even if it makes her less distinct than other versions of Sayaka.

No way around it, Sayaka is terrible. Awful stats and absolutely nothing good for her to pilot. That's right, you can't even fix her by shoving her in the Mazinger or the Great, because if her other stats are terrible, her Melee is ABYSMAL.

At level 40 she does learn one of the best support Spirit Commands in the game, but that'll be a LONG while of dragging Diana A around the battlefield to Repair to slowly crank up those levels.

Diana A

Source Material: Mazinger Z Height: 16 meters Energy Source: Photonic Energy

After the Aphrodite A gets destroyed by Harpia π7, Diana A rises from the ashes! Even Koji, who once advocated for phasing out Aphrodite A altogether, ended up being in support of the Diana A's construction after seeing how hurt Sayaka was to lose Aphrodite.

Born from Sayaka's determination to keep on fighting, Diana A will never die! (but it WILL endlessly job)

Decent Armor, but pathetically low HP makes Diana hardly fit for even its Repairbot role. As a Super (even if only nominally), it also has no Mobility to speak of. To make matters worse, it's got a Movement Range of 5.

If it has any upsides, it's that it's a version of Diana A that actually has its Ranged-attribute attack be its strongest move, to go with Sayaka's higher Ranged stat (even if it's technically only tied with the Melee-attribute Scarlet Beam).

Even the Methuss is a better pick. Don't bother unless the Diana A episode moved you so much it made you cry. Which i wouldn't judge you for. It's rather earnest and truly makes you feel for Sayaka's pl- huh? N-no, i didn't cry at it. Shut up.

Boss

"If it means I can buy time for even a few of the kids, I don't mind getting chopped into pieces. And if i die... tell Kabuto he was my best friend in the whole world."

Source Material: Mazinger Z Real Name: Not Even The Author Knows Age: 17 Character Designer: Go Nagai

Delinquent with a heart of gold, Boss is the mysteriously-named gang leader in Koji's town. Though initially they fought over Sayaka's affections, they would eventually become closer than even brothers.

Between the line quoted above, Boss' constant dreams about being saved from the clutches of the heartless Tetsuya by Koji in Great Mazinger, and following Koji to bumfuck nowhere, Japan, to fight literal aliens in Grendizer, Toei Boss is likely the incarnation of Boss that is most fanatically dedicated to Koji.

He's often followed by his two incompetent lackeys, Nuke and Mucha, but most SRW games featuring Toei Mazinger cut them for one reason or another.

Statwise, Boss is... alright, all things considered. He's completely outclassed by Koji and Tetsuya both, but he's still a few degrees of magnitude better than Sayaka.

Of note though is that his Spirit learnset is very underwhelming. He starts out with Daunt, letting him lower enemies' morale and helping with boss slaying, but other than that, he doesn't get much of interest.

Not really much of a point to using him, unless you hate Tetsuya for some reason like i do but still want the Mazinger combo moves.

Fun Fact: Not even the author knows his real name!

Boss Borot

Source Material: Mazinger Z Height: 12 meters (20m in Great Mazinger, inexplicably) Energy Source: High-Octane Gasoline Real World Designer: Go Nagai

Dan-da-daaaan!!! Lovable lug and friend to children all over the world, the Boss Borot is here! It's made out of scrap, it's a miracle it even moves, it's falling apart at every seam, and yet it somehow jobs less than any of the girl robots. Thanks, 70s Toei!

Well, you can't complain much because the Borot is such a perfect design.

Originally designed by the (then) trio of brilliant scientists from the Photonic Labs, who were kidnapped coerced convinced to make this thing at Boss and Sayaka's request. Since they made it in secrecy in a dumpster, this is the best they could come up with.

Boss is always coming up with convoluted plans to make the Borot fly... it rarely works.

It's bad, even for Borot standards. 5 movement, Boss has no sub-pilots, all of its moves are 1-range, until it gets upgraded with a 1-3 range move (which is also its only option to attack flying foes). It doesn't even have high HP to make use of Boss' Self-Destruct Command and its Repair Cost of 10.

Making matters even worse, it is completely outclassed by later Resupply machines. Diana A might be outclassed by the Methuss in terms of Repairing, but at the end of the day they're both pretty meh. You get actually decent Resupply-capable machines in this game.

Do not bother.

Fun Fact: In Mazinger Z VS The Great General of Darkness, Boss Borot is the only Photonic Power Labs machine to successfully down a Battlebeast... though it did destroy itself in the process.

Also, sometimes this thing is fucking sentient. Eva-01, eat your heart out.

[chargetheintruder]

I've been holding back for a bit.

This has been mainly to save my strength for things that matter, because my health's no good, and this has been a busy month (lots and lots of packages to snag). And now a few items have come to my attention as being urgent. Bear with me, I'll try to keep to the point.

Edit: I cut and pasted the aggro/political stuff so that this post isn't such a rude shitpost. Not that I think most of Tumblr is that conservative, it's just that the tonal whiplash was a bit much even by my own pathetic standards, my apologies.

Oh, and this happens. No, not my being aggressive when I'm aggressive, but this Media thing. Many of these bought, paid-for and kept hacks either can't (can not, as in are unable to) or won't (will not, as in refuse to) distinguish fantasy from reality. Do Dark Mirror stories make for some fascinating fiction for me? Sure. Does that mean I want to live there? Absolutely not.

But let's get back to this . . .

--In other news? Not that anyone's going to see this, but for real, Mr. James Gunn? You there, the guy doing a Superman film currently? I'm not sure what to make of your behavior over there on that thing Elon Musk made out of Twitter, okay? Because I thought for sure you were a nerd who knew his stuff and knew the difference between a Bizarro (Clone of Superman) and a Dark Mirror Universe Superman. Among other things. So I'll just keep it simple.

Based on the earliest evidence from your casting of guest heroes, I'm guessing that when it comes to Formerly Twitter, you're that guy, flipping the coin and saying, "Heads I tell the Truth . . . aw shucks, gotta lie some more," because it superficially looks like you're making a Superman (and a few bros of his) versus The Crime Syndicate movie (or two). And all I have to say to that is: Lean into it. LEAN INTO IT. If you're not doing that it'll be the slickest deception ever.

And if you ARE doing that, and you have to go Kill Bill on it and make it two tightly released volumes, please do that. Really, your whole superhero thing so far (based on your Guardians work and your work on The Suicide Squad) suggests that big honking clusterfucks like that are your jam. :) Just say something like "The Justice League's off-world currently, something's gone bad to screw Clark out of most of his powers, and he's having to scramble to get what help he can."

Full Disclosure: I am biased here. I admit I might be a fan of the Syndicate here. The concept of 1980s Yuppie Scum (and worse) getting together as a Gangsta League, that just hits the twisted buttons in all sorts of places. If I could draw worth a damn and still had my health I might do a bootleg comic or something called Challenge of the Super-Fiends, featuring the Syndicate, just so I could see my bad guys doing bad things more than once a decade. But hey.

Edit: And now for the political stuff for those who care about it, and only those. Sorry to burden the rest of you.

--This so-called "debate". This Media-orchestrated alt-reich mugging is more like it. No, who the fuck wants a proper debate with "no notes, no props" as their rules? No professional public speaker and/or politician since 1900 has debated this way, entirely from memory, for good reason. IT'S HARD, even when you're young and in your right mind. Way to throw Trump and Traitor Party YET ANOTHER fucking softball, you bought and paid-for psychos. No really, we get it, competence bores you, but you really WANT society to be ransacked and ruined by every petty fascist ever? Really? Fuck this noise, vote BLUE, fuck these experts, fuck all traitors, like the Trumps.

--And YES, I do have a PLAN for this godawful election in these so-called United States. It's still too early to discuss it in detail but I am going to need help with it--my health is too bad to do it all myself, even if I had the money to do so. No, it doesn't involve firearms (directly). We won't have to do much more than make well-timed phone calls, by the hundred, from burner phones.

And that's it for now, I might add more to this if it comes back to me tonight. Thanks for your patience.

[cerastes]

What do you think with the reunion squad? Do you symphatize them?

I'm assuming you mean the Reunion leadership in Arknights.

I only have one complaint with the way they are handled and that is that the game does veer into "you killed them :( feel bad about it" now and then, which, I get it, Arknights is built on a foundation of Who Is Right And Who Is Wrong, and there's a lot of persons of admirable character among Reunion, this much is true, so I don't particularly let this be more than a small complaint, and I realize that it's mostly my own views coming into play: I can mourn and honor a powerful and noble rival who stood on the opposite end of the board by carrying on and achieving the lofty goals of a better tomorrow we both believed in, rather than wallow in sadness. We both have beliefs, and this is just the outcome.

That very minor complaint aside, I think you can already tell, from this paragraph alone, and my previous posting regarding said member, ere you to peruse it if you have not already, that I do quite like them. I like the Reunion cast because they all have something to offer to the table. Each character could merit a whole post by themselves, so I'll keep it brief, for dashboard's sake, mentioning a few highlights:

Talulah, the leader, a young and brash idealist with the power and skills to make a difference, sweet Talulah, untarnished and warm and loving and caring, thrust into a raw, cruel world of warfare that twisted her beyond recognition, into a cruel manipulator, desensitized to the pain brought by the burden of leadership. Does this sound familiar? Talulah is an excellent narrative foil to the Doctor, as someone who has grown tragically unrecognizable to even their closest associates, who used to be oh so loving and compassionate, sanded by the burdens of leadership into a numb chessmaster. Yes, the Black Deathless Snake's possession is indeed a factor to consider, but keep in mind that by both the admission of both Talulah and Kaschei, he can't make her do things she wouldn't do, merely push her and influence her heavily towards things one might rationally not do but still would do.

Mudrock and Big Bob both represent the honest Infected that were wise enough to realize that Reunion had rotted from within, and yet, they couldn't, wouldn't abandon their ideal of making the world a better place for the Infected. Big Bob took his "family" and successfully funded an Originium Slug farm in Columbia, where he harvests the slugs' fluids, a commonplace item in Infected treatment to undo their pain, and gives it practically for free to the Infected (usually, these fluids are sold at an incredibly high markup), whereas Mudrock took it upon herself to fight for those that can't possibly fight for themselves, and to lead them to lands they could call a new home, where they wouldn't be second class citizens, in the borderlands of Kazdel, and was one hundred percent willing to die fighting to protect the refugees she had just saved in her Reel. The two of them represent candidly how, even though there's definitely a lot of violent and bad people in Reunion, there's also true believers not necessarily in the banner of Reunion per se, but rather, the goal of making the world better for the Infected, and that they, as powerful, skilled individuals, can make a difference.

Mephisto and Faust represent the horrors of child soldiers, those who die too young, who master combat to become rippers of flesh since childhood, who become twisted monsters to lash back against a world that has only hurt them. Mephisto is the latter, having become utterly incapable of feeling anything remotely close to kinship to anyone that isn't Faust, Talulah, FrostNova, Skullshatterer and Patriot, and thus being despised even by others in Reunion. Faust, on the other hand, is a subtle horror story. An unremarkable, weak, meek child, who got so distressed at seeing those who would protect him get hurt, who was so terrified of losing FrostNova or Talulah or any of the others any time they went out to fight, that he decided to kill his weakness and embrace the path of the warrior fully, becoming a master crossbowman and squad leader. Seldom is Faust's battlefield success seen as something positive. Yes, he was strong enough to pin down Nearl with his attacks. No, at no point is this anything more than a tragedy of how such a young child had to grow this strong just to make it to the next day. Faust's death is one of the most solemn in the game, mourned by practically everyone, akin to FrostNova's own: These were clearly caring people that had been dealt the mother of a mulligans. Can you blame them for fighting tooth and nail for what they truly believed was a better tomorrow, just the way you do?

There's a lot more than can be said for every member, what they represent, and their contribution, but overall, it's a well-balanced cast with a purpose besides just being antagonists.

[midnightsunnyday]

When With His Father, Diavolo Is A Lot More Stern, The Demon King, On The Other Hand...Part Seven (Final)

A/N: it’s the final conclusion for this series! Thank you all for sticking through it. This has been a fun headcanon to write. I wanted to write the Demon King in my own way, yet would love to see him one day in canon. Either way, I hope you enjoyed this series. Until the next one, stay safe everyone!

-----------------

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six

-----------------

8:10 PM

Diavolo: before we leave, I suppose we should check up on the...oh.

*Mammon, head occupying the inside of a wall*

*Satan, buried under a bookshelf*

*Belphegor, sprawled out near a broken window*

*Solomon and Asmodeus, outside the window, knocked out and covered in glass*

*Leviathan, tangled on the chandelier*

*Beelzebub, torso jammed between a wooden chair*

Barbatos: Young Master, there you are.

Diavolo: let me guess, father threw yet another one of his tantrums after losing to Lucifer?

Barbatos: indeed.

Diavolo, looking around: though if anything, I'd say this party was an absolute success. This isn't half as bad as the damage he did last time.

Barbatos: Young Master, it is my deepest regret for not tending to you sooner. You were in pain, and I completely disregarded it for my majesty's sake. Had I only been more proactive, I could have prevented such a disaster. I am not worthy of being your butler. I will resign immediately.

Diavolo: well, I wouldn't say I was in pain, yet still, absolutely not! I will not allow you to resign!

Barbatos: but--

Diavolo: --you're my family, Barbatos. I couldn't possibly imagine you leaving my side, not now or ever. Without you I'm not sure what I'd do. So please, don't ever speak those words again.

Barbatos, blushing: Young Master I...thank you.

MC: aww.

Diavolo: now then, what to do about all this?

Barbatos: should we tend to everyone?

Diavolo: well, that depends. Father, are you still cognizant?

The Demon King, slumped over the couch: the fuck is a cognizant?

Diavolo: good. What say you, Lucifer?

Lucifer, flat on his back: where’s my MC? MC. MCCCCCC.

MC, sighing: what?

Lucifer: guess what IIIIII won?

MC: ....Me?

Lucifer, stretching out his arms: yaaaay. Now come...come give me a hug.

MC: no.

Lucifer, pouting: but I want one.

Diavolo: and what about the rest of you? Still holding on?

Everyone: *groans in pain*

Diavolo: well, I believe that settles it. Everyone's fine.

Leviathan: heeeelp.

Diavolo: just fine.

Barbatos: but Young Master--

Diavolo: --Barb, please. The last thing I need after an extensive therapeutic session is to be burdened with unneeded physical and emotional stress.

Barbatos: I beg your pardon?

MC: *clears throat* hi there, "certified" demonic counselor speaking. For the past 72 hours, Lord Diavolo has suffered through extensive psychological stress. Therefore, it is of my "professional opinion" that he, as we humans tend to say, "Fuck it."

Barbatos: I see. Though I am not certain of your qualifications, I do agree that the Young Master has been under a great deal more stress than usual. Though I must admit, this behavior is completely unlike him. Should I be concerned?

Diavolo: of course not. However, I've done nothing but run myself ragged trying to chase after my father. I think being a bit selfish for once won't harm anything. Besides, I'm sure they'll live, considering they're immortal, after all.

Barbatos: if that is what you wish, then I will oblige.

Diavolo: besides, I could really use something to eat.

MC: we still have some food in the kitchen, though it needs to be cooked.

Barbatos: then I will start immediately.

Diavolo: Barbatos, you truly are one of a kind.

Barbatos: and truly, I am humbled by your words.

MC, smiling: good grief.

-----------------

*a few days later*

Barbatos: and?

The Demon King: and that such actions are unbecoming of a king and…oh, come now, do I really need to say all this?

Barbatos: I believe you should, yes.

The Demon King: *rolls eyes* and that it is within my birthright to not only set the standard of what is expected of royalty but maintain it at all times. So in other words…sorry.

Barbatos: very good, Your Majesty.

MC: it’s cool. Also, I don’t mind visiting you at the castle. Just don’t put me in a collar, please.

The Demon King, blushing: very well, little human. I’ll try to compose myself from now on. The same goes for you, sorcerer. I hope the gifts my son provided you are to your liking.

Solomon: very much so, Your Highness. Pegasus blood is especially rare to come by and will do absolute wonders for my spell casting.

Diavolo: let's just hope we haven't sealed our fates with such a gift.

Solomon: rest assured you have nothing to worry about *whispers to MC* when my empire is built, you shall be the first spared.

MC: I call dibs on evil ruler.

Solomon: oh MC, that's the only fun kind of ruler there is.

Diavolo: I heard that.

Barbatos: is there anything you would like to add, Lucifer?

Lucifer, folding his arms: not in the slightest.

MC: please?

Lucifer: …I’m sorry for beating Your Highness at a drinking contest.

MC: and?

Lucifer: and for teasing Di—Diavolo…even if it was hilarious.

MC: that’s as good as it’s gonna get, huh?

Lucifer: I’m the Avatar of Pride. Not the Avatar of Apologizing.

Diavolo, sighing: good enough.

-----------------

*at the House of Lamentation*

Mammon: never again. Not for a million Grimm.

Leviathan: oh, so now you finally have standards.

Satan: crushed under the written word. An ironic fate indeed.

Belphegor: you doing alright there, Beel?

Beelzebub: so many splinters *shivers* I…don’t wanna talk about it.

Asmodeus: I can't believe I was knocked out a window. Thank goodness my perfect skin wasn't scratched or scarred. Poor Solomon, though. A fall like that would've broken every bone in his body...and it did! Good thing he knows magic.

Belphegor: though, isn’t this all technically MC’s fault?

Leviathan: hey, yeah! I can’t believe they just went off with Lord Diavolo and Barbatos and left us like that!

Mammon: I say we torture em’!

Asmodeus: ooh, how about we tie them up in pretty pink ribbons!

Mammon: and make em’ wear a cute, frilly outfit.

Asmodeus: with a tail!

Mammon: and those fluffy cat ears!

Satan: go on.

Belphegor: wait, what do any of those things have to do with torture?

Asmodeus and Mammon: torture what now?

Beelzebub, shaking his head: can we please just get some food and never speak of this moment ever again?

Mammon: and may we also never, ever, ever attend or throw another party for the Demon King.

Belphegor: agreed.

*text notification goes off*

Asmodeus: oh, Lucifer sent a message to the chat. It says, "All of you please make your way towards the castle. The king would like to...throw us an apology party."

Everyone: *groans*

Mammon: welp, spoke too soon. Yet think about it this way, at least we're immortal, right?

Leviathan: Mammon, shut up.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Draw your swords, pt. 13

Summary: Terrified of losing Y/N, the Darkling lets his defenses fall.

Warnings: angst, slight fluff, sexual content

Part one // Part two // Part three // Part four // Part five // Part six // Part seven // Part eight // Part nine // Part ten // Part eleven // Part twelve  

=================================

“Stay with me”, the Darkling trembled as he rushed back to the camp. He held her body close to his chest, her head slumped right where his heart beats thunderstorms in her name.

She’s slipping away, he can feel it. The injuries she suffered and the power she used weakened her irreversibly.

He should be angry with her, enraged, but he had no strength to spare for violent emotions. His heart couldn’t bare much more than the pain he found himself drowning in. It wasn’t the pain of his own wounds, rather the pain of her parted lips and ragged breaths that came like final gushes of air her lungs released.

“HEALER!” He shouted, hoping, praying to the Saints he never believed in before.

“HEALER!” There was something in his screams for help, an unimaginable pain behind it.

Y/N’s fingers twitched, her chest rising in a strange manner; what should expand with an inhale suddenly draws in, a paradox he had seen in dying soldiers.

“HEALER!” It was the kind of scream that went straight for the heart.

Everyone tensed, following the Darkling – a man who never showed genuine emotion other than rage. His call for healers felt like a cry from the heart and soul that stretched across the foundations of who he is. The anguish tore through him as he saw a healer run toward him.

Letting out a shuddered breath in relief, he collapsed to his knees. “Not me!” He growled as the healer tried placing her hands on him, “Help her! Save my wife!”

Nodding, the healer looked down at Y/N with wide eyes. Another healer arrived too, then another, and another.

The Darkling refused to let her out of his embrace as two of the healers tried to take her away. “No!”

“We have to take her”, the first healer insisted. “She doesn’t have long and we have to act fast and that’s not going to happen while you’re clinging to her!” Eyes wide, she covers her mouth as it dawns on her who she’s speaking to. “Respectfully, General.”

Staring at her with raw suffering, Aleksander licked his trembling lips. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to her temple instead of her forehead – forehead kisses in this moment would feel as if he’s kissing her corpse before her final rest. 

He couldn’t stomach that thought.

“If you die, I’ll never forgive you”, he whispers. 

This isn’t how it’s meant to be, how it’s supposed to be. He could never believe anyone ever loved anyone the way he loves her.

Nothing ever made him so frightened as the thought of losing her.

“Take her”, Mal tells them. Looking down at Kirigan who seemed incapable of standing back up on his own, he realized he had to take over.. “And send someone for your General. Send everyone for the wounded in the field.”

Aleksander looked up, jaw clenched and eyes swimming in tears he has yet to shed.

“I’m not leaving”, Mal quipped. “She’s my General.”

Y/N wasn’t able to scream, despite the pain darkening her mind. She tried to focus on her breathing, on staying alive. The only awareness she had was of Aleksander’s arms around her – she felt his scent. When he touched her face, when he tried to gain her attention, she couldn’t open her eyes. Her ears kept ringing, mixing with a rumbling inside his chest. She managed to blink her eyes open once, just one more time to see him, but all she managed to get was a glimpse of his chin and beard.

She wondered how he’d look without it, if it would make him seem boyish, softer. Maybe it would have erased the burden on his shoulders - they may be wide, but they shouldn’t have to carry all that weight alone.

Suddenly, his scent was gone. She tried to reach for him, but her arms could not move, hanging freely instead. Cold seeped in, clinging to her insides, wrapping itself around her heart.

Slowly, her agony had faded. The pain gradually lifted, dissipating like fog. For a moment, she wondered if this is what death feels like – no more pain? No more suffering? Being alone and cold?

Despite everything, if she had a choice, she’d embrace the pain. If pain means she would return to him, to his warm arms, she’d gladly suffer.

Dizzy, confused, she felt herself being pulled up into reality. The disjointed haze receded enough for her to make sense of the world around her. Her eyelids feel heavy as she opens her eyes, the edges of her vision flickering. Blinking fast, her eyebrows knitted as her vision blurred.

‘Aleksander’, she wanted to call, but couldn’t say a word. 

How odd it is that he’s the last one she thought about when she thought she’d die and he’s still the first one to come to mind when she wakes? 

She no longer felt cold. He always had the ability to keep the cold away.

Sniffling, she jerked her hands away as she became aware of another’s touch. Sitting up on a table she was laid upon, she pulled herself aside before looking to the one who touched her earlier.

“It’s just me”, he raised his hands in mock surrender. “I needed to see you.” His voice is soft, sweet like honey.

Scoffing, she narrows her eyes at him and the cup of water he held out for her to take. Her mouth is dry, her throat like sandpaper. She may be angry with him, but the water he held out felt more important than their fight.

“Are you in any pain?” He asks, watching her drink all of the water in one go. “I could have them come and take it away.”

Letting out a loud sigh, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Raising an eyebrow, she licked her dry lips.

“Can they take you away?”

Snorting, he suppresses a smile. As long as she’s capable of annoying him, she’s going to be fine.

“What were you thinking?” Threading his fingers through his hair, Aleksander frowned. “You could have died.”

“Would have saved you a lot of trouble in the future”, she quips. Standing, she stumbles.

Feeling his hands on her waist, Y/N felt her heart skip a beat. Even now, when she’d like nothing more than to walk away, her body reacts to him. Looking up at him, she inhales sharply as she sees the tears in his eyes.

“I’m scared”, he admitted and she blinked.

“Of what?” She frowned, “Me?” Does her power frighten him? Because it frightens her.

He shook his head, “Of me”, he looked at her. His hands trembled as they touched her skin, “I’m scared of hurting you.”

“I’m scared of you hurting me, too.”

Dropping his hand, he takes a step back. “I don’t think I’m capable of ever hurting you.”

“Tell that to my neck”, she remarks. Her hand brushes over where his hand had tightened its grip just the night before, fixing his gaze on him. He seemed to regret it.

‘Good’, she thought. ‘I hope it haunts him, because it will haunt me.’

“I apologize”, Aleksander swallows thickly. He can’t remember the last time he apologized to someone. A part of him questioned if he ever apologized for anything he’s done in his unusually long life. “I had no right to act the way I did.”

“You once told me I could choose the way to punish you if you ever hurt me”, she takes his hand, intertwining their fingers.

Aleksander nods, “I’m a man of my word.”

“What’s your name”, she asks. “Real name.”

His eyes locked on hers like magnets of different polarities. Isn’t that exactly what they are? She’s his polar opposite in every way, fated to attract.

“Aleksander Morozova.” He uttered a name long forgotten; a name he wanted to forget. 

Aleksander was a weak boy who failed everyone that cared for him. He was soft, young, naïve and a damned fool for ever believing Grisha would ever be free. Even now as he elevated their status, Grisha had to serve a human – the Tsar.

Her eyes held barely contained anger. As her hands clasped, a few stray flickers of light appeared on her fingertips. Unclasping her hands immediately, she raised her chin up. “I want to know everything. Tell me your story.”

“And when will I hear yours?” Darkling demanded, swiping his thumb under his lower lip.

“You seem to mistake this for negotiations”, she maintained eye contact defiantly. “Last night you told me to either go back to the Palace or to cross the fold and return to my father. It’s a choice that would easily mean I can choose to stay with you or leave and never look back.”

Placing a hand on his chest, Y/N smirked. “You can either tell me the whole truth or watch me leave.” She spoke through gritted teeth, “Don’t push me unless you’re willing to lose.” 

Cupping his left cheek, she allowed a luminescent glow cast a light on his handsome features. She was angry, so angry and tired and her own power often terrified her. For once, she wanted to use it for her own benefit rather than hide it.

“What good will it do?” Aleksander’s bottom lip quivers as her light illuminates tears collecting in his dark eyes. “You’ll hate me as they all do. Even my mother saw me as a monster.”

“I’ve seen what you really are. And I never turned away…what makes you think I will now?”

She felt his jaw clench under the palm of her hand as he swallowed thickly, “You would if you could see my heart, all of it.”

Exhaling through her nose, she shook her head. Her eyes soften, her lips parting. How could she ever be indifferent to his suffering? She wished she could be colder, to leave him in tears and not look back. Hearing his words, his belief that he’s unlovable tugged at her heartstrings. 

"Have you no faith in me?"

In a fight, they’re lethal, but around each other their armor is gone.

“I’ve waited for you for centuries. I dreamed about you for hundreds of years before I ever saw your face. I longed for you, missed you, died and lived for you.” Taking her face in his hands, Aleksander bends. His forehead meets hers as his nose brushes against the tip of hers.

“Ever since I laid eyes on you, my dreams have been clearer, focused on you. And in my dreams I am kissing your mouth and you’re whispering ‘where have you been’”, his eyes overflow with tears as he continues with a fractured smile. “I say, ‘I’ve been lost, but I’m here now’.” 

Swallowing thickly, he felt as if his heart was breaking. “You’re the only person who has ever been able to find the real me. You saw me underneath all the darkness.” Reaching for her hand, his fingers tremble. “I was waiting for you without knowing it. I’ll make up for all the mistakes, for all the years I was supposed to be kissing you.”

“So why is it so hard for you to be honest with me?” She whispers, her hands trembling as they hold onto his shoulders.

His frown deepens, “Why weren’t you honest with me?”

“You once joked and said I’m no Inferni”, she shrugged. “You were right about that. My mother was. Father never knew about either of us. Your turn.”

“I was honest”, he sighs. Stepping back, he frowns. “I told you my name, I answered your questions about the black heretic.”

Reaching for him, she felt her heartache intensify once his tears began to flow freely across his cheeks.

“Don’t”, he recoiled from her touch. She wrapped her arms around her own waist, hurt by the rejection. 

“It’s not easy for me to talk about my past. It’s as if I’m cutting myself open, letting the ugliness spill out. It’s not painless.” Swallowing thickly, Darkling’s eyes widen as he tries to hold back more tears from escaping him. “It would have been simpler to close myself off and find an unremarkable lover who’d never dare defy me, but I keep taking the risk because I want to be with you and I hope that one day you will feel the same way about me.”

“I want”, she stopped, tucking her hair behind her ears. 

His voice was quieter, “What do you want? I’ll give you everything.”

“I don’t know”, she replied honestly. “I’m hurt, Aleks. You hurt me after you promised to protect me.”

Running a hand across his face, wiping his tears away. He averts his gaze. Watching her break because of him deepens the cracks in his poorly stapled, bleeding heart.

“What do you want”, she looked to him with a weight in her chest. How can loving someone hurt so badly even when the love is reciprocated?

“Never mind what I want”, he turned away. Facing her now would have chipped away at his fragile sanity, so he did what a coward would – he hid.

“You asked what I want”, she placed her hands on her hips. “I want to know what you want.”

Shaking his head, he let out a breathless chuckle. “You”, he smiled. “I’ll always want you.”

Closing the distance between them, she closed her arms around his neck. Before she could reach for him, he gripped her by her thighs and lifted her effortlessly. Wrapping her legs around his waist on instinct, she got lost in the rush of blood to her head when he pinned her against the table behind her. He paused, searching her eyes. 

Whatever he was looking for, she hoped he found it.

“I don’t own you”, his eyes flicker to her lips as she sinks her front teeth into the soft flesh of her bottom lip. “I never did. Human or Grisha, you always owned me. I was just too blind to see it.”

Brushing his lips against hers, Aleksander smiled in resignation. His eyes are so different in moments like these, softer than she ever imagined eyes could be.

“Your silver tongue won’t get you far”, she struggled to keep her eyes open with his lips a whisper away. “But you’re free to try.”

She felt his burning gaze, finding it hard to concentrate on much besides breathing. He observed her, capturing her soft, naturally charming and appealing nature. She’s genuine and sweet, the reason why everyone’s head turns when she walks into the room.

How did he not realize it before?

She’s the sun.

She always was. 

He always did squint angrily at her like he does with the fireball in the sky.

Y/N’s hands ran up and down his chest as her lips claimed his - passionately, roughly, determinedly. Without a word, she started to unbutton his kefta, her cold fingertips brushing his warm skin - until she lost patience and ripped the bottom part wide open, pressing her palm against his chest as he broke the kiss.

“Are you sure?” He raised his eyebrows in concern.

“I’ll be mad at you tomorrow. Kiss me”, she ordered, drawing a smile on his lips as she pulled him closer, her lips reattaching to his, her teeth sinking into his lower one.

Pushing him onto the floor, she didn’t waste time. Her bottoms were down so quickly he hardly had time to take a proper breath before she unfastened his pants too.

Heaving, Aleksander could hardly get enough of the view on top of him - her beautiful mouth opening in pleasure every time she sunk down on him, her eyes rolling back into her head, her hands placed over his chest to keep herself steady. She speeds up, prompting his loud, uninhibited moans that drew an honest smile upon her lips. He trusted up and into her as his high hit fully, taking her by surprise. She gasped, his thrust giving her an unexpected release as she clenched around him.

Gasping for breath, she laid on top of him. Y/N was very aware of his arm around her as it pulled her close, his hand on her hip, giving it a light squeeze. He leaned into her, his lips pressing a tender kiss to her temple, making her tingle with anticipation of something more - something she shouldn’t think about after their argument.

How can she trust his change of heart has nothing to do with the fact she’s the Sun Summoner? How can she ever trust him at all?

Clearing her throat, she pulled herself off Aleksander. “Put something on, someone might come in”, she told him as she secured her pants back on. She could hardly look at him, afraid he’d weaken her resolve. She couldn’t forgive him so easily, even if her heart ached for him.

“Let me in”, a voice from outside the tent made Y/N look to the entrance with a frown.

She crossed the distance swiftly, her hands ready in case she had to use her sword. She goes to place her hand on the hilt only to find her sword is not on her.

It’s a good thing that’s not her only weapon.

“Hey!” She shouts at the Grisha as they pulled someone away. “Stop!”

“General?!” Mal laughs as he manages to look back at her, fighting against the Grisha.

“Mal?” She chuckles, glad to see he’s still alive. 

“Leave him alone!” She orders, feeling a presence behind her. She didn’t need to look to know it’s Aleksander. Unfortunately for him, she wasn’t in the mood for anymore talking.

“You’re alive?!” Mal goes in for the hug, but his eyes catch a glimpse of Kirigan’s glare and he slowly backs away. “We need to regroup.”

“How many have we lost?” She frowns.

“You’re Grisha now”, Aleksander speaks up. “You don’t have to fight for the humans.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she scoffs at him. How could he even think she’d give up on her people now? 

“That’s not something I’d like. I enjoy my humanity.”

She was the flame who lit his life on fire and while he was burning, he wanted to thank her for it and ask her to stay a while longer. Darkling nearly chuckled at the thought of calling her fire, but she is and he craves the burn.

The Darkling wanted Y/N to be the one addicted to him, in equal measure as he was addicted to her. He wanted to give her a reason to stay with him, if not for love, then for lust. He’d find a way to her heart in the meantime and knowing they’ll have a forever comforts him, but he needed to have her in every other way until then.

He knew he could make her truly happy if she’d let him and he wasn’t about to let her go.

Not without a fight.

Watching her walk away with the soldier, he clicked his tongue. Mal, whoever he is, poses a threat he needs to handle.

Swiftly.

=============================

A/N - I struggled so much writing this chapter, hope you guys like it. I’m probably gonna pass out now, I’m exhausted. xx

Tags: @bruxa0007 @rangotangomango @kaitlyn2907 @thestoryofmylife9 @shelivesindaydreamswme @hxrgreeves @safetyhtom @kaqua @savannah-elliott @all-art-is-quite-useless  @azure23x @girlmadeofavocados @ashdab2611 @acciorudolphx @ladyblablabla @wckedheart @xceafh @sanna2020 @tarkanelima-blog @takethee @mellifluous-cosmos @marvel-ousnesss @tea-effect @starlightofsolaria @p3nny4urth0ught5 @blackbirddaredevil23 @sarcastic-and-cool @slytherinsbiggestproblem @within-thehollowcrown @notthatchhavi @musicconversedance @freakytillthemoon @lgkoval @honeyofthegods @queenmalhinewahine @misselsbells06 @whatthefluffrichard @aami98 @britriestbr @itsfangirlmendes @padme-parker @readingsssssssss @runawayolives @thehighladyofasgard @emlynblack @keithseabrook27 @dailydoseofchoices @deceivedeer @olympiacosplay @pansysgirlfriend @extrakyloren  @daybleedsintonightfa11 @thoughts-and-funnies @weirdowithnobeardo @folkloresworld @remugoodgirl @yagorlemmalyn @gonehopelessgirl @fefethecoffeeaddict @naughtynecromancer @poison-of-the-ivie @strawb3rrydr3ss @supersouthy @theilliterateironman @evyiione @kimoranelson03 @wizardwheezes @woodsabby6 @liajiah @its-carlerrr​ 

PART 14

[lubdubsworld]

Blackberry Winters.

Part 1

Check part one for warnings 💔

Part 2.

Namjoon stared at his mother, her words registering but not quite sinking in. He blinked, a couple of times and swallowed dryly, trying to gather his wits that felt like they'd been scattered to the four winds. There was a dull ringing in his ear, a feeling of impending horror and he had to fight to bring himself back to the present.

"She is...?" He couldn't even say it. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realised the irony of it. It wasn't supposed to makes him feel that way. The reason he had taken her to bed was for this : a heir to take over the duties of the head alpha after him. And yet, he knew that he couldn't just ignore all the things that would come with having a pregnant mate. All the added responsibility.

At the heart of it , Namjoon was exhausted.

He had been trained for this position but it didn't make it any easier. His wolf yearned for solitude and serenity, peaceful quiet where he could contemplate life and all its mysteries but the duties and responsibilities kept piling up. He had no time to indulge in such whimsical fantasies. From daybreak to sundown, he drowned in problems that demanded solutions, issues that required his intervention and he was always giving so much of himself to so many.

It was as taking a toll.

And now here was the promise of another new soul. A pup. Fully dependant on him for survival. It was hard to be ecstatic.

" Why do you look so surprised? Have you not been sleeping with her?" She frowned, moving closer to the small wooden bench in the corner of the room. She sat down, primly adjusting the large swathes of her skirt. Even at her age, she was a beauty and despite being a widow, she was treated with great respect by all the wolves in the clan.

" I have... Of course...I just didn't expect her to ...so soon. " He muttered hesitantly. He made a quick calculation, Conceived at the end of autumn meant the child would be born at the end of summer. Rains and more rains. He would have to commission the weavers to make a lot of warm blankets and thick bedding for the babe. And make sure that all the birthing huts had their roofs mended. He felt an ache in his chest. He knew he had to have a heir. It was part of what he was responsible for. But he wasn't ready to be a father yet. Especially not with someone like her.

" You haven't been very subtle in your disdain for her, Joon. It makes me wonder of perhaps I have failed in teaching you the ways of a husband." His mother's sharp voice made him wince.

His parents had been deeply in love with each other. His mother had been an equal contributor in running the clan, his father's most trusted confidante. He couldn't imagine having something like that with the woman he had rather recklessly chained himself to for life. But he couldn't be openly defiant in front of his mother.

So he bowed.

" I've tried to talk to her mother. She looks at me like I'm some marauding villain."

Lady Kim scoffed.

" Because, for all she knows, you may as well be one. Think of who she is, how she was raised. Her mother died when she was eight and she has been keeping house for her father since then. It Is a miracle she knows how to read a few words and to write her own name. Old man Gong is unkind and cruel and I've only ever watched him treat her like an unruly dog that needed discipline and never like his own flesh and blood. She knows men to be cruel and powerful and capable of doing her great harm. Add to it your status as the head of the clan, of course she thinks you're dangerous. "

" am I to be blamed for her childhood now?"

" Don't be obtuse. That is not what I'm saying. I just want you to consider her upbringing, before you write her off as dramatic or hysterical. "

Namjoon sighed deeply.

" Alright, mother. I'll try to talk to her again. "

And he knew that he had to. If he wanted some semblance of peace in his life, he would have to make an effort with his wife.

----------------------------

Jiah sat by the haybale near the barn, cross-legged on the dirty floor as she watched Misu and Loshim, two of the stable boys tend to the horses. She stared at the careful way they brushed the large beasts, their tone gentle and soothing as they murmured reassurance to the agitated animals. She found it fascinating, how even an animal that powerful could feel fear and anxiety. It made her feel better about her own shortcomings.

From a very young age, she had known of her flaws. She was jittery, prone to cold sweats and breathing problems, easily frightened and absolutely terrified of confrontation of any kind. Her parents had been, to put it lightly, unkind. They had seen her as a burden, as something broken and useless and cumbersome and that had done nothing for her self esteem.

To make matters worse, they didn't let her attend lessons with the other omega girls, her education limited to scribbled writing on granite with chalk when her father was feeling bored or charitable. She could read a few words with difficulty . Could write her name out if you gave her some time and patience.

At first, her ignorance had been embarassing but over time she realised her education wouldn't serve her much purpose.

She thought of herself as something temporary and fleeting. Not meant to leave any lasting impression on the world. So it was alright if she didn't know what every other girl her age did. She was going to live and die in that hut near the boundary walls..... She would have no use for fancy words or exotic dances.

Or so she hd always believed.

So when the head alpha had asked for her hand in marriage, she had nearly passed out from her heart giving out.

Namjoon was seven years older, almost thirty winters old and she had only ever caught glimpses of him when he came to check on her father's watchpost occasionally. He was a tall man, strapping and intimidating with dragon eyes that glowed red. And one evening he had stopped by her side when she had been tending the beets and potatoes in the small vegetable garden out back.

He had stared at her for a few long minutes while she had sweated in nervousness and then he had promptly asked for her father. When the man had Stepped in and told her father that he was looking to make her his bride, the old man had been jubilant while Jiah had been confounded.

She hadn't wanted to say yes but she had been too much of a coward to say no. Besides, she didn't know if saying no would have any repurcussions....she didn't want to risk offending the literal head of the entire clan. What if they banished her? What would become of her then?

And so she had said yes. And here she was.

Mated to the man for life, her wolf connected to his and his mark on her neck and now....his child in her womb.

She felt the familiar stirring of panic, digging her nails into her palm to ground herself .

Jiah had long come to terms with the fact that her mind was not her friend. It sometimes tried to attack her , tried to make her feel irrational things. It convinced her that she was a bother, that she was useless, that she was a burden. It also tried to tell her that she was in danger, that she had to run and avoid and get away, even when she was perfectly safe.

When she had first come here as the head Alphas new wife, her brain had wrecked havoc on her senses. Had made her feel like a hunted animal, always cowering and hiding and trying to disappear . Namjoon had tried to be friendly, tried to be courteous and all she had done was hide and recoil, skin ice cold and words practically non existent. She hadn't said a word to him those first few days and even the bedding had been a nightmare, her entire body stiff as a board and she knew that he had probably felt like he was making love to a corpse.

She regretted it. Deeply. But there was not much she could do about it now. Besides she wasn't sure she even wanted to. It was obvious her husband's affections lay elsewhere. She had seen the way he looked at that courtesan. Had seen him sneak out for walks with her, had seen them huddled together in the room with all the scrolls and leather bound books.

Jisoo was a beautiful omega, well read and trained in musical arts. She played the gayageum and the flute, knew how to entertain guests with a perfect ceremonial dance and she was always at the helm of every festivity, dressed in vibrant fabrics and full of life.

She was also madly in love with Namjoon.

Jiah sighed, watching the horses paw at the dirty stable floor. She wanted to get to know her husband, yes. But she knew that even if she did, he would only find her wanting and inadequate in all ways.

And that was just not acceptable .

She maybe self aware when it came to her short comings but she also had her pride.

She would rather live like this. Tucked away like an embarassment, hidden like a dirty secret because then there would be no piercing gaze weighing her against her peers and declaring her broken.

Yes.

Pregnant or not, she wanted nothing to do with her husband.

------------------------

" Are you feeling well now?" Namjoon's voice startled her, eyes going wide as she looked around the resting quarters , gaze finally falling on the man standing near the large table on the side. Namjoon was bent over the rough oak surface , papers spread out in front of him, an oil lamp burning bright nearby, casting a sepia shadow on the man himself and she hesitated, debating the pros and cons of excusing herself to go see his mother instead. Maybe claiming a headache?

In the end she did neither, resolving to at least make an effort with this.

" I'm well, alpha. " She swallowed the lump in her throat. " I'm sorry for inconveniencing you. "

He straightened, turning around to look at her finally.

" Do you wish to move into another room?" He said briskly and she startled.

" Another room?"

" Now that you are with pup, there's no reason for us to keep sleeping together. I prefer having my own space. "

Jiah felt the blood rush through her ears. This shouldn't hurt but it did and she could feel the self loathing flood her senses. She stared down at herself, the lack of beauty and the utter lack of any kind of elegant upbringing. Of course he didn't want to stay with her any longer. What had she been thinking , agreeing to this farce of a mating?

" I... Alright. "

Namjoon turned away from her.

" Good. I've already arranged for all your things to be moved to the west wing , next to the gardens."

Far away from his rooms, Jiah thought bitterly. The sudden realization that Namjoon had been looking for some sort of brood mare and not a mate hit her . And it suddenly made sense that he hd picked her.

Someone easy to boss around.

Someone who wouldn't demand anything from him, loyalty or affection or attention .

And it irked her for some reason.

Why did he get to treat her that way? Why must she put up with it?

But she stayed quiet because she wasn't sure what to say.

" You can leave now, Jiah. " He said dismissively and she hesitated before stepping out of the room.

And she wondered if with her departure, someone else would be taking her place in his bed.

-----------------------------

Authors Note : would you guys like first person narrative or should I continue in third person? 👀

[sharkbait77]

The Sun Sets With You

Chapter One: The Season Begins

Summary: A simple yet despondent farm life suddenly sparks with new hope when an unusual traveler makes your town his latest stop and brings with him intriguing and promising viewpoints and no one to share them with. Until he meets you.

Pairing: Ezra Prospect x f!Reader

Rating: M

Warnings: Despondency, depressive undertones, death of a parent, grief, unsolicited advances, age old sexism, strained parent relationship, nosy neighbors, food, lmk if I missed any pls!

W/C: 3.2k

A/N: And here we go! The first chapter! Welcome & thank you for tuning in, it means the world, truly! As I mentioned before, this story may not be the best for some, so please heed the warnings & proceed with caution. The sadness will not consistently be in each chapter, that much I promise, but we have to get through it right away so we can understand our dear Reader’s mindset as of right now. NO EZRA YET, SORRY! And like I said before, this is probably not totally historically accurate, so take everything with a grain of salt pleeease. Other than that, enjoy!

Tags: @the-ginger-hedge-witch @asta-lily @honeymandos @pascalpanic @aliwritesfic @mandocrasis @hnt-escape @winter-fox-queen @barbossa2319 @sarahjkl82-blog @day-off-inkyoto @pedrocentric @astoryisaloveaffair @ezrasbirdie @danniburgh @foli-vora @lucrezia-thoughts @djarinsbeskar @chasingdreamer @quica-quica-quica @meesterblack @amandalovess @hunterofartem1s @pedro4ever @mishasminion360

Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Chapter Two

~APRIL FIFTEENTH OF EIGHTEEN SIXTY-SEVEN~

Your eyes flutter open on instinct as the sun rises against the pale blue of the sky, its ochre rays peering from behind the grassy hills and across the wheat fields while waking the birds. They start their day with a song, shaking their feathers and stretching their wings as they merrily fly through the air in search of their morning meal. The hens that found solace in their coops from the stark chill of night chatter amongst themselves as they roam around their pen and the lone rooster releases its shrill call, a signal for the day to begin. Beat you again, you think.

The sun rises a little higher now, the bright of day in full effect as it fills your room with its intense luminosity. You lie in bed a moment longer, watching the dust mites float through the air and dance in front of your nose with each exhale of breath you release. Signs of life all around you, from the dew drops that formed on your window in the early morning to the muscles within your very skin twitching as you climb out of bed. Every little thing teasing and taunting you of significance, of meaning just on the horizon, yet so far out of your reach.

This is your life. Each and every morning, day, and night is as repetitive as the last. Wake up before the rooster crows and stare into the minute cracks rippling through the ceiling, envious of the pollen that manages to escape through and longing for you to shrink microscopic enough to hide away as well. Fill your basin with cold water you had gathered the night before to wash yourself quickly before your father wakes. Clothe yourself in your underdress, long sleeved, blue work dress layered on top with the sleeves rolled up, an apron cinched at your waist, and dirty and worn, black boots laced up tight enough to prevent you from minding the ache they feel as the day progresses.

You look at your reflection in the hazy mirror as you braid your hair; the drabness of the glass only accentuates exactly how you perceive yourself. The girl staring back at you was but a shell of the one you knew before. Before, when you still had ambitions that would have led you far from this town. To a place you could live anew. Now, just an empty being as one day fades into the next. Eyes that no longer gleam, hair that no longer shines, skin that no longer glows.

You had given up long ago of any hope and dream of something more, surrendering to the bleakness and repetitiveness of this life when your mother passed. A promise on her death bed to help care for your father any way he needs. And this is what he needs. You, here on the farm, helping tend to the chickens and the cows and the small shop he owned in town. The one your mother ran that was unceremoniously thrust onto your lap. The organ within your chest beats solely to pump the blood through your veins and keep you breathing, if only for the promise you made to your mother.

You fasten the gold chain around your neck, a locket with a faded photograph of your mother hidden within hanging to your breast. You tuck it into your blouse to keep her close to your heart and head down the ladder, stepping lightly as to not awaken Pa any earlier than necessary. Your Pa, an old man now with hair white as snow, only having turned the shade since Ma left.

Wrinkles crease deeper into his skin and the bags under his eyes droop slightly to his cheeks now on his once chiseled face. His strength has dwindled within the last year, and with no other siblings to share the burden of the farm, you knew you could not leave your Pa to deal with it by himself. So your own dreams and goals were swiftly thrown into the dirt to be rained on and turned to mush, impossible to be picked up again.

As you finish grounding the coffee beans and throw them into the pot of already boiling water resting on the range, Pa begins to stir and soon after wakes up, the aroma of caffeine acting as his own signal to wake. Leaving the house to give your father privacy to dress, you head to the hen coop to gather a few eggs for breakfast.

You take a deep breath of the crisp morning air, the smell of apple trees at the front of the house, then the smell of grass with fresh dew, to the smell of hay and chicken feed as you get closer to the pen they are corralled in. As you head back into the house, Pa is already seated at the small, round table with his tin of coffee.

“Good morning, Pa,” you greet softly.

“Good morning daughter. Thank you for the coffee.”

“Grace to our health, Pa,” you say, as you always do when he gives you his thanks.

Financially, you and Pa were well off enough; you still couldn’t afford luxuries like sugar, but you were able to live comfortably with only the necessities and the occasional new pair of boots. You were grateful to have the farm and the shop, both reliable sources of income for your small family, and you were blessed that Pa was still able to work the fields, but you know as time passes and his joints weaken, you would then need to take over the labor. There was truly no path for you to leave this life.

The older women around town had begun to whisper about you, not necessarily trying to keep their gossip from reaching your ears. They were just as bad as the hens that cluck around their pen all day. A never ending chatter of you being stuck in the house or the farm or the shop, working as an old maid for the rest of your life.

You’re still fairly young, just over two decades of life in you; sure, the girls you once played in the streams with as children were all married women now and on their third, fourth, fifth child, but you didn’t feel the desire to find a husband just to bend to the simple mold of life this society has cast. If you were to still have any control of your life, it would, at the least, be that.

You crack the eggs into the beaten and tired pan over the range, letting them cook to completion before removing and plating them, along with a roll of bread and the butter you had just churned the day prior. You walk over to Pa and place his portion down before working on your own. Pa sends up a quick prayer and starts to eat. His prayers turned to letters to Ma, but he never failed to speak them before every meal or before bed, sometimes even when a sudden abundance of eggs were laid or vegetables had sprouted during the night.

“The season is nigh for corn and potatoes,” Pa mumbles and you feel your heart sink to your feet.

You had forgotten about the season, when Ma and Pa would work the fields together endlessly, sweating through their work attire to be washed every evening. You still feel the creak in your elbows to this day. It is the busiest season, bringing in the most coinage for the year, but now that it was only you two, you worry about juggling between the shop and the farm.

“Pa, how will we manage?” You voice your concern. Pa takes a deep breath.

“You will hang a notice in the shop when you go today,” he says matter of factly. “Ask Mr. Williams if you are able to hang one on his window at the post as well.”

“And what shall it say?”

“‘Seasonal laborer wanted – will provide lodging with pay’.”

“Where will he stay?” You inquire.

“The barn; we will provide him blankets and he will be free to use our wash basins when needed and we will offer him meals.”

“It will be a lot of money expended, Pa; will we be all right?” You ask as you sit at the table with your plate and coffee tin.

“We will make do, daughter,” he says, the finality in his voice signaling for this conversation to cease. “We will not be able to pay handsomely or feed him much, but we require the extra hand if we are to pass the season.”

“Yes, Pa.”

You lower your head and eat your eggs in silence. You don’t pray anymore, not necessarily feeling the need since your Ma was taken, as well as your aspirations. Pa finishes his coffee, leaving the dishes in the wash basin and grabbing his hat, walking outside into the fields to begin preparations for the season. You sigh; the tears that have long hidden in your ducts refuse to spill out to bless you with relief.

The last time you properly cried was for Ma; every day you feel them there, the pressure building in the corners of your eyes, but nothing ever falls. A mind trick, you suppose, to force you to focus on the more important things. You don’t have the time to spare to release them; your mind and body are now slaves to the farm and the shop.

After your breakfast, you walk to the wash basin with your dishes, hand pumping the water from the pipe just off the side and using the homemade lye soap you learned to make from your mother. Once the dishes are washed, dried, and put away, you walk over to the black safe in the corner of the room, turning the dial to its correct numbers and pulling out the metal lockbox from the inside.

It carried within it the sales ledger for the shop and the velvet bag for the coins. Pa empties the bag every day as he looks over the ledger, placing the coins into another metal box that only he has the key to. He gives you coin anytime you ask, as long as it is needed for the shop or food for the house and, occasionally, on special days.

You pick it up and take it with you to the front door, pulling your bonnet and fabric bag from the hook they hung on. You stick the lockbox inside your bag, as well as the key assigned to it, and head outside. Pa is already far into the fields, hacking away at the dirt and smoothing it out for the new growth. You don’t bother saying goodbye; he knows where you’ll be. Where you’ll always be.

Living alone with Pa became quite challenging, you were disheartened to learn. You’ve always had a loving bond with him since you were a child; maybe he expected the same from you as he did from Ma, but he still managed to make his lessons on the farm enjoyable, doting upon you as any loving father would. Now? The anguish you both have felt since losing the feathery soft and caring love of your mother strained the relationship between you two.

What was once a thick belt of leather that connected you now pulled further and further apart until it became as frail as rubber, threatening to snap at a moment’s notice. You love your Pa; of course you do, and you know he loves you too. If only you could grieve together.

Upon entering the town, the people are going about their normal routines. The baker stacking the fresh loaves of bread in his window, the shoe shiners along the streets working tediously on men’s boots, the hens clucking – the older women gossiping away passionately about whomever they desire. As long as it isn’t you today.

You reach the shop, key in hand as you unlock the brass keyhole and turn the knob, the small bell dinging above you as you enter. You flip the sign in the window from the side that reads ‘Closed’ to the side that reads ‘Open’ and you pull back the shut curtains, allowing the light of day to flow into the small room.

Heading back to behind the counter, you remove the lockbox from your bag and set it on the shelf underneath in its usual resting place. You barely have a moment to remove your bonnet when the bell dings and you look up to greet the person who has walked in. Wonderful.

“Hello, my sweet,” the man husks and you find it difficult to choke back the bile rising in your throat.

“Hello Silas,” you say flatly. “Is there anything I can help you with today?”

“Darlin’, you know exactly how you may be of service to me.”

Silas Taylor, a boorish man of thirty-eight years, has desperately been attempting to attract your affection for the past two years. He had the decency to respect you and Pa after your mother passed, halting his advances for all of one week. Considering his age, he did not show any signs of maturing, both in his looks and his brain. One might even label him handsome, were he not such a crude and overbearing personality.

Ma and Pa had bid you to consider his proposal, but in time came to understand he was not the best man you could have as a husband. Pa despises Silas, has even told him so to his face, yet it did not cause Silas to stray from pursuing you. Disrespectful, despicable, a generally awful person, Silas is.

Why he had you locked on to his sights, you weren’t sure. You never gave him the opportunity to court; staying cordial as to not make an outright enemy of him, yes, but never once have you made it apparent you enjoyed his attention. Nevertheless, he continued.

“Silas, please. I must ask you to leave my shop if you are not interested in a purchase,” you implore, hoping he will understand your position and take his leave.

“But, little one, I am very interested in a purchase. What must I do to make you my wife?” He grins, as charming as the manure out in the fields. In a flash, your vision goes red as you replay his statement in your mind.

“I am not for sale, Silas. That is the most offensive remark you have said to me yet,” you declare harshly, the acidic bile in your stomach turning into a burning rage.

“There must be something that can be done, my sweet. You name it; the most lavish jewels and dresses your pretty, little mind can dream of,” he presses on with a smile only found on masks to scare the children with.

‘Pretty’ and ‘little’, amongst his unwelcome endearments, are the words to send your mind into a downward spiral to declarations that you’d rather not say unless you were alone, lest he take offense and decide to wreak havoc on you and Pa. You put your foot down and grab his arm roughly, pulling him with you to the front door. He only laughs at the scene unfolding, rather pleased with himself that he’s ruffled your feathers so.

“Silas, I am no longer asking. Please leave,” you say as plainly as you can, doing your best to keep the tremble of anger out of your voice.

“Fine, fine,” he chuckles satirically. “Until our next meeting, my love.”

He pulls your hand to his lips, his strength surpassing yours and his thick, wiry mustache rubs harshly against the tender skin of your hand. You furl your lip and flare your nostrils, unable to contain the look of disgust on your face as he glares at you perversely with his black eyes. You tug your hand away and the bristly hair under his villainous nose scrapes you with the motion.

You stand with your jaw clenched and hands balled up in tight fists at your sides, your fingernails digging into the skin of your palm as you watch him walk away, leaving puffs of dirt trailing behind with each cocksure step he takes. If you were to only be allowed one person to despise in your lifetime, it would be Silas Taylor.

“Dear, are you well?”

A gentle, aged voice calls out to you from behind. You whip around quickly, your skirts twirling as you face the elderly woman that has hailed you.

“Mrs. Williams,” you greet, willing your fury from the unpleasant interaction to rest for the time being.

“Was that Silas Taylor you were speaking with?” She asks.

“Yes,” you exhale. “Yes, it was.”

“He’s a quite handsome lad, dear. It is known all over town how you have bewitched him. Why do you not accept his proposal?”

Adelaide Williams; the sweetest among the hens, but still a hen nonetheless. You sigh deeply to yourself, deciding not to engage in the conversation with the one woman who treats you with any shred of respect and kindness, even if her ideals still match those with the others in town.

“Mrs. Williams, while I have you in my presence, may I ask a favor?” You appeal.

“Why, of course, my dear!” She smiles, all thoughts of your personal affairs exiting her imagination.

“Do you suppose it would be alright to leave a notice at the post office? We are asking for help on the farm for the season.”

“Yes, dear, it’s quite alright,” she smiles, her wrinkly skin creasing along her cheeks and eyes.

“Thank you; will you wait a moment while I draft it?”

She nods and follows you inside the shop, slow in her old age. You quickly grab a sheet of paper and a fountain pen, inscribing the words your Pa informed you to write in large enough letters.

“I imagine this season will be most difficult without your mother. I am so very sorry, dear,” Mrs. Williams says as you write and your hand quakes slightly at her comment. “How have you and your father been managing?” Cluck, cluck, cluck.

“Not without difficulty, Mrs. Williams, but we manage nonetheless,” you say courteously, not wanting to relay any information that could be the next piece of news to travel through the grapevine. You finish the notice and hand it to her.

“Shall I direct him here or to the farm?” She inquires as she reads the note, perhaps looking for anything contradicting what you already stated would be written.

“The farm, more suitably, so he can speak directly to my father,” you reply. “Many thanks to you and Mr. Williams,” you end with a sweet smile.

“No thanks are required, my dear. Anything to help you and your father. Your mother was a wonderful being. I was proud to have known her.”

Another quake. You nod politely, letting her hold your forearm as you walk to the front door. The bell dings as it opens and you watch her while she walks down the wooden pathway to the post office. Once you’re sure she’s well on her way, you turn back inside and draft another notice for the shop window before you begin arranging the merchandise for the day, taking inventory of goods that are depleting, and checking order forms belonging to families around town for produce off your farm.

A most provincial and forlorn life, indeed, that you will have to bear until the end of your time here on Earth.

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Chapter Two