#the new battle pass is SICK

[danveration]

if anyone wants to play fortnite fr HIT ME UP!!

[defness]

When you have the hots for a fortnite villan. How does this happen to me

[pachirobi]

I haven't been drawing shit these past two weeks lmao. Sorry, the overwatch brainrot has consumed me for the time being and unfortunately for me I can't draw any of those goons well enough to be funny about it </3

that's life, babyyy

[crystallinestars]

How They React to Your Death

My HCs about how I think the Genshin boys would react to your death. I wanted to write Kaeya too, but ran out of steam.

This month has been terrible to me, so I was in the mood for angst. I don't know how well these turned out, but they were fun to think about.

Part 2 here.

Characters: Alhaitham, Childe, Heizou, Kaveh, Lyney, Neuvillette, Venti, Wanderer/Scaramouche, and Wriothesley

WARNING:

Reader has death descriptions. Some are more graphic than others, but I don't get into the nitty gritty details.

Spoilers for the backstories of all the mentioned boys.

MAJOR SPOILERS for Act V of the Fontaine Archon quest in Neuvillette's part.

Childe's part contains mention of suicidal thoughts.

Kaveh's and Venti's parts contain alcoholism

🎧 Alhaitham

Despite Alhaitham’s considerable wealth, no amount of money could cure your Eleazar sickness. His money could only buy treatment that prolonged your life a little bit, but ultimately your many years of battling the illness ended when he got news from the doctors that you had passed away in your sleep.

Alhaitham had accepted the news fairly quickly. He knew your death was inevitable, could see you slowly wasting away each time he visited you in the hospital over the past few months. So it was no surprise to him when the day finally came. The other patients and staff thought it strange how Alhaitham had no visible reaction to the news, but some chalked it up to shock when in truth the Scribe was simply accepting of that fact. There was no use denying something that already happened.

When Alhaitham came home that day, the house felt silent and empty. It reminded him of how the house felt when his grandmother passed away when he was younger. The sensations were similar. However, he did not cry over your death. Instead, he carried on his life as normal, or as close to it as he could now that you were no longer a part of what he considered ‘normal’.

At first glance, people thought that Haitham was unaffected by your death. Nothing about him changed. Not his mannerisms, his quality of work, or his expression. He remained the same reserved, stoic Scribe who had no time for trivial nonsense or extra work. He also never talked about you to others aside from confirming their question if you were truly gone. Alhaitham was like a well-oiled machine that worked efficiently like clockwork, keeping up the same even rhythm.

What they don’t see is how he comes home with the expectation of hearing your voice greet him upon entering, only to be faced with a defeating silence that makes his heart sink. They don’t know that Alhaitham wakes up throughout the night, expecting to find you snuggled up next to him in bed the way you used to before your sickness got worse, and you had to be hospitalized. However, you weren’t there no matter how many times he looked towards your side of the bed, and the Scribe could only sigh and try to fall back asleep while ignoring his aching heart.

No one sees how Alhaitham gets too lost in his books in the mornings and accidentally makes two cups of coffee instead of one due to force of habit. Or how, for once, he finds the silence of his house bothersome without your voice and the sounds of your activities resounding within the walls, and it’s enough to distract him from reading. He could be found reading at the House of Daena and Puspa Café more often from then on.

During his afternoon naps, Alhaitham sneaks back home and cradles your favorite blanket to mimic the sensation of holding your soft body in his arms the way he used to when you joined him for naps. He listens to recordings of you talking with him just so he can hear your voice again. He was glad he made the decision to record your voice at the hospital before you became too weak to speak. It gave him the chance to hear you one more time even if the sound of your voice made his chest hurt so much that he occasionally had to stop the recording to collect himself.

Nobody sees how Alhaitham finally picks up the fiction books you recommended him because they were your favorite. He prefers non-fiction, but these books are the last things he has left through which he could connect to your mind and way of thinking. He reads them all cover-to-cover even if he finds the story lacking or the writing not to his taste. He will learn to treasure each and every word because you once did.

What someone might see, as Kaveh did when he moved in with the Scribe, is a bookshelf filled with a few journals, a thick book with an emerald cover, and an assortment of fiction books that exist nowhere else in the house. Alhaitham never talks about these books unless asked, but their well-worn covers are a sign of frequent use, and sure enough, one can catch him reading a rare fiction book during one specific month each year.

🐋 Childe

You went missing after going out to collect some firewood in the woods near Childe’s home. A search party was arranged to find you with Childe in the lead, and he was also the first one to find your remains. Your body had been torn apart, blood and innards splattered across the snow, no doubt the work of some rifthounds. Usually, Childe would relish in such a gory sight, but not this time. Not when it’s your blood and flesh painted in the snow.

The sight leaves him numb. He’s numb when the search party comes to retrieve you, numb when he sees your parents weeping over your gruesome death, and numb when he takes on the duty of exterminating every rifthound he finds around Morepesok.

He wants to cry too, to grieve for you the way he needs, but refrains. He doesn’t want to appear weak and unreliable when his younger siblings mourn and cry over your death. You were like family to them, and your death broke their little hearts to pieces. Childe didn’t want to burden his siblings further by breaking down in front of them. He needed to remain a reliable older brother who could support them through this tough time, even when his own heart bled and he cried in his sleep when he dreamed about you.

Childe’s underlings noted that the Eleventh Harbinger became colder and more irritable after your passing. Any mention of your name would garner the speaker a harsh glare, and if Childe assumed what said person said about you was disrespectful, he didn’t hesitate to start a fight and beat the other person within an inch of their life. He became violent and unhinged, much like how he used to be when he returned from the Abyss as a fourteen-year-old boy.

Childe knew his behavior was irrational, and it pained him to see even his own family fear him due to his violent actions. He felt restless. Spending time at home among your belongings summoned feelings of longing and sadness, but even so, he couldn’t bear to throw anything away. He lived among the ghosts of your existence, however, it drove him mad with grief.

Childe needed an outlet for his emotions, so he took to fighting monsters and other strong opponents. He became even more reckless in battle. If before, the Harbinger sought out strong enemies to test his mettle against them and grow stronger as a result, now he sought out an opponent that would be worthy of taking his life.

Childe didn’t want to abandon his family. He loved them dearly and wanted to see his siblings grow up to be happy and successful people, but life without you felt so hollow. A part of him wanted to return to his family, but the sense of his family feeling incomplete never left him. You were just as much of a family to him as his siblings and parents were. He had plans to start his own family with you. But now… now, a part of him yearns to reunite with you in the afterlife. He promised he would stay by your side no matter what, and Ajax is not one to break his promises.

🔍 Heizou

Heizou was one of the first to hear about your stabbing that occurred in an Inazuman alleyway late that evening. You were rushed to a doctor to have your wound treated, but the robber who attacked you hit a vital area. Your blood loss was colossal, and it wasn’t long after arriving at the doctor’s that you succumbed to your injury.

To Heizou, the news brought on a sense of deja vu. He’s already lost a friend to crime in the past, and now he lost you to crime, too. The knowledge made him furious and heartbroken. He was angry at the robber for stabbing you just so he could steal some money that you didn’t want to part with, and he was angry at himself for failing to prevent this. After his friend passed away, Heizou swore to nip crime in the bud by discouraging criminals from committing crimes with the threat that he would find and capture them no matter what without fail. But what good did his resolve do if you still died because of an armed robber?

The heartache and guilt he felt ate away at him as the memory of your ashen face during your last few moments haunted him. He lost you. Never again would he get to spend time with you and make you laugh, kiss and hug you, or tell you he loved you.

His anger drove him to capture the murderer in record time, but hearing the criminal’s subsequent sentence for theft and murder didn’t comfort the detective. No amount of jail time would ever atone for the loss of your life.

After that day, Heizou lost his playful demeanor, becoming somber and reserved. He threw himself into his work, feeling pressured to capture as many criminals as he could in as little time as possible. However, his grief and exhaustion caused his mind to dull and make mistakes while investigating clues. It got to the point where Kujou Sara had to forcibly send him on vacation so he could take a break and properly process your death.

Despite his protests, Heizou knew he wasn’t much use in his current state, so he took this free time to visit your family and mourn together with them. He apologized for not doing a better job of protecting you, fully expecting your parents to lay blame on him for not protecting their child. To his surprise, your parents didn’t blame him at all. They even thanked him for catching the murderer and helping them to feel a little more at peace. Heizou’s interaction with your family helped him feel a tiny bit less guilty about your death.

The experience left him feeling a little less broken, so in the following days he sorted through your belongings in your shared home. He packed away some items to return to your parents, some things he put in storage, and others he gave away that he remembered you wanting to get rid of. A few of your items he kept for himself, one of which was a scarf you mentioned you bought because it was the same shade of green as his eyes which reminded you of him.

Heizou wore your scarf as a keepsake and good luck charm and would hardly be seen without it when he finally came back to work. What once served as your reminder of him, now served as his reminder of you, the person he loved with his whole being. But with the memories of you came the reminder of how you died. Though the memory was painful, it helped Heizou work up the will to keep pursuing his goal of eradicating crime. Even when the case was extremely tough with conflicting clues, your scarf would remind him to not give up, to not let another incident like yours happen again, and Heizou would persevere. He would continue to persevere no matter how long it took because he didn’t want innocent lives like yours to be snatched away so cruelly. Maybe one day, he will see you in the afterlife and proudly tell you all about how he achieved his dream. Until then, he will work hard to be worthy of the title of Inazuma’s best detective.

🍷 Kaveh

Kaveh had a lot of work to do. He was saddled with creating drafts for another large project while also trying to work on the commission for constructing a library in Aaru village for the children. Wanting to help alleviate his burden, you offered to take the finished drafts over to Aaru village yourself so he could focus on finishing up work for his other project. Kaveh tried to object, saying you really didn’t need to trouble yourself on his behalf, but you insisted, expressing your desire to help him finish his work sooner so the two of you could spend more time together again. After some deliberation, he let you go to the village by yourself, confident that you could make the trip since you accompanied him there several times before.

A few days later, Kaveh received news that you had died on your return trip from the desert. When he heard the cause of your death, his stomach roiled. You perished in quicksand just like his father. You died doing something for his sake, just like his father did.

Whatever future plans he was building together with you, whatever progress you made in helping him slowly heal from his trauma, it all came crashing down around him. Your death reopened old wounds Kaveh was only starting to heal from, as well as left new scars that tormented him every waking moment.

The first few weeks, Kaveh couldn’t stand to be in your shared home. It was full of memories of you, and each and every one of your belongings would stab at his heart like a blade. Moreover, the house felt so silent without you around. It reminded him of when his mother left for Fontaine, leaving him alone in a house too big for only him to live in. Now, he was reliving that moment all over again, but it was worse this time because, unlike his mother, he would never see you again.

Kaveh also couldn’t stand to look inside his sketchbooks. The pages were covered in various sketches of you, and looking at them only made the anguish and guilt grow in him tenfold. He blamed himself for your death, attributing it to being his fault just like he attributes his father’s death as his fault too. No matter what anyone says to console him, he will never stop believing it’s all his fault.

Fueled by guilt and self-loathing, Kaveh spent several weeks visiting Lambad’s tavern practically every day. One could even say he lived there since the architect seldom went home. He used what little money he had to buy alcohol, especially of the stronger kind. He wanted to numb the pain in his heart and to pretend that you weren’t really gone from this world. The alcohol helped to muddle his mind until his intoxicated brain conjured happy memories of you together, and Kaveh would mumble your name in a drunken haze. Other times it didn’t help, and Alhaitham, Cyno, or Tighnari could often find a drunk Kaveh quietly crying while slumped over a table and trying their best to drag him home while listening to his drunken babble of self-loathing and regret.

It will take a long time for Kaveh to feel okay again, and even then, he will never be the same optimistic and cheerful person he used to be. You were his muse, the one who made him feel like maybe he was deserving of love after all. But with you gone, he lost his creative spark. His designs no longer held the same extravagant and artistic flair they used to. Now, they’re more tame by comparison. With your passing, you took with you the little bit of joy he felt towards the world, and it seemed more bleak than it used to be when he was with you.

Kaveh refused to seek out love after your death. He’s lost too many people he held dear and has been left alone over and over again. The pain of being left behind and of feeling like he will only bring misfortune to those he cares about, made him seal off his heart. He doesn’t want to let people close to him like that again, and neither does he want to replace you. You were, and still are, very special to him.

Despite numerous years going by after your passing, Kaveh never forgot you, and he didn’t want your memory to be forgotten either. He built an art school and dedicated it to you in honor of being the one who inspired him so much in his creative endeavors. He hopes that your name will live on and continue to inspire future generations of artists long after he is gone from the world.

🎩 Lyney Having grown up in the House of the Hearth with Lyney and Lynette, the twins were practically like family to you. Though admittedly, Lyney and you developed romantic ties rather than familial ones the more you got to know each other. It was no surprise to anyone when the two of you became a couple, and Lynette even encouraged it.

Being a member of the Fatui, you were often sent out on dangerous missions to infiltrate enemy territory and report your findings back to Arlecchino. You were good at your job and had major successfully completed missions under your belt, but even the best slip up sometimes. After infiltrating enemy headquarters, you regularly reported your findings back to the House, however, one day the correspondence stopped. You went completely silent. The thought of you being caught immediately crossed Lyney’s mind, but he was hopeful that as an experienced agent, you would manage to find a way out somehow. You always have in the past, and after having worked together with you during joint missions, he saw first-hand how capable you were. To pass the time, he focused on polishing a magic trick he wanted to show you upon your return.

Days go by, and just as the magician is about to lose his patience and run off to try and find you, news about your body washing up on a riverbank reaches his ears. The heartbreak Lyney experiences upon hearing the news is indescribable. He felt lost, disoriented, and anguished. A part of him refused to believe the facts, but after witnessing the gruesome sight of your corpse, he had no choice but to face reality.

You were dead.

Lyney wondered at length about the cause of your death, and while his own guesses made his stomach knot, the autopsy report he read a few days later made him livid. Numerous torture and abuse marks were found on your body. It seemed that the enemy had captured and tortured you, hoping to force you to spill some of the Fatui’s secrets. Judging by the severity of the most recent wounds, you must have kept quiet because more brutal torture methods were used on you until the enemy figured out they wouldn’t get anything out of you, and disposed of you. Lyney knew how loyal you were to your family. You would never betray them even at the cost of your own life, but in that moment, he really wished you would have treasured your life more. Maybe then you could have survived. Maybe then he would have had the chance to hold you in his arms and tell you he missed you while you were gone. Maybe he would have had an opportunity to show off the magic trick he created specifically for your eyes only. But now, he’ll continue to miss you until the day death comes for him too. Lyney’s initial reaction upon hearing of your torture is overwhelming fury. Lynette had to hold him back from recklessly running off to take revenge against the enemy. It took a lot of reasoning on her part, but eventually, her brother calmed down.

Once his bout of anger passed, Lyney broke down. Lynette didn’t hide her own tears as she held her brother in her arms while he cried. The siblings both missed you dearly and mourned your loss, but Lyney took your death especially hard. He felt broken. One of his most precious people was taken from him in such a cruel manner, and the mere thought of how you must have spent your last few waking hours made him feel horrible.

He was anguished and angry, and the potent concoction of negative emotions weighed down on his heart and mind. Gone was his cheerful smile and outgoing attitude, replaced with a cold and somber frown. His calculative side took center stage. Though his initial burst of outrage passed, he wouldn’t give up on his desire for revenge until the act had been carried out. Aside from the twins, Arlecchino also refused to take your death lying down. You were her precious child, someone she put in a lot of love and effort to raise, and this transgression angered her as much as it angered Lyney. Together with Arlecchino, Lyney and Lynette infiltrate enemy headquarters and make every person a part of that organization pay. The magician ensures that the perpetrators experience the same pain you went through during your torture, and by the time they’re done, not a soul is left alive.

Even after exacting revenge, Lyney barely feels a smidge better. Though your captors have been neutralized and won’t hurt anyone the way they hurt you ever again, it doesn’t satisfy Lyney. At the end of the day, all he wants is to have you back in his life. He consoles himself with pieces of your clothing. Your clothes smelled like you, and Lyney hugged one of your items every night, breathing in your scent and soaking the material with his tears as he quietly cried. It takes a long time for Lyney to get himself together and act like himself again. Though he could easily put on a fake smile for his audience, his heart still aches inside. He misses you no matter how many months go by, and Lynette has her hands full comforting him when he breaks down at night and cries about how much he wants to see you. Lyney would have had an easier time accepting your death if you had passed away more peacefully, but knowing you were tortured to death will forever haunt him.

Once he feels more like himself, Lyney incorporates the magic trick he originally wanted to show you upon your return into his magic shows. He only performs it during special occasions so it would leave a great spectacle upon his audience. It was once made to awe you, but now it awes his audience, and a part of him feels some semblance of catharsis in knowing he could inspire others to feel the same joy you made him feel using just this trick. At times like these, Lyney feels as if a part of you was still there with him, enjoying the show he secretly dedicates in your honor.

⚖️ Neuvillette

You were visiting your friend Navia in Poisson, when the Primordial Sea flooded the area and caused a great catastrophe that took the lives of many of its residents. Neuvillette was aware you were in Poisson when the disaster struck, and he tried to get there as quickly as he could to check on you. He would have arrived there immediately were it not for the pressing matters he had to settle prior. He hoped the Traveler and Paimon would find you and keep you safe since they knew you were the Iudex’s beloved.

When he finally made it to Poisson, to his morbid surprise, he found neither you nor Navia, but some Fatui members helping to mitigate the damage. When he asked about your whereabouts, he was told that nobody had seen you. Immediately, his thoughts ventured to the worst scenario, but he refused to believe in his fears until he could get confirmation. He held out hope that you were alright, and went in pursuit of Navia and the Traveler, hoping that maybe you were with them, or they knew what happened to you.

It wasn’t until he was saving Navia from getting dissolved in the Primordial Sea water, did he catch a glimpse of your face. You were trying to protect Navia from certain death, along with Silver and Meluse. At the time he was too anxious about saving Navia to fully register the implication, but an unsettling thought sprang in his mind that maybe you really were— No, he didn’t want to accept it.

When Navia regained consciousness, Neuvillette asked her about your whereabouts. Her answer pierced through him like an ice-cold lance. With tears in her eyes, Navia recounted how you were helping Silver and Meluse rescue the residents of Poisson when the Primordial Sea flooded in, and how she saw your body dissolve in the water along with her loyal subordinates with her own eyes. The news settled in Neuvillette’s stomach like a boulder, causing it to sink and make him feel nauseous. Dread filled him, but he could only muster a quiet “I see…” and stare off into the distance. He felt crushing sadness, but he wasn’t given time to properly process his emotions and your death until he managed to make it out of the ruins.

That evening, Fontaine was hit by a torrential downpour that lasted several days. The rain fell in heavy sheets, flooding the streets and urging most of the citizens to seek shelter in their homes. Only the Chief Justice had the gall to stand outside and let the rain seep and soak through his clothes.

Neuvillette let the water droplets cascade down his face, imitating the tears he wished to shed as the realization that he would never see you again settled in. It was strange. Though he was on land, each waking moment he was pursued by a constant feeling of drowning. His chest felt heavy as if burdened by a great weight that made each breath he took feel like a herculean task.

Neuvillette felt a lot of emotions he couldn’t find the words for. He was frustrated and angry that innocent civilians had died in the flood because nothing was done to prevent it. So many people died. You died. If nothing else, he wanted to get justice for your and the others’ deaths.

However, Furina refused to provide answers to his questions despite his probing and insistence that now was not the time to keep secrets that could potentially help prevent an even greater catastrophe. That was when he turned to seeking aid from his companions, in the hopes that Fontaine could still be saved. Neuvillette lost and gained many things in those few days. The citizens of Fontaine were freed of their curse, and Neuvillette had obtained a position of complete authority, however, it all came at the cost of the lives of innocent civilians, Focalors’s life, Furina’s mental state, and… your life. Those were great prices to pay, and Neuvillette mourned each and every sacrifice.

Now that he had some time to himself to process his feelings, Neuvillette recognized that what he felt was grief and longing. He wanted to see you at least one more time, to feel you in his arms again. To have you taken from him so suddenly was too painful. He never got to tell you one last ‘I love you’, and he could only hope that his words reach you wherever your consciousness might be now. Fontaine will see frequent rainfall in the coming months. It won’t be easy for Neuvillette to get over your death, and some part of him will always ache and yearn to see you again. But one thing he can do is strengthen his resolve to make Fontaine into a nation that both you and Focalors would be proud of. A nation where tragedies like these will never happen again.

🍃 Venti

Venti liked to climb up on high places like his statue in front of the Favonius church, the rooftop of the Cat’s Tail, or the great tree at Windrise. Today, you found him high up in the tree, absentmindedly strumming a new tune on his lyre. Wanting to surprise the bard, you tried your best to climb the tree as quietly as you could, but right as you were about to pop up and surprise him, the branch you were on snapped, and with a heart-stopping shriek, you plummeted down to the ground.

Your scream alerted Venti. He felt your presence before you even started climbing the tree, but he failed to foresee the danger until it was too late. He didn’t react fast enough to summon a gust of wind to safely lower you down. The sickening crunch of your skull hitting the ground made his stomach roil, and for a brief moment he felt as if the blood in his veins turned to ice. He felt frozen in place.

Snapping out of his momentary stupor, Venti rushed to your side to check on you, but the enormous pool of blood blooming around your lifeless body made him throw up.

Not again. He lost someone he loved once more. The painful emotions of losing you triggered a cascade of memories of seeing the broken body of that one boy he called a friend thousands of years ago. The same boy whose face he now wore as a way of honoring his memory and giving him an opportunity to live out his dreams of freedom through Venti.

Venti felt that same feeling of heavy emptiness once again as he cradled your lifeless body in his arms, your blood smearing the white sleeves of his shirt. One of the bard’s hands cradled your still-warm cheek, and he wept. To have you taken away so easily through such a small accident… it was too much.

Venti didn’t attend your funeral. He couldn’t bear to. However, he forced himself to watch from a distance as your loved ones gathered around your grave. He fully empathized with their grief.

In the following days, one could often find Venti at a tavern. He started with Angel’s Share, but after consecutive days of heavy drinking and drunken ramblings about how remorseful he felt and how you deserved better, Diluc put a stop to Venti’s visits. The Anemo Archon wasn’t getting any better from drinking himself into a stupor until he could barely hold himself upright. It was heartbreaking to see.

Even after being banned from the Angel’s Share, Venti would visit other taverns in the city and rinse and repeat. He so badly wanted to numb the pain in his heart and forget the awful memory of your lifeless body. Only after several bans did Venti finally stop coming to the city altogether. He disappeared for a while, and nobody was able to find him. Only after many weeks did the bard suddenly pop up in the town square with his lyre in hand.

During his absence, Venti wrote a few songs as a way to cope with his grief, and after a while, finally felt well enough to play them. As a bard, he was well-known in Mondstadt for playing cheerful and beautiful tunes, but this time his melodies were melancholic, even sad. They listened to him sing about a love he can no longer say ‘I love you’ to anymore, someone he can no longer forge new memories with and can only carry on in his heart as a memory. The music he played captured the attention of every member of the audience and touched their hearts so deeply that they, too, could feel the sorrow the bard was trying to convey through his melodies. His pain became their pain, too. The heartache was so profound, so raw and crippling, that many people couldn’t hold back from crying.

Venti wasn’t playing the songs to earn money or share his sadness with others. He was playing them for you. He hoped that his feelings would reach you wherever you were and that your memory wouldn’t fade away even if he remained the last person alive who knew of your existence. His songs will keep your memory alive in the hearts of the Mondstadt citizens, never to be forgotten.

☂️ Wanderer

You have been fighting chronic sickness for months, but despite the treatments, each week you seemed to get worse and worse. Neither the doctors of Sumeru nor even Nahida herself could figure out a cure for your condition. You were bedridden with barely any strength to move. Wanderer took responsibility for nursing you back to health by helping you get to places you needed, cooking all your meals and feeding you, as well as getting your medicine and administering it.

Despite his efforts, you could tell you wouldn’t last long. While you still had the strength to talk, you apologized to him for being forced to part from him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed, with a frown pulling at his lips. “Rather than talk about such nonsense, use that energy to get better instead.”

He didn’t want to face the facts, to accept the reality that you could disappear from his life. But then came a day where you no longer opened your eyes when he called your name, nor stirred when he tried to shake you awake. Your body was cold and stiff and so unlike what he was used to seeing you as. The life you possessed was gone in all senses of the word.

Something in Wanderer snapped that day. Falling to his knees, he let out a guttural scream that tore at his vocal cords. He unleashed a wail that carried all the anguish and misery he’d been keeping bottled up inside for hundreds of years. He’s lost so many people he cared for in the past. Each time he met someone he grew attached to, fate would always tear them away from him, and you were no exception.

He cried bitter tears in the privacy of your shared home, cursing Fate for doing this to him over and over again. He was angry and heartbroken. Though he lacked a real heart, the sensation in his chest felt like something inside him broke into a million tiny fragments. As if sharp needles pierced through his non-existent heart and caused him to scream until he lost his voice.

He wanted revenge, but how can one get vengeance against Fate itself?

You were gone, so cruelly torn away from his side despite his best efforts to keep you alive. You were the little ray of light that never gave up on him no matter how cold he was towards you or how much he pushed you away, and helped him heal little by little. You accepted him in his entirety and wormed your way into his non-existent heart, so how dare Fate mock him like this? Wanderer truly felt as if Fate was purposely torturing him by taking away all those whom he held dear.

Helpless and anguished, Wanderer reverted to the days when he used to be Scaramouche, the sixth of the Fatui Harbingers who was infamous for his callousness and mercilessness. His roiling emotions spurred him to repeat these spiteful acts against anyone who got in his way. It was the only way he knew of how to vent these overwhelming emotions that made him feel like he was choking on his grief.

It took Nahida’s interference to calm him down and get through to him that you wouldn’t want him to be like this. The Wanderer you fell in love with wasn’t such a hateful person driven by negative emotions, and though he was loathe to admit it, the God of Wisdom was right.

Having quelled the initial burst of wounded anger, Wanderer would think more clearly about what he should do from now on. He could keep all your items, photographs, and letters, but they would never replace you, only help preserve some of the memories attached to them, which a puppet like him had no need for. He won’t forget even the smallest thing about you, not as long as he’s alive.

Wanderer becomes a regular visitor of your grave, taking care of it so your name won’t be erased from the gravestone by time too quickly. He would frequently bring your favorite foods and flowers and place them in front of your grave, before taking a seat next to it and staring off into the distance without saying a word. He did this mostly at night so he could stargaze, just like how you both used to when you were alive.

Even centuries later, when everyone who knew you took their memories of you to their graves, Wanderer will remain to watch over your final resting place, unwavering in his devotion.

🐺 Wriothesley

You accompanied Wriothesley on another one of his swims out in the open waters surrounding the Fortress. Since you weren’t a vision holder, you had to wear a diving suit to breathe, unlike your beloved Duke. You’ve had these private little swim dates a few times before, so your guard was down when you swam through some jagged areas of the Fortress’s scaffolding. The shoulder of your diving suit caught on a sharp edge of metal and tore a hole in it. The tear was fairly large, and you panicked when you felt water rush inside your suit. Wriothesley was quick to freeze the hole and pull you up to the surface to get the suit off of you, but by the time he did, it was too late. You had inhaled too much water and were unresponsive. Wriothesley tried to keep his anxiety at bay and utilized all the CPR knowledge he learned from Sigewinne to try and save your life. He breathed air into your lungs and did chest compressions with enough force to hear your ribs crack, but even after 30 agonizing minutes of trying, you wouldn’t wake up.

Wriothesley had no choice but to accept the fact you died. Wriothesley doesn’t cry for you. He’s no stranger to death. His exposure to it in his younger years made him all too aware of how easy it is to die, and that death came for all without exception. As a result, he was able to accept your death a little easier than most, but it doesn’t mean he made peace with it. The staff and inmates at the Fortress all said Wriothesley looked the same as usual even after your death. He kept up his laidback yet intimidating demeanor and busied himself with the variety of work someone in his position was required to take care of. Only Sigewinne could tell that Wriothesley was not alright despite all the strained smiles he gave everyone. The bags under his eyes grew more prominent by the day, a clear indicator he wasn’t sleeping well. She saw how he threw himself into his work, barely taking any time to rest properly, as if wanting to keep his mind busy from the horrible memory of seeing your corpse. Though he tried to mask it, in truth, your death affected Wriothesley deeply. He had frequent nightmares about watching you drown and being unable to save you, and they would keep him up at night. He usually awoke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding from intense panic and dread until his mind cleared, only to be replaced with a stone-cold reality that made the feelings of guilt come rushing back. Out of habit, he turns to your side of the bed to seek comfort in your presence but seeing it cold and empty served as yet another harsh reminder that you were gone. Wriothesley can’t sleep after his nightmares, so he opts to work out or fuss over his gauntlets to distract himself from his feelings. It takes all his self-control to keep a lid on his emotions and not become the angry, irritable mess he knows he will be if he’s not careful.

When he makes tea, Wriothesley accidentally makes two cups out of habit. One for you and one for him. Even weeks after your passing, it was still a difficult habit to break. For the first while, Wriothesley would even stop drinking your favorite tea blend because it reminded him of you. Rather than enjoy the flavor, all he tastes is bile in his throat. The flavor of your favorite tea makes him nauseous because it makes him think about how you will never taste this again or have another tea date in his office.

There was one occasion when he tried to drink your tea shortly after your death. He thought maybe the flavor would remind him of the happy times he shared with you, but all it resulted in was a broken teacup from the force of his grip, and Sigewinne fussing over his cuts and burns. He didn’t drink your favorite blend for a long time after that, only being able to find enjoyment in it again many years later when the startlingly clear memory of your death didn’t hurt him as much. Wriothesley felt lonely without you. You were the friend and confidant he told his deepest and darkest secrets about his past, the comfort he sought after a difficult day, and the soothing presence that made him feel accepted for who he was without all the embellished titles. But after your passing, the Fortress of Meropide seemed cold and gloomy, as if devoid of the warmth it once had that made him call it home. It was as if your death snuffed out the little ray of warm sunshine he felt when spending time with you.

[chuluoyi]

Hey you!! I am still a bit quite new to the jjk fandom and everything going around but i am reading tons of things and your page became my fave in like a blink of an eye, no joke!!! Like i swear everything you write with Gojo goes through my soul and beyond🔥💕 i was thinking if you would maybe sometime take on the idea of how would Gojo react if his wife/gf is pregnant and him the protective dude he is, looses his shit when she gets hurt (either random or an a mission)?and taking care of her after.

Also i hope you are well and send you all the hugs and love i can give from where I am💜💜💜

࿐ ࿔ before the dawn

tw: pregnancy, mentions of blood, satosugu angst, hurt/comfort. goes through your soul and beyond? omg that’s the highest praise🤧 oh and hurt/comfort is actually my roman empire! to fit in love entries, i have to put it in the jjk0 timeline... and also sending love for you too nonnie!! this is so sweet aww thank you🫶🏻✨

a part of gojo's love entries

“…geto suguru is going to unleash curses in tokyo and kyoto.”

you stood still, suddenly feeling like your world had crashed. you blinked at what ichiji had just said after stuttering many times. “huh? geto… suguru?”

you just had your prenatal checkup with shoko, and you had suspected something serious had been going on by the grim way she looked and how she tried to evade your questions. satoru too had been kind of busy these past few days, and he was sorry to leave you more often because of “a business he had to take care of.”

so this was the business.

“how? why?” you asked ichiji with widened eyes, the horror dawning on you surely and fast. “how is he—doesn’t that mean… he’s— he’s going to be hunted down?”

that was a stupid question. suguru had been a criminal for ten years, of course they were going to catch him. it shouldn’t be new, you knew it. but this was an act of terrorism. this was the gravest and he could—suguru could…

three years of your and satoru’s youth flashed in your mind. the laughs. the memories. how? why must everything escalate this way?

“they’re g-going to… eliminate him.” ichiji looked down with regret, swallowing hard as he told you this. “gojo-san… he’s going to participate in the battle too.”

hearing that, suddenly you felt sick to your stomach. another reality crashed: satoru could end up murdering his best friend.

almost immediately, your womb clenched and throbbed with such intensity that your breath hitched, and you lurched forward, gripping onto ichiji’s arm tightly—

“ahh!” a scream tore its way out of your throat as you crumbled to the ground. the vice-like gripping pressure that assailed you sent waves of pain coursing through your belly and there was something wet and scarlet trickling down your legs.

blood. you wheezed, whimpered and your voice came out in panicked gasps. “b-baby… my baby—!”

“i will get you to ieiri-san!” ichiji immediately carried you back to shoko’s infirmary, trying not to turn into a blubbering mess. your anguished cries resonated through the quiet hall as you held onto your spasming abdomen, and ichiji could only pray with all his heart that you would be okay… or else gojo would definitely have his head.

he was informed through a phone call, that you passed out due to shock.

satoru felt his ears ring. everything blanked out afterwards. you were bleeding. you and your baby were bleeding. you weren’t supposed to and he wasn’t even there.

you were already so far along in your pregnancy and there was only a little over two months left before your due date. despite the impulse to scream at ichiji for subjecting you to such shocking news, he realized it would be futile, because in the end, you deserved to know.

he dashed towards the infirmary, the bandages on his eyes unraveling to reveal the bright glint of his six eyes as he met shoko’s stern gaze.

“where is she?” his voice came out ragged, almost in a growl, and his fists were clenched so tightly.

his remaining friend solemnly guided him towards your room and he wasted no time to rush inside, heart in his throat to make sure that no harm had come to either you or his baby.

“...satoru?” you were sitting on the bed, still pale, the swell of your belly was prominent even under the blankets. he looked at you with a mix of fright and concern and pulled you into his arms, breathing in your scent.

“you alright?” he inquired, voice softened exponentially as he pressed kisses on your head. “does it still hurt anywhere?”

“no, shoko has—”

“your belly no longer hurts? baby okay?” his palm brushed against your abdomen, lips tugged into a very concerned frown, and when the baby kicked him was when satoru could finally heave a sigh of relief.

“you scared me so much,” he whispered into your ear in a rasp and a sigh, before squeezing his eyes shut and reveling in your familiar warmth. one of his hands rested on where your baby was, to feel his twists and turns inside you, while the other continued to hold you in his embrace.

“satoru…” you mumbled, leaning against his sturdy chest and sensing the rapid beats of his heart. you felt exhausted and guilty for having mortified him, but you must clarify one thing. “they said… geto will curse everyone… is that true?”

his heart sank at your innocent question. “for now… can we just stay like this? i will answer you later, but for now…”

and you indulged him. over the years, you learned that satoru needed assurance in physical form more than you did. your heart fluttered as he patted your back and rubbed your belly many times, his worry crystal clear.

“i’m sorry i wasn’t here… and i’m sorry that i tried to hide it from you,” he began. “in my defense, i don’t want you to put you through more stress. you have our baby to worry about already.”

as he explained things to you afterwards—about how your once kind, respected senior was now radically persistent in his pursuit of eradicating non-sorcerers and targeted yuta, your eyes watered with tears once again.

“can you stop him?” your lower lip trembled, beginnings of sobs welling up within you. “satoru… he’s… was—your best friend…”

geto suguru was an undeniable part of your vibrant youth. a part of you never got over how he decided to abandon everything during your last year of high school.

and you knew that your husband too must feel the same, with how crestfallen he looked now. it was the greatest betrayal for him to see the only person who understood him branched away to the worst path possible.

“shh... sweets, look,” satoru made you face him, the blue of his eyes darkening as he joined both of your hands together in his, dropping down on one knee before you. “for now, please— please, just focus on yourself. i don’t want you to get hurt.”

“but—”

“i won’t be able to forgive myself if you or our baby are not the slightest bit fine.”

you went silent at that. gojo satoru never showed his weakness to anyone, and with you, rarely. yet, in this moment, he appeared vulnerable, confessing that losing the only thing that kept him sane—this little family you made—would be unbearable.

“i’m fine, i promise,” you reassured, pulling your hand away before wrapping your arms around his neck, seeking his comfort and letting your tears to finally fall freely. “i’m sorry for earlier…”

“don’t. i should’ve told you sooner, that way you wouldn’t bleed,” satoru firmly rebuked in a grave tone, his voice tinged with self-deprecation as he hugged you again in return, stroking your hair. “did it hurt much? you must’ve been so terrified…”

“i was spooked, but we’re fine…”

“i’m going to take leave for the next few days, yeah? we’re going to be together. i can't—in this state of mind—leave you alone.”

the thought of potentially losing your baby filled him with terror. everything else be damned—including suguru’s atrocities, he had to take care of you first.

because you were the one who stood by his side when his world was at its darkest—you had came to him with the light of the dawn. he was forever grateful to you for becoming the apple of his eye, mending his broken heart, and ultimately becoming his everything.

he wouldn't let anything happen to you. that was his vow to himself. and he was a man of his word.

. . .

it didn't occur to you until much, much later, after all was said and done—after you were notified of suguru's death on december 24, that his mind had been set since then, because satoru had never promised you that he would be able to stop him.

[itsonlydana]

Find a cure for my heart | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x human fem!reader 👑

On the eve of the battle, you and Thranduil spent a night that spurred a flurry of letters while Dale grew as a city and you both grew too, first apart, then closer again. However, you couldn't bring yourself to burden him with the truth that your health was deteriorating with each passing day.

warnings/tags: sickness, angst, mentions of death (reader is actively dying but only realizes after Thranduil helps) hurt/comfort, happy end

words: 5,6k

an: finally finished this fic after working on it since January. If you are interested in being tagged when I post new fics– comment that under this post or send it to me in my inbox!

+ masterlist + rules

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

Contrary to general belief, the elves did not return to their forests immediately after the battle.

In the stories told, there would be remarks, on how the Elvenking offered his help to the yet-to-be-crowned King Bard once more, bringing aid with however warriors he had left for disposal to search the endless chaos and ruins of Dale for survivors until many sunsets later.

They would speak about the sorrow of losing friends and family and neighbors to a war that had been won at costs no one could comprehend yet, and they would mention how the great Elvenking guided them through the darkest of nights for he had experienced this all before; the grief, the helplessness and the colossal question of What now, who's to say we haven't lost ourselves as well as those we have to bury?

Many had their own experience with the Elvenking, whether it was a hand pulling them off the ground, a loaf of bread delivered to them after days of fighting, or a warm blanket to huddle under to finally lay their body to rest under the watchful eye of Elves that had sworn to protect them.

You had your own story. A different one.

But it wasn't one with the Elvenking, no; the night before the battle, where the air was filled with the sound of blades being sharpened and children crying for their parents, you had met Thranduil, King of the Woodland Elves but most importantly: a set of strong arms that caught you as you stumbled out of Bard's tent.

You needed to run away from the discussions over how to draw the dwarfs out of the mountain.

You'd been a friend to Bard for many long years but standing in that luscious tent, being offered wine as the Wizard, Bard, and the Hobbit pondered over what was about to happen while you weren't sure your mind caught up on what had happened already, there was no room for friendship inside your panic-riddled chest.

Just as you flung open the tent flaps and tried to dash away to get some air, your foot caught on a root, and had it not been for Thranduil's fast reflexes, you surely would've planted your face into the dirt and mud.

Up until now, you had no idea what had transcended between the two of you at the moment where his arms held you up, his softening face looking down at your widened eyes filled with tears and your tongue too tied up and heavy to say anything other than: "Air– please"

Whatever it had been, likely an unspoken wish – by Thranduil or you, or maybe you both; it didn't matter – for someone who would not pass judgment over the urge to disappear from your skin and role and crown for one night, a fallen star flung across the darkened skies at the right time.

It felt as though Thranduil had pulled a sheet over your heads; your world narrowed down to this other soul and how beautiful and divine his body felt on yours as you found a way to survive the night before life as you knew it turned once more and the solid ground beneath your feet shifted and broke.

A few nights, while unforgettable and brooding with feelings neither of you admitted to, did not change that you had to move on somehow.

Although the Elves did not depart for Mirkwood immediately and Thranduil and you were given time in the aftermath to find the other in the cover of the night and under the pretense this was nothing more than mere distraction, a wishing star could only do so much shining before dimming out.

The day you awoke to a sunrise bathing the debris of Dale in a pinkish and warm light, pillars being rebuilt dipped into molten gold, and the cracks glued together, Thranduil's strong arms were wrapped around your middle as if he wanted to hinder you from sneaking away, you knew it was him who would leave you before the day was over.

And so he did.

Sunrise came and went and soon enough all the tents were packed up on horseback and wagons, leaving flattened grass as the only reminder they had been there at all if and there were goodbyes, political between Bard and the Elvenking who parted from the weary man and his children with the promise of support, and between you and Thranduil in the form of a slow nod.

Thranduil sat high on a dark stallion, dressed in silver and long robes that hid fingerprints that spoke of an attempt to cling to transience. His chin lowered, though his eyes were fixed on you.

You knew that nod carried the conversation you had whispered into the morning mist.

And it was all that wasn't said that motivated you to step away first and turn your back on the caravan that took away a King and a Lover.

There was much to do, the looming task of building up Dale needed everyone's full attention, and that included you.

Especially you.

There were houses to plan, accommodations to be made so that no one needed to sleep under the stars.

No one could ever pry the reason why you were keen on getting a roof under everyone out of your hands; a lonely part of you wanted the stars to remember you and Thranduil lying in the grass. And no one else.

The first letter arrived a few weeks after you hadn't had the heart to watch him go and threw yourself into one task after the other, dismissing even the smallest hint of sickness, like the heaviness inside your chest every time you lifted something heavy, or tiredness crashing down onto you in moments to catch your breath, to continue working, that you wouldn't find a moment to admit how much you missed him.

That utterly ridiculous mindset stopped as soon as the messenger Elf rode into the city and hand-delivered you the first of many envelopes with the nearly indecipherable handwriting of Thranduil.

Or the Elvenking.

Because the first letter, despite being addressed to you as well as Bard, who wouldn't have been able to read it in the first place, was a list of things the King would send and a question of what else was needed that he could provide.

"It's fine," you said to Bard through a smile that didn't reach your eyes as you read aloud the letter twice, from the greeting to the last paragraph that was signed 'the Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion, Lord of Mirkwood and friend of Dale'.

In the flickering light of the candle dripping wax onto the table between you, the dark circles under Bard's eyes were all the more prominent than when he was running around the city and there was a bottomless pit in your stomach that wouldn't want to add to the many things he was already worrying about.

"It's totally fine," you said to Bard when he asked if you had skipped over a private note from Thranduil or if there truly wasn't one (there wasn't, you had turned the letter over and over in your hands until the edges became soft and wrinkled) and you both knew that to be a lie.

You answered the letter in the same professional manner because even though you wanted to, you couldn't send a letter to a King helping however he could and expecting nothing in return with a smeared "I wish for your heart and our nights and for your voice to tell me we are alright" written under tears in another sleepless night.

The next few letters follow the same pattern, Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion would inquire if there was anything Dale needed and answer Bard's question on leadership and share his knowledge of what was fundamental for a new King, and you would write for Bard on the other side.

The weeks passed and so did the hope of rekindling that fire you had thought to burn in the both of you.

That Thranduil didn't see the need to reach out was a punch to the gut that left little room for anything else but disappointment of putting your effort into pulling on a rope that wasn't attached to something on the other end.

Why waste the dwindling energy of your exhausted body on someone who would live longer than the memory of you?

Every time a new letter arrived by messenger you would find Bard until one late evening you opened the letter by yourself and saw your name written in that beautiful sharp handwriting, not Bard's added in front or behind; only your given name and not your title.

Your hands shook as you stood in the frame of what was to be your house and the ink glued together the cracks of your heart.

'Forgive me for not writing to you sooner and for how sentimental I must sound. It has been weeks since I last saw you and every time I wander through my familiar halls, I find there is no soul around that could understand me how you did, whom I could tell what plagues my mind. The time we spent together has not left my thoughts. Neither has the promise to not grow apart too much and I apologize for not contributing to that. Now, if you would still have me, I would like nothing more than to hear how you are faring. As for me…'

Nothing had the power to stop you from running off that giddy feeling that spread through your chest as Thranduil, finally Thranduil, wrote about the happenings in Mirkwood; not even the cough that sat deep where suppressed laughter spilled into the grass you fell into– the letter clutched into your hands.

Thranduil and you fell into a routine then, one that was no obstruction for the many tasks at hand but made room for each other to hold on to the promise.

You would send out two letters, one on behalf of Bard whom you taught his signature as well as a few more words every fortnight you sat down together, and one addressed to Thranduil, filled with all the thoughts that ran through your mind that you wanted to tell him.

It was by no means as precious as the talks you had now many weeks ago, not when there were days you had to wait for a response instead of seconds.

You appreciated them all the same, every bit of himself that Thranduil wrote into his messages was countered with a confession of your own.

When he said he wished to know where his son had disappeared to or rather if he followed the direction Thranduil had given to him, you admitted to the nightmares that still plagued your mind, the dreams of fire and a monster that still rested in the lake.

You offered piece after piece, chipped bits of your heart into every letter that you sent away, and after a few weeks had passed, and Dale was taking shape with its houses raking their roofs to the sky and its people planting seeds and flowers, rooting themselves into what now was theirs, there was not much left of your heart that was completely yours and not Thranduil's and the letters of his proved that the same could be said about him.

What you did not mention, not with one drop of ink, was that the nightmares were no longer confined to the few hours of sleep you fell into.

There was a dragon, not just in the cold lake where your old home lay in ashes and was drowned in the ruthless darkness, but by the heavy weight on your chest, it felt like there was one inside you as well.

You were coughing as if there was smoke blocking your lungs, blackening out what little air you heaved for when a coughing fit took over your whole body.

It started small, a cough then, a sleepless night there; both accumulated to an uncountable amount and it got only worse as the season changed and the autumn winds lost their last warm touches and the trees bared their wooden arms.

You waved it off as a common cold, nothing that would hinder you from your tasks to becoming a liability the city didn't need in its time of growth.

Then, the coughing got worse, rougher, sometimes taking your voice for a moment until you found some water although that only helped for a small moment, like trying to extinct a burning building with just the water your bare hands could carry.

The worst part was the blood that stained the cloths, the sweats that not only held you awake at night but weakened you at day as well.

"I'm better!" you promised Bard on a night when he had to sit next to your bed, wringing out the cold cloths that lay on your fevered forehead.

His voice was a low whisper when he dabbed away the sweat, pushing your wet hair back with hands that were far too gentle for what you deserved for rotting in bed and not pulling your weight, "You're not, an' that's clear for everyone but you. Did you tell him?"

"Yes," you lied through your teeth, eyelids dropping close from exhaustion but you knew sleep wouldn't come, "he said it would pass, nothing to worry 'bout."

Three days later you were on your legs again, if not a bit shaky and needing more breaks than ever.

You sat in Bard's kitchen, a warm bowl of soup in front of you that tasted like ash and firewood, and ignored the silent pleading in his eyes to tell him what was going on and why you could barely lift the spoon of a soup that you clearly did not enjoy.

Winter wore your body down like rough sandpaper on soft oak, the cold winds and dark hours an enemy far worse than what you had to encounter on the battlefield. This had no logical explanation, nor was there an enemy you could see.

Your own body betrayed you and you had no idea what you had done to deserve it.

You knew that somewhere was a solution to it all, that was the string of hope leading you through the snow outside and the fire in your blood and bones, singing down what little fight was left on the days when the sun pushed away gray clouds and you felt normal and healthy.

The sole reason why you lied in letters filled with otherwise honesty as pure as heaven's snowflakes was that you did not want to be a bother.

Thranduil wrote how much of his time the dwarfs and their trading demands swallowed; he did not need another burden and you would be damned if he came because you had a small cold you couldn't get rid of.

You had promised Thranduil to visit him in spring when the soil was rich enough for the seed to take and the livestock could roam the meadows. If you weren't better by then you would ask him.

Until then work demanded all of you. Even if that was through a white knuckle grip on the last bits of health in aching bones.

⸺

Spring brought forth daffodils pushing through the cobblestone streets. Tilda, the youngest Bardling and a wonderful distraction on the days when getting out of bed was the hardest bounced excitedly beside you and pointed at the flowers.

"Like stubborn trumpets proclaiming winter is finally over!" she said as you followed her outside. "Spring is finally here!"

You disregarded the pain echoing through your body, the weight of guilt forcing you to spend the day with the girl.

She had been knocking on your door every morning, angelic eyes asking if you wanted to come and play with the lambs that she had taken too and this morning, you couldn't disappoint her.

"Aren't they just so pretty?" Tilda crouched down, gently cupping one of the blossoms in her small hands.

Lowering your gaze from the burning brightness of the sun you got a short glimpse at the yellow dots decorating your doorstep.

Then, suddenly, black spots appeared on the edge of your vision, taking you by surprise though they have been your companion for the better part of the last few days.

"Tilda–"

You tried to hold on to your doorframe, bruised hands frantically searching for a grip on the warm wood but they slipped and caught only the edge.

The last thought that crossed your mind was that you should bring Thranduil some of those flowers before you blinked and crumbled to the ground.

⸺

You woke up to the confusing taste of grass on your heavy tongue and the dizzying realization that you were not spread out on the street but tugged inside your bed.

Above you, moonlight fell through the opened window in the slanted roof above your head and you immediately closed your eyes again.

This had to be a dream.

Though your dreams had not been like this in a long time.

Peaceful. Comfortably warm. Silent except for the croaking of toads, the buzzing of insects outside, and the laughter and clattering of your neighbors probably enjoying the night more than you.

A groan passed your lips as you tried to sit up; a seemingly impossible task with the heaviness of your bones as well as the mountain of blankets that covered you.

"What do you think you are doing?" a voice you knew all too well sneered.

For a second you thought it to be a hallucination, a projection or your dazed mind still lulled in the fog of unconsciousness.

The bones in your neck cracked as your head snapped to the other side. There was no way you did not imagine the tall figure that should be across the woods in his palace; not in your bedroom.

"What are you doing here?"

"Merely strolling through the neighborhood," Thranduil's voice dripped with sarcasm, yet a subtle tension marked his stance beside the bed. "Now, enlighten me. Did you conveniently forget to mention this sickness in your letters?"

Ah, straight to the point.

"It's trivial," you waved it off, attempting to assert yourself by sitting up.

Naturally, consciousness promptly slipped away once more.

This time you were not that surprised by the sharp taste of grass on your lips when you came to your senses once more, pushed back into the pillows that had never felt this stuffed. You were still unable to move your leg more than from one side to the other under the blankets and Thranduil was still there, glaring at you through dark furrowed brows and hardened eyes.

You wanted to say something to break the heavy silence but all that passed your lips was a giggle that was more desperate and closer to insane than amusement.

One brow lifted. "Oh, how glad I am you are entertained by this," said Thranduil. He was as rigid in a frightening calm way but all of that was overshadowed by the cloud of confusion that muddled your thoughts.

"Noo," you drew out the word and continued giggling. This had to be insanity. "You jus' look very out of place here – wait. Turn around? I need to make sure you're really here."

He didn't fit into the cramped space of your house, his fine clothing stood out against the poor backdrop of crooked furniture, used towels hanging over stools, and the small layer of dust that covered the areas you hadn't been able to clean in a while; which was most of the bedroom and you didn't dare think about the state of the kitchen.

Where he deserved a throne out of gold you could only offer the chair next to your bed, the one that was crooked and leaned heavily to one side.

That being said, nothing took away the sheer amount of power he radiated.

It easily filled every nook and cranny or tight corner of your humble house, his voice as well as the image of Thranduil, King of the Elves, towering over your bed in long robes and bathed in the light of the night sky, glittering silver like the moon knew the importance of the Elf in front of you.

Thranduil remained stoically still. "I will definitely not do that," he said. "I am here. Where I should have been a while ago."

The accusation would have hit harder if you weren't drugged up on whatever medicine he had apparently fed you while you were out cold.

You shrugged your shoulders as well as you could with your arms bundled under the blankets. "I saw no reason, it was just a cold. Nothing I couldn't manage."

Well, you hadn't managed to handle it, that was the worst realization of the whole lie.

"Clearly," Thranduil said sarcastically and ground his teeth against each other. His arms were behind his stiff back and the way he tilted his head down to you made you feel like a child being admonished for bad behavior. "Do you know how much despair I felt when Bard's letter arrived this morning?" His voice was even but there was a resonance in it – a deep rumble akin to the ominous approach of distant thunderstorms over the sea. "Nearly indecipherable scrambles where he begged me to come; telling me that you have been asleep for two whole days?"

A crack in the form of a small tremor broke through the mask of the all-mighty Elvenking.

"This morning?" you asked, caught up by the first part and ignorant of everything that followed after, and you huffed while running the calculations through your head. "Thranduil, this can not be, the journey is not manageable in one day."

"Is this truly the point you consider most important?" He closed his eyes as a pained expression passed over his face. "You deem it impossible, yet I assure you, nothing could have hindered my arrival here; the boundaries of possibility, for once, were not a barrier but an aid. It reveals your scant regard for your circumstance if your worry fixates on my journey through the land. Not on the sickness that nearly stole you from this world. Two days –" Thranduil took a deep breath, "two whole days where those around you had no idea if you would ever awake again."

"But –"

"No, you can speak when I am finished," he commanded sharply. "You were reckless. Ignorant of your health as if your life was not precious." Thranduil spat the words out cold yet they burned. He was blind to the way you flinched and lowered your burning eyes to the blankets.

You shrunk deeper into the pillows, a hollow ache inside your chest that had felt empty from the pain ever since you awoke the first time.

"But –" you repeated helplessly. This time, he allowed you to continue and you did so in a whisper: "I didn't want to be an inconvenience."

"An inconvenience?" he sneered back at you, the flickering lights of a few burned-down candles casting shadows over the creases of anger edged into alabaster skin.

He took a step toward the bed and you saw a twitch in his lips that had you blanching.

The fury brooding inside him was not new, you had seen it on the battlefield before. In ice-cold cuts of his sword as he flawlessly executed the most brutal movements while his face resembled a mask of the most dangerous kind of rage – stillness.

Now, there remained little of that stillness.

"You were a greater inconvenience by nearly throwing away your precious mortal life, all because of your unfathomable stubbornness!"

"There was lots to do!" you snapped back. Shortly but surely, you were fed up with his anger and the insults he was throwing at you. "This town was suffering far more than me and don't you dare tell me I'm wrong," you had to bury your teeth into your lower lip to stop it from shaking. "Dale needed me!"

The pale skin was flushed red around his heaving chest and delicate ears. "And I do not?" Thranduil road and his voice boomed through your little bedroom loud enough for the cicadas outside to fall silent.

Immediately, your eyes watered. You felt trapped under his gaze, engulfed in pure heat hotter than any dragon fire.

You searched for a response inside you but found none.

All there was was chaos – the loud beating of your heart against your chest like iron being beaten and shaped though all that was formed was pain sharp like a sword edge; cutting through the layers of protection you had wrapped around your heart.

Thranduil slightly lifted his nose, staring down at you through thick eyebrows and a clenched jawline. "You were dying," he said and his nostrils quivered. "I can not fathom how you through that would not have been a greater inconvenience.

His expressions made up in sound for the lowered voice he'd used to speak about what you previously refused to acknowledge.

Never before had you seen him this out of control of his emotions, not even on the nights he had bedded you where he still had a hold on himself.

The way he stood before you, dressed in fine robes not fit for riding, the hem of them stained by dirt, his boots muddy, and his face full of anguish, it was as if he could have been kneeling at your feet.

You ignored the tears slipping silently down your cheeks. "It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"It was indeed, and far beyond that."

The tears made it impossible for you to continue looking at him and your head dropped down as a sob broke through you. "I didn't know," you panicked, "It didn't happen fast so… so I thought it'd pass but – and then it got worse and worse and I was so afraid to speak to anyone about it." The words tumbled into your lap, where, under the blankets, your hands were balled to fists now that the strength to do so had returned to your body, "I – I couldn't," the night air stung as your breaths turned into gasps, "They – Bard was exhausted and –"

Thranduil's face softened ever so slightly, pushing away the furious frown. "You are too pure for this world," he said quietly and – dealing a fatal blow to your ever-fragile heart – slowly went down on one knee next to the bed until you were eye to eye and his cold long fingers could gently caress your wet cheek.

He stopped, most of his fingers covered in the glistening tears he'd freed you from and his thumb rested on the plushness of your lower lip. "The world would have lost its sunshine had you perished," his robes rustled as he drew closer, silver hair falling onto the blankets like stars flying across the skies, "You must promise me to be more careful or darkness shall be my companion from that day on."

How could you do anything else but break into tears once more?

They flooded your face too fast for Thranduil to catch them with his hand and he did what seemed more reasonable yet utterly out of character: he rose to push away some of the blankets and sat down on the mattress.

While his face showed some revelation of his thoughts at the meek bed of hay that surprised him, he said nothing except for a lowered: "Hush now, shh." while his arms found your shaking body and pulled you into his side.

He cradled you until there were no more tears to cry, until your cheeks hurt and your lashes clung together awfully damp, and then some more, his hands on your back, cooling down the firing heat that spread through you and the other in your hair. With tenderness, he massaged his fingertips into the areas where your head throbbed uncomfortably.

You cried for all the nights where you had suffered, drawing closer to a death you hadn't seen coming.

You cried out of relief that this was finally over, that you could breathe and inhale only the rich scents of Thranduil instead of smoke.

You sobbed uncontrollably long into the night, not caring one bit that by the time the wailing grew quiet and exhaustion rendered you weak enough to fall into his chest even more, Thranduils robes needed to be padded dry.

"Thranduil?" you asked and burrowed your nose into a spot of fabric that wasn't salty. "Can you tell me what was happening to me?"

He didn't start directly. Thranduil waited, his heart stuttering for a second that made you marvel that the muscle was affected by you at all despite the many proofs he had laid to your feet.

Were it not for the pounding headache you fostered and tried to push away by shutting away all the lights and leaving your eyes closed, you would have looked at his face to check for those minuscule expressions he only showed to you.

"At first I could not figure it out," Thranduil admitted at last and his previously stilled hand continuing the circular movements against your scalp, gathering hair between his fingers, "and that frightened me more than anything else. There was not a scratch or a wound, nothing that explained why you were hardly–" he flinched and his other hand held your waist tighter, "hardly breathing. Bard was the one who explained how much you fought against this illness all winter, ever since autumn to be precise. He spoke of the meals you denied, the coughing and shaking, the blood-soaked cloths, and how.. how you rarely slept and if you did, he told me he heard your whimpers and sobs whenever he passed your door."

"He noticed it all?"

"He loves you," Thranduil said, "He loves you just as much as his offspring."

You shut your eyes even closer, turning your head more into his chest as another layer of protection against the feeling of pain that flinched over your face like a stone skipping on water, leaving ripples of agony at the memory of the many times Bard had pleaded you to talk to him. "I never wanted him to hurt at my expense."

"He is aware you thought it to be better this way," Thranduil lovingly stroked your hair – and it was love, soft and beautiful like the elf who abandoned his kingdom to race to save you – "To go against his word to you declares him a strong man and leader, Dale will flourish under his guide and your gentle hand will provide your people all they will ever need."

"So what was it?" you asked the question eating away at you, "This sickness?"

Thranduil's fingers twirled a lock of hair as he hummed lowly, "The beast in the lake is at fault," he said, "and its body infesting the in any case dirty water that you used to still your thirst."

You lifted your head at that, staring up at Thranduil whose gaze was already on you. "The dragon?" you repeated perplexed, "I got sick because of that damned dragon?"

Thranduil nodded, "I sent out the order to have its carcass removed this instant, so no one else has to suffer this fate."

You drew your eyebrows together, the hard crease between them immediately found by Thranduil for him to smooth the frown away with his thumb and a soft click of his tongue.

"So I was the only one?" The conclusion was confirmed by another nod that sent you down another spiral of confusing thoughts and loose threats of a riddle that made no sense to you.

"A mystery," Thranduil said as if he could read your thoughts, "There is no explanation as to why you solely were affected and quite intense at that. I was glad to have brought Asëa aranion with me – although you required more than a handful until your heart finally calmed."

In a moment of contemplating silence, you barely managed to stifle a yawn.

Now that your body seemed to be fine again, all your muscles yearned for the sleep that had evaded you for the longest time.

Thranduil's pleasantly warm body around you lulled you into a state of calmness, his body heat and the memories of his touch you replaced with the feeling of his strong chest in your back, and his hands threading hair through his fingers.

He was curled up in your bed, in your home, not some tent under the stars though you could see them if you looked up and through the window.

As you did so, your eyes didn't travel further than Thranduil and the watchful look on his face.

"You're as beautiful as the day you left," you remarked in a whisper like a slip of your tongue but you meant every word.

While your body ached and wore new scars his hands and mouth hadn't explored yet, he could've been away for a day or less.

You lifted a hand to stroke over his left cheek, over the faint scarred muscles that you knew by whispers hid what he deemed hideous.

Thranduil caught your hand before it reached his cheekbones and his lips pressed a light kiss against the calluses, the signs of hours of work.

"Rest, meleth nîn, you need it."

There was no denying that the elvish words had meant something important, that was clear by the way his tongue had wrapped around the words and breathed them out like a kiss but his lowered lashes and downturned lips hindered you from asking what he had said.

This was not the time to question what was probably just for him.

Later, when you were not falling into the depths of sleep cuddled against Thranduil's chest, when you would step outside your house with his looming presence in your back ready to help you with every foot you set on the grounds, there would be stories awaiting you.

Stories of the Elvenking storming into the city on horseback and all alone, the wind seemingly carrying him faster than possible and the fury and worry on his face lowered all citizens to the grounds as he yelled for their King.

They would speak about the way he nearly broke down Bard's door and how he carried your unconscious body in his arms to your house, demanding for the crowd to make themselves rare before he had them all seized and locked into his halls for obstructing his path; and even though he had no authority, Bard was close on his heels and no one dared to object.

You would hear about the day he sat by your side, caring for you and barking out orders for more water, not the one from the lake but from the springs, and how Bard and his children were the only ones allowed to visit – explaining the yellow flowers that took up every single glass your house had to offer.

Thranduil would tell you the meaning of the words he had said that first night he had spent in your bed, fully awake and watching your sleeping form in his lap until the birds woke you up in the morning; and he would say these words on all the nights that followed.

With him in Dale, or you in Mirkwood – never apart from then on.

[qqueenofhades]

I am FULLY ONBOARD the Harris/Waltz train, tho before this i was leaning towards Mark Kelly (AZ is a swing state! He's an ASTRONAUT!) If you want or have time, no pressure, but any thoughts on what makes Waltz a better pick?

I like Mark Kelly too, and since he's married to Gabby Giffords (having run for public office after she got shot and could no longer do so) he would have been an amazing pick in terms of supporting the first female POTUS. But he is a less charismatic public speaker than Walz (for whatever that's worth, but politics is a mess of Aesthetics and Vibes that matter as much and/or more than actual facts) and more moderate/conservative. He's been a great senator and picking him would defuse some of the BORDER IMMIGRATION BLAH BLAH!!! scaremongering that Republicans love to run on, but it would also leave open the possibility of losing a special election and other dangers with the Democratic senate that we really need to minimize. So Walz is a better choice for that alone, but also:

He really has serious progressive credentials as governor, even if he was a fairly mainstream Democrat (who flipped a rural red House district in Minnesota that Democrats have not been able to win again after he left) during his 12 years in the House. This is an INCOMPLETE LIST of what he was able to do in two years with a one-seat Democratic majority in Minnesota:

A Climate Action Plan that included:

Investing in energy infrastructure

100% carbon-free electricity by 2040 goal

Transition off of fossil fuels and onto clean energy resources

Building more electric vehicle charging stations

Providing funding to help workers acquire new skills through apprenticeship programs in clean energy fields

Direct state funding for transit

Money for rail

Tax credit for e-bikes

Permitting form to fast-track clean energy projects

And that was in addition to:

Codified abortion access in Minnesota

Guaranteed paid sick time and paid family and medical leave

Funded replacing ALL LEAD PIPES IN THE STATE

Free school breakfasts and lunches for all

Made public college free

Stronger labor protections

Drivers’ Licenses for All

Voting Rights Act to reverse recent court rulings that make voting harder, including restored voting rights to convicted felons

Banning medical debt from credit bureaus

The "Taylor Swift Bill" requiring all ticket "junk fees" be shown up front

Banning most "junk fees"

No book bans

Protection for tipped workers

Banned non-competes

Legalized recreational cannabis

Gun control, including increased penalties for straw purchases of firearms, expanded background checks and enacted red-flag laws, passing gun safety measures that the GOP has thwarted for years

Made MN a Trans Refuge State, and required health plans to cover “medically necessary gender-affirming care.”

Pay increase for Uber and Lyft drivers

Elimination of the so-called “gay panic defense”

A ban on “doxxing” election workers

A prohibition on “swatting” elected officials

In March, during the height of the Gaza/uncommitted primary protests against Biden, Walz said that young people should be listened to and they had a right to be speaking up and the situation in Gaza was horrible and intolerable, without directly slamming Biden or getting involved in the issue in a way to draw negative headlines. Regardless of what you think about any of it, that is a very deft way to handle it and pairs well with Kamala's better responsiveness on the Gaza issue overall. That was a big part of the reason why Gen Z/younger voters were very excited about Walz despite him being an "old" (actually the same age as Kamala but he has joked that teaching high school for 20 years will do that to a guy) white guy. If half the battle in politics is making the right pick to excite your core voters and reach out to new ones, then Harris nailed it. As I have said in earlier posts, there was just too much energy with young voters FINALLY checking in when Harris became the candidate, to risk introducing a big ideological split with Shapiro.

Aside from that: the most insufferable Smart White-Bro Political Pundits (TM) are big mad about Walz, many Never Trumper Republicans thought they were entitled to a "moderate" in exchange for oh-so-generously lending us their vote against Trump and not run the risk that we might end up with someone *gasp* progressive, and the regular MAGA Republicans are hysterical, which means they're terrified. It's also incredibly hard to paint Literal Midwestern Stereotype Dad (football coach, social studies high school teacher, military veteran, etc) as THE EVIL END OF AMERICA in the way they desperately want to do, though the fact that they're trying shows that they've got literally nothing. The fact that Kamala picked Walz against the PREVAILING WISDOM!!! that she had to take Shapiro (for whatever reason that might have been) is also a good sign, because by far the most genuine and extensive enthusiasm that I have seen from Democratic voters, especially those feeling burned out or disillusioned or angry with specific policy choices of the current administration, was for Walz. Having everyone excited for the pick beforehand, effectively using the "weird" line, and rallying behind the guy, only for her to actually go for him, is inspiring. It makes people feel like they're being heard and the Democrats have decided to win by being progressive, and not just endlessly Catering To The (Imaginary) Middle as they have always been told to do (and often done). That alone is MASSIVE.

Walz is tremendously funny, personable, has Democrats from AOC to Joe Manchin praising it (again, shocking), was right out the gate supporting Kamala, has already been majorly successful on TV, was by far the most progressive-on-policy picks of the VP finalists, is incredibly, hilariously wholesome and small-town Midwestern (he's the JD Vance that they wish JD Vance was), and is already sending ActBlue gangbusters with donations again. And when you're getting this kind of response on the Cursed Bird Hellsite, just:

Just. I don't know what's happening either. But let's enjoy it, and then work hard, because we gotta fucking do this and for possibly the first time this entire year, I really think we might. Heck yeah.

[sonolynn]

Death's Grasp

request | Omg your prompts!🧎‍♀️Requesting an intense "I'll make death pry me away from you." with aegon x highborn reader?

summary | After a disturbing vision, the court's Seer fears for Aegon's life.

pairing | Aegon x Fem!Seer!Reader

tags | TW!!! Descriptions of blood, murder, and battle. Swearing, OOC Aegon, swearing, implications of sexual themes, mentions of war

w.c | 1.6 k

note(s) | This fic is out of the cannon of either the show and the book for my own sanity. Also, mixing a little bit of Norse mythology into the mix! Also, I took more of a creative liberty with this request so I hope it's okay!

____________________________________________

Aegon was screaming on the battlefield, pointing towards the field and motioning for people to run. He looked frantic. His silver-blonde hair messy with soot and blood. He was panting, almost hyperventilation as the fear and anxiety coursed through his veins like a raging flood as he sent more soldiers to their death. 

You were imobile, cursed to watch as Aegon fought freakishly messy; so different from how he normally fought. You saw it clearly now, you saw his demise before him. You watched as your lover was impaled by a sword. How convenient that it was through his back. 

As if in shock himself, Aegon looked down at the sword as he fell to his knees, holding a cupped hand underneath the blade as the blood pooled from the wound. The man behind Aegon put his foot on the king’s back, grunting as he pulled the sword from your lover's body. Blood spilled from Aegon’s mouth, causing the man to choke violently. 

Aegon looked up, straight into your eyes as he coughed out your name; a final tribute to the women he’d never see again. As he breathed your name one last time, his face fell and he slumped against the ground. 

You felt sick as the next part of your vision flashed before you, a clear vision of Aegon’s head, eyes closed and unevenly severed, held in the hand of the enemy. 

____________________________________________

You awake with a scream, holding your shaky hands over your mouth as the images of Aegon’s death stay fresh in your mind. You had had visions before, all of which had come to pass. But this one was more vivid than the others, more integral than the others.  

You breathed heavily, placing your hands in your hair and taking deep breaths to ground yourself. Your breath slowed, and your hands stopped shaking. But, the anxiety that stemmed from this vision stayed on your mind like that of the smell of a newly lit candle. 

Unable to deal with the beads of anxiety burrowing themselves in your veins, you hurriedly threw the covers off of you and rushed to Aegon. 

____________________________________________

“Aegon the Dragon Cock!” One of Aegon’s imprudent men that surrounded his inner circle shouted. You walked down the steps of the throne room, and looked around,  seeing the men and their drunken display. Aegon laughed at the notion, smiling and pointing to his friend as he bounced happily like a child seeing a new toy. 

“Yes! Yes, that one!” 

“Aegon.” You spoke softly, and the minute your face broke through the laughter of men, Aegon turned, a smile on his face. 

“My love! Don’t you agree! “Aegon the dragon cock! Isn’t it perfect…” His voice trailed off. He watched you closely, noticing your disheveled appearance and bare feet. “My love?” He was quick to dismiss his men, quickly walking down the steps of the throne to stand before you. He placed a free hand on your cheek, cocking his head to the side as he studied your expression. 

“Having fun, your grace?” Aegon rolled his eyes at the question and he gave you a look. 

“You are my betrothed, you needn’t refer to me as such.” His voice was soft, and he smiled gently at you whilst stroking your cheekbone. “What is with the look?” You stayed silent for a moment, not wishing to truly tell him the cause of your displeasure. Aegon had never truly believed in your gift; The gift to see what others didn’t. Only recently, when you had told him he would become the next king of the seven kingdoms did he acknowledge that perhaps you did have a gift. 

“...I’ve missed you.” You replied, the lie hot on your tongue. Aegon smirked at this, turning and placing his cup on a nearby table. 

“We saw each other a mere..two hours ago. Was I that good, my love?” The sight of his teasing smile, and the look on his face made you breakdown. Tears ran down your cheeks, and your hands started to shake again as you were reminded of what your vision had held within itself. 

Aegon gazed at your melancholic expression made him stop, and he paused. He quickly walked back towards you.

“Darling-” He stopped when you took a step back and held a hand out. Aegon frowned deeply and he gave you a look. “...You’ve had one of those visions, haven’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“And it has something to do with me, I presume?” You nodded. In frustration Aegon groaned, holding a hand to his forehead as he sighed. “You and those pointless visions-” 

“They are not pointless, Aegon! They hold meaning. The gods gave me this gift-” You stopped, seeing how he was muttering the same words you were. Your face hardened. “You think this to be funny?” 

“No-well, yes a little but my love-” Aegon came to you, taking your hand in his as he sighed. “These-These visions you call them are nothing but superstition!”

“My vision is what told you about your descent to the throne!” 

“A lucky guess!” You scoffed at his words, grabbing a hold of his half buttoned up shirt as you glared. 

“Why do you think my suffering funny, Aegon?!” Aegon’s face softened, and he sighed. He gently grabbed your wrist, giving you a kind look as he brought your hand up to his lips. He pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, before he breathed out your name slowly. You stopped, hearing him say your name in such a manner reminded you of that awful vision. 

“I do not find your suffering funny. I find your incessant need to base your superstitions off of pure nightmare’s-” He spoke faster as you started to pull away from him. You avoided his gaze, clenching your jaw. You knew the look he was giving you, one of sympathy that you did not wish to see right now. 

“Tell me what you saw, sweet girl.” He came to you again, slipping a hand behind your head and holding it in his grasp as he looked down at you. He desperately tried to meet your eyes, but you were insistent on pulling away from him and his gaze. 

“You’ll think me silly.” 

“Come now, I think you silly no matter what vision you tell me of.” He smiled, though, even as he joked you couldn’t get the image of his death out of your mind. Tears started to fill your gaze, and you pulled away.

 “Sweet girl, stop pulling away from me!” He pleaded, grabbing your arms in a futile attempt to make you stop moving. You pulled your arms up, your fists resting on his chest. He breathed out your name again and that is what did it for you; what made you break.

“I saw your death, Aegon!” You yelled, which indirectly caused the drastic movement of back and forth between the two of you to stop. Aegon stared down at you, his eyes hardening and his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “I saw you…not much older than you are now. You were on the battlefield, and..you…” You trailed off, refusing to revisit the gruesome and sickening vision. 

Aegon watched you, he had seen you and your reactions to these visions before but this…this was new. The look of fear that crossed your features and the tears that filled your eyes made his heart break. He could barely handle you when you woke from one of these visions normally, but these looks and the unease that settled on your face caused his mind to go blank. 

“My sweet girl, no-” “Yes Aegon! Do you not get it! You will die and you will die at the hands of your enemies with no one around you and your head will be taken-”

“My head?” 

“-And-And you’ll be scared and I won’t be there-” 

“My love-” 

“You’ll die and you’ll leave me alone, Aegon!” You screamed. At those last words, Aegon suddenly grabbed your face, making you look at him. His own eyes held tears of his own, and he grasped your face with little strength so as to not hurt you. Your eyes widened, and you watched him closely as he maintained a fierce look in his gaze. 

“I will not leave you-” You started to pull away, crying. You always knew Aegon was a fool, but a fool to this extent? You almost wanted to laugh. 

“Not even you can defy death, Aegon!” He looked almost offended at your words. Offended that you think he would just let death take him away from you. His hands grew tighter on your cheeks, locking your eyes again as he leaned forward and pushed his forehead against yours. He took a breath, steadying the anger in his voice before he spoke. 

“I’ll make death pry me away from you.” He spoke softly, his voice slipping with emotion as he leaned forward and kissed you. And you let it happen. 

You enjoyed the kiss, letting nothing but Aegon and his lips consume your thoughts. It was nice, for a while. The notion that a mere mortal could defy the will of the gods. You knew that visions could change, and you sure to gods hoped this one would change. But, for now, you were happy to just bask in his arms and be with him. 

When Aegon pulled away he looked down at you. As you went to speak he shook his head and smirked a bit.

“Don’t speak.” He whispered, and you obeyed. The two of you stood in the middle of the throne room, Aegon’s hands holding your face and grounding you from your anxious thoughts, and you let him. You stayed in his arms, letting him kiss your face and your lips softly until you no longer thought of his death; until you only thought of him.

[divinesolas]

Through it all, its still you

r.q: hellooo lovlieee omg i am so inlove with your newest fic with jacaerys, my jaw was on the ground. could I request a fic with jacaerys were it's during the war between blacks and greens and your his betrothed. He goes north and you stay in dragonstone, but then you get taken by the greens. Everyone thinks your dead but you manage to escape and bond with a dragon. then when jacaerys is fighting against the greens, you Show up with your dragon and fight this epic battle. omg I got so carried away sorryyy. maybe with some fluff at the end ?? anyways take care <3

w.c: 4.2k (god i love writing for jace)

c.w: tyrell!reader, written with f!reader in mind but i dont believe theres any mention of gender of reader if so barely, angst, FLUFF! happy ending though it takes awhile to get there, poorly written battle scene, blue fire breathing dragon :3, not proofread

You had not known how long you were sitting in the silence of your room. Usually dragonstone, though you had not been there for very long, was booming with life, jacaerys and lucerys arguing with one another and joffrey laughing, the babies crying or laughing at nothing, baela and rhaena chatting together. But today there was nothing but somber silence. Lucerys was dead. Though you did not know him as well as everyone here did, your heart ached at the thought of the young boy being gone. 

Daemon and rhaenyra had basically locked themselves in the council room after informing you of the news. You worried for them especially after seeing how angry and heartbroken they looked but the person you worried for most was jacaerys. He was off in the north oblivious to what had been happening here. You felt sick to your stomach as you imagined his face finding out the news. He had confided in you before he left. He worried for lucerys and how he would fare on his trip to storm's end and you helped assure him lucerys would be alright. 

You sit in your nightgown clutching hard onto the necklace jacaerys had given you early on into your courtship. 

You had been promised to jacaerys when you were very young much to the dismay of alicent and her father. You were your fathers only daughter and due to the fact he had no uncles, no cousins, no nephews and no direct other male family members you were to inherit everything in highgarden once he passed. You were immediately very fond of jacaerys as soon as the two of you met in the keep. Though the two of you did not get to spend as much time together as you were soon taken back to the highgarden after a couple moon cycles. Before you had left the keep however he had given you this necklace. It was a metal carving of a dragon painted in the colors of his dragon vermax. He had told you he hoped while you were apart you could feel protected by him with his dragon and you cried into his shoulder before you were soon dragged off and did not get to see him for many years. 

Soon enough your name day came and you turned eight and ten and were granted the ability to go to Dragonstone to meet with jacaerys and begin wedding preparations with rhaenyra. What you nor your father had known is that soon war would strike. You knew tensions were high between the family especially after attending the families final dinner where you help jacaerys place ointment on his cheek after aemond had punched him but you did not think things would turn out so horrid for the family. 

So deeply lost in your thoughts you do not notice the quiet footsteps entering your room through an opened window in your room until something a stab punctures your arm and a hand covers your scream before a heavy object slams into your head knocking you out cold. He allows you to sit out cold for a bit, letting your blood pool on the ground soaking your gown and your necklace. While you're passed out the mysterious man scoops you up into his arms, ripping the necklace from your neck and tosses it into the pool of blood before he carefully manages to carry you out through the window and down to an awaiting boat with a couple other masked men who help him chain you down and soon sail away, the image of dragonstone fading farther and farther away. 

Only hours later does jacaerys land back on dragonstone hoping to be greeted by you. Happy that he had been able to secure all the alliances for his mother and felt full of pride when he imagined how happy you would be. What he did not expect when he entered the main room was a somber atmosphere, he notices rhaena has fresh tears sliding off her face and baela attempting to comfort her. Joffrey clung to his rhaenyra side also seeming to be crying. He quickly looks over at daemon who is staring right back at him. “What has happened? Where is lucerys? Where is my betrothed? Tell me at once.” rhaenyra makes her way over to him and clings to him, shoving her face in his neck and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” he refuses to be true, it can't be true. But when daemon walks over to the pair and opens up his hand to show the necklace jacaerys had given you all those years ago, covered in your blood.

When you open your eyes the first thing you notice is how much your arm hurts, you groan and grab your arm. The sound of a screeching chair and the quick fleeing of the room meets your ears as you sit up and notice your sitting in a very familiar room. This is the room that you had stayed in during your time in the keep, looking exactly how you left it. A part of you is telling you this is a dream, you reach your hand up to wrap around your necklace your grow frantic as you realize it is not there. You feel around the bed and look upon the dresser next to you but there is nothing. In your haste the door opens and your head shoots up. “You are finally awake.” 

“Where is my necklace?” alicent looks at criston next to her who shakes his head, “you did not come wearing a necklace miss.” you groan and immediately try to stand out from bed but immediately feel so dizzy you have to sit back down, your arm throbbing heavily. “What did you do to me?”

Alicent takes a hesitant step closer to you, her arms out as if to comfort you, “you should relax.” “asking me to relax after you kidnap me, are you insane?” you are unable to control your temper as you spit your words at her. Criston immediately clutches his sword and takes a step forward, “that is no way to-” alicent gives him a pointed look and he immediately deflates taking a step back. She hesitantly makes her way to the end of the bed and sits on it looking at you. “I simply wish to speak with you. “So you decide to kidnap me, that makes perfect sense.” you can tell she's irritated at you but does not let it show on her face as she takes a deep breath, a somber look on her face though you cannot tell if it is serious. 

“With your fathers passing everything in highgarden has been left to you, we believe it is in your best interest to declare house tyrell for aegon-” “my father is dead?” you cannot handle the influx of emotions you feel as your hand clenches around the space where your hanging dragon should be craving the feeling of the cold metal and sharp edges on your skin. She nods, placing her hand on your knee and for some reason you let her, the look in her eyes tells you she feels sorry having to break this news to you herself. “Yesterday night in his sleep, his final wish was for you to have highgarden. He stated it to be so.” all you can do is look down, your eyes clouding and you begin to crave the presence of jacaerys. Taking you silence as an opportunity to continue alicent begins to speak, “I care, not only about you, but about the future of your house which is why you should declare for aegon-” “you are asking me to declare for him? I knew you were crazy but this is just insanity.”

Though your face is covered in tears it does not hide the furious look you have on your face as you push her hand away from you and hug your knees to your chest. “It is the best path for you and your house my dear you must believe me i only wish the best for you. And should you do this you will be a lovely addition to our family. I am looking for a wife for my son daeron.” 

“I am already betrothed. You know this.” she shakes her head and stretches out further on the bed attempting to touch you once again, “you must understand-” “i would rather you kill me than marry your stupid hightower son and declare for that pig wearing a false crown on his head.” 

The room goes silent and she sighs and stands, fixing her dress before moving to leave the room. As she stands by the door she turns back to you, “I hope you will one day change your mind.” “I will not.” you quickly spit at her before she and criston leave the room leaving you trapped in there. All you can do is sit and cry in your bed, you miss jacaerys, you miss your father, you even miss dragonstone. You spend that whole day and night in your room praying that jacaerys was alright, you knew it is foolish to wish he could climb though the window to save you but the childish part of you dreamed he would come to your rescue. 

His foot taps on the floor in rapid succession. Jacaerys finds he can barely sit still these days. He cannot believe you were ripped from his hands so quickly. Though many expected him to lock himself in his room and cry for days mourning the loss of the love of his life and his younger brother he did not even shed a tear. Even at the funeral for the two of you the worst he got was glassy eyed as he clung onto his brother's robe and your necklace which he has begun wearing. It was as if he became a shell of himself, only speaking when spoken to and only truly wished to speak time planning out the moves of the war with daemon. Rhaenyra grew more and more concerned and distressed over her son as the days passed. Whenever she would go and try to talk to him she would only be greeted by his dead eyes and his emotionless words and she felt as though she lost two of her sons not just the one. 

Due to his erratic emotions, Jacaerys could not decipher how he felt. Grief? Anger? Sadness? Spite? All of the above? He had no clue. But in his mind he had no time to feel anything. He had a duty to make sure his mother won this war and he could deal with his feelings later. He tried to ignore that heart clenching feeling everytime he wrapped his hand around the dragon necklace. The selfish part of him believes you are still alive, in his defense there was no body, just a large pool of blood soaking the floor, the room had been bare and mostly untouched which led daemon to conclude it happened without and fight and quickly. If you were truly dead it gave him a bit of piece you had not been put through any sort of torture or torment as daemon seemingly had put halenas kid through when he sent out blood and cheese. 

He has many regrets and will hate himself for the rest of his life, he let his mother down, he was a bad brother and worst of all he failed to protect you, the one he had sworn to protect forever. He wont allow himself to mourn you, or mourn anyone for that matter. The only thing that mattered was the war and when daemon once again called him in the council room he soundlessly followed. He would at least avenge you in any way he would. He wanted them to feel the pain they had put him through, they put his mother through, he wanted to hurt them so badly he could barely contain himself but he must be rational despite how hard it is. Whenever he looked at the dragon on his neck he could only think of you and he grew angrier with himself. He had to avenge you. No matter what. 

The days in the keep are boring. For the first few days all you do is sit on your bed crying. Whenever a guard entered your room to bring you food you never ate any of it. The only time anything happened all you could hear was screams and cries but they were so distant you did not know what was happening. You only found out when aemond had come to integrate you about the incident. Asking if you had somehow let this ‘blood and cheese’ into the keep so they could kill one of halenas kids. You were mortified and said you had no clue. After a bit of pushing and reports from the guards who were stationed outside your room there was no way you could have done anything and they promptly left. The rest of your days continued the same with you not if so barely eating until it became too much and alicent showed up to your room. “You must eat.” you scoff, you had finally gained your strength back and were sitting at one of the tables in the room with a book in your hands. “I don't need to do anything.” She sighs and looks around the room. You take notice of the box she holds in her hands along with a bowl of what looks like fruits in it. “What is that?” 

She looks down at her hands and lets out an oh before looking back at you hopefully. “I.. was hoping you would play cyvasse with me..” she trails off and for a moment you notice how young she truly is. Much closer in age to not only yourself but her oldest son and all of her children forced into a role she is not fit for. A wave of sympathy falls upon you and she continues, “i have no one to play with, aemond is far too busy haelena cannot bring herself to get out bed and obviously aegon does not know how to play-” “ill play.”

She looks at you shocked as if she had been expecting you to turn her away and tell her no. “Though I should warn you that I have not lost a game in a very long time, I am a fierce competitor.” a smile graces her face and she nods quickly moving to sit down across from you and sets up the board. “I have not lost in forever either dear. I'm sure I will not lose to you.” you close your book and toss it towards the bed and shake your head at her. “I would like to see you try.” 

A comfortable silence falls over the two of you as you two begin to play. So lost in the game you occasionally pop a piece of fruit in your mouth. She was right, she is very tough competition but you can hold your own against her causing her to sit and think for long periods at a time. “It's a bit stuffy in here don't you think?” you lift your gaze from the board and up at her as you shrug, “if it is i do not notice it.” as you look back down at the board she hums and stands to open up one of the windows before moving to sit back down. “I hope you have thought about what I told you.” you sit still for a moment before moving on of your pieces and leaning back to look at her. “I have.” a hopeful look crosses her face, “and i will continue to tell you no.” she sighs and stares down at the board. Many more silent moments pass before the door slams open and the two of you look at it alarmed. 

“Ser Cole, what's wrong?” “You must come quickly with me, my queen, the prince has found something.” she stands alarmed and rushes towards him before looking back at you for a moment, “we will continue this later.” All you can do is nod at her and watch as the two of them rush out the room. You lean back on the chair and close your eyes and sigh. You wonder how long she planned to keep you here. You felt as though you made it rather obvious you never planned to submit to Aegon or marry her son but it seemed she still held on hope you would. In the midst of your thoughts a breeze brushes you and you jump out of your seat and look over to the window. It was still open. You walk over to the window and look out, this was your chance. You could escape, surely it could not be so hard to scale down the castle. You could die but so what? The longer you resist them the closer you get to one day just being executed and they put someone who would listen to their every whim in the high gardens. You look around the room and throw a spare cloak which had been in the room and look for anything valuable to sell before you say a small prayer to yourself before climbing out of the room and beginning to descend the castle. 

It is not easy, if anything you would think this is impossible by the way your hands, knees and feet begin to bleed the way you continue to scrape along the harsh walls of the castle. You don't dare look down out of fear someone will notice you or you’ll realize you've made no progress and get so frustrated you cry. After what felt like hours you stumble and fall to the ground and struggle to pick yourself up. Looking around you, noticing you are in an empty alley. You had really escaped. You stand frozen for a moment unsure of what to do. You had not thought this far. Maybe you could try to make it to high garden but they would surely notice your absence before then and high garden would be the first place they look for you. You decide you’ll sell the stuff you had managed to take first and figure out the rest later. When you had made it to one of the stands the seller was shocked to see all the real gold items you had with you and was more than eager to offer you a large chunk of change for it. Now that you had the money you had no clue what to do but as you were walking you hear a group of people discuss that they planned to travel out of the city and decide you could try and hitch a ride with them.

“And why would we let you ride with us little girl?” you show him the large amount of gold you can just acquired and his eyes widen as he looks at it. “How much?” “I would give you all of it,” he looks alarmed, “you desperate to get out of the city?” “more than you know.” later that same day you were sitting in the back of their large carriage. One of the girls in the group offered you a change of clothes and fixed up your wounds for you question free. You watch the city fade away from you and let out a breath of relief as you finally pull down your hood allowing the group to see your face. “Hey aren't you that hightower girl?” you look over to your right at the man from earlier and shrug, “maybe.” If he wants to ask more questions he does and goes back to fiddling with his blade and you begin to pray once more for jacaerys and that the gods will be kind enough to allow the two of you to reunite. 

You travel with them for a couple days. You find out they are actually a traveling circus who is struggling to make business right now due to the war. They are kind people who don't ask you unwanted questions and provide you with a ride and some food and that's all you can ask for. One day it's the middle of the night and you have all taken camp near a mountain. You grow more and more restless to get as close to dragonstone as possible to try and see jacaerys but you know these people are being more than kind to you so you must not push them. “I heard a rumor about this place,” jim, the guy you had talked to the first day he seemed to be the leader of this little group, says to jane, the woman who helped you fix your wounds takes a sip from her flasks and gives jim an unamused look. “Jim if this is one of your fairytales again,,,” “no no no seriously, apparently there's a dragon around these parts.'' This immediately catches your attention and you gaze at jim. “Seriously?” Jim nods confidently and Jane shakes her head tapping you on the shoulder, “don't believe him pumpkin he's always talking shit.” “i am being serious-”

A loud roar off in the distance causes the three of you and the rest of the camp to grow completely silent. Jim mouths a ‘told you’ in your direction and you watch as a dragon flies over your head and out to a field not too far away from where you all were camped. “We're gonna die.” you hear one of the other guys say and all you can do is admire the dragon. It's pure white with piercing blue eyes that seem to be looking directly at you. You feel completed to go towards it, its gaze luring you in as you stand at the alarm of Jane and Jim and begin to walk off. “Where the hell are you going?” you reach in your pocket and toss and large bag of coins you had at jim, “im going to claim a fucking dragon! Or die trying!” 

The morning came and the blacks had finally managed to put a pin on where one of the large green camps were and we're currently stationed to ambush them. Jacaerys sat wordlessly on his dragon as baela sat on her next to him and called his name causing him to look over at her. “I hope you know she would not resent you. When you were gone you were all she could talk about. She couldn't hate you, it is not possible.'' He just stares at her and opens his mouth as if he wished to speak but he couldn't and all he could do was turn away so as to not get choked up. He hoped she was right, that you could not hate him because he fears if you did it would kill him. He clutches the necklace once more before the call is made to charge and he flys up with his dragon to fight. Despite the fact it had been an ambush the greens seemed way more prepared to fight than they had been expecting and the situation grew more and more dire as the fight went on. 

As if it was a grace from the gods he heard a roar off in the distance and prayed it had not been aegon or aemond heading there way but when he turned his head and saw a white dragon? When close enough a wave of blue fire came out of its mouth to douse the greens. He could not see if the dragon had a rider due to its erratic movements but soon enough the dragon flew by him and he felt himself freeze. His betrothed. The one he feared he had lost. You. Y/n Tyrell. On a fucking dragon. Soon after your arrival the greens begin to retreat, unable to over power your dragon and its blue fire. Once the tides had settled and people began to cheer he quickly began to move towards where you were and you also rushed off your dragon and ran towards him, “jacaerys!” He grabs your face and kisses you with all his heart. He hopes you can feel the force of his love pouring into you with every move his lips make and with the grip he holds your face on, so gentle yet strong as if he knew he was holding the whole universe in his hands. It was not just any universe it was his universe and as you two pull away he can barely breathe. “You're alive?” you nod and peck him on the lips, “i will never leave you my love.” he finally feels all the emotions he's held back crash into him and he hugs you so tightly as if he fears you'll slip from his grasp should he let go. You feel him begin to cry and stroke his hair as you close your eyes and find yourself crying too. “I was so scared you had,,” “shh do not even speak it. I am here, I promise and I am not going anywhere.”

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

What is Broken III (Aemond Targaryen x Pregnant Wife!Reader)

The war, the "Dance of the Dragons," as they have come to call it, is over. And yet, you are not celebrating. You have just learned that your husband, Prince Aemond, spent the last months of the war with another woman in his bed. Not only that, but his mistress is pregnant. Just like you...

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N), side Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers

Warnings: Angst, pregnancy and related symptoms, infidelity.

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: Definitely a good thing I split the last chapter into two, this baby is 13.3k lol

Taglist is done via reblogs

Series Masterlist

What is Broken

Aemond was still holding her when she woke, his arms wrapped around her chest and his face pressed into her neck. Though the bed was little more than creaky slats and the blankets rough and worn, it had been months since she had been so comfortable—longer still since she’d slept so well, even if it was for only half the night.

As furious as she was with Aemond, her body still craved him. So much so that she could not gather the strength to pull away from him, much less stand from the bed. It felt so right, even if they weren’t in their own bed. Even if they hadn’t shared a bed for more than half a year. And even if they were only in thisbed because they were traveling north to reach the very place where her husband had betrayed her.

When one of Aemond’s arms fell to cradle her belly, she tensed. Was this how he slept with Alys beside him? Did he hold her this tenderly? In his dreams, was he holding his wife or his mistress?

Warily, she looked at his hands. Like his face, the features she was once so familiar with had changed. There were new callouses, new scars, and new veins and tendons that had not been visible before. He’d always had the hands of a skilled swordsman, but now he bore the hands of a battle-hardened warrior and commander.

Curious, she tilted her head as she examined one scar, which started on his palm before passing through the space between his forefinger and thumb and cutting across the back of his hand like an angry slash of a whip. She was so focused on examining the wide red line that she did not notice when her movement stirred Aemond awake.

Not until he spoke with a rough, sleep-heavy voice, his breath fanning the side of her neck. “Did you sleep well, ābrazȳrītsos?”

She did not want to admit it, for doing so felt like conceding some kind of battle. But to argue would take more strength than she was willing to give to something so small. “Yes.”

“As did I,” he pulled her tighter against him as he had once done each morning. How well she had once loved waking up in his arms. She could sense his soft smile and braced herself for what she knew was likely coming next.

But Aemond did not press a lazy kiss to her neck as he once did. He lightly trailed his hand over the swell of her belly until he reached her chest. She tensed, thinking his aim was for her breasts, but his hand stilled atop her ribs.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked as he traced the length of the protruding bones. “That you were still sick – that you were suffering like this.”

She grabbed his hand, pulling it away from the evidence of her illness. While she waited to answer, she again studied that new scar, so bright against his pale skin. It wasn’t like his other scars, which were faintly pink and smooth. This one was red as blood and rough like worn stone.

Aemond let her study the scar without protest and without pressuring her for an answer. She knew he was nervous with anticipation – she could feel how his body stiffened – but she didn’t care.

“How did you get this?”

He made a soft sound of confusion. “Ābrazȳrītsos, please – ”

“Why do you not want to tell me?

“It is not a pleasant story, I…” An exasperated sigh. “I see.”

Holding his hand steadily in front of her, he began his answer. “It is new. I got it during my battle with Daemon.”

Gods, she had hardly thought about the battle. About what had happened to him and Vhagar. Did he have any other injuries? Did Vhagar?

“Caraxes was dying,” he explained, a hint of remorse in his voice. Not for Daemon’s death, she knew, but for his dragon’s. A mount should not perish for the crimes of its rider, especially when there were so few dragons left. “He was falling toward the lake. He’d tried to bite Vhagar’s throat, but she sensed him coming from behind the clouds and struck him instead.

“Daemon knew he had lost and would likely die. But he wasn’t going to just accept it. As Caraxes fell past us, he leapt from the saddle, Dark Sister drawn and… pointed at me. My eye. My good eye.”

Even with her anger, panic seized her heart as she realized how close Aemond had come to death.

“Vhagar angled herself, so instead of going through me, the sword embedded itself into her side. She’s fine,” he assured her after she tensed with worry for the old beast she loved so well. “Even a great sword like Dark Sister is hardly more than a pinprick to Vhagar.

“Daemon lost his grip on the sword but managed to grab my leg before he fell. His weight began dragging me down,” he said, turning his palm toward her. The rein bit into my hand. The maester said it was like a burn.”

Yes, she could see it clearly now. The size and position of the red mark looked precisely as though the rein was still in his grip. Not a scar, then, but something that would possibly become one. One of many.

Aemond did not continue his tale. But she knew what came next – Daemon realizing he was doomed and telling Aemond with his last words that he’d sent a letter exposing what he’d done.

He had still told the tale, knowing that it would again remind her of that damned letter, renewing her ire. After that, she knew he deserved an answer – for this at least. Her health was bound to that of his children, after all. They had been at risk, too.

“Mother and I wanted to tell you. She was distraught.” Her breath hitched as she remembered how her mother had wept and screamed, swearing that she would not lose another daughter. “But Grandsire forbade it.”

Aemond huffed, his body trembling with rage. But he held her no tighter.

“The Small Council agreed with him—that it would distract you too much, that you would return the moment you read the message no matter the cost to the war.” In truth, she understood the logic behind the decision, but her need to have her husband there to comfort her far outweighed her rational mind. “Mother and I tried to send a raven in secret, but Grandsire had anticipated that and had the Rookery watched. The raven carrying the message was shot down.”

After that, she fell silent. There was nothing more to say than that. Only a fortnight later, Daemon and Rhaenyra seized the city and executed Otto, among many others. Daemon had half-heartedly suggested killing her, too, to “send the kinslayer a message” he couldn’t ignore. But Rhaenyra refused without explanation. Perhaps she still extended the same forgiveness to her as when the conflict first began, or she did not wish for the sin of kinslaying to weigh on her, too.

Whatever the reason, she was grateful. For herself and her children. And for all those who would have suffered and died as a result of Aemond’s rage.

The rage was building in him now. “Were he not already dead, I would kill him myself,” he hissed. “And I would not be so merciful as our sister was to kill him quickly.”

“Does it really matter now?” She sighed, dropping his scarred hand.

He flinched as it hit the bed. The wound still hurt, then. “Of course it matters! If I’d known, I – ”

She was glad she couldn’t see his face as she shut her eyes and buried her face in her pillow, pulling out of his grasp. “No more ‘if,’ Aemond! It does not matter what you would have done, because you didn’t do it. The past is past, and you cannot change it. You cannot change what you’ve done, no matter what you say now.”

Silence fell, interrupted only by muffled noises from the awakening town beyond the window.

“I know I cannot change the past,” Aemond said, his voice cracking as if he were near tears. “But I don’t know… what can I do? What can I do to show you how much I love you? How much I have always and will always love you. How much I regret what I did, and how much I wish I could take it back? I don’t know what to do, ābrazȳrītsos. Please. Tell me what to do.”

She said nothing, and Aemond wrapped his arms around her again. “Please, raqiarzītsos, tell me what you want.”

What did she want?

She wanted to pretend nothing had happened. She wanted to be able to forgive him. She wanted their lives to go back to the way they were.

She wanted to scream at him until her voice failed her, then tear him to pieces with her bare hands. She wanted him to suffer for eternity for what he did to her.

She wanted every trace of his betrayal erased entirely. She wanted to have him burn what remained of Harrenhal to ashes with his mistress inside. Better yet, she wanted him to kill the whore himself and mount her head above their children’s cradles.

No, not that. Never that. Even the thought required a prayer to the Father for forgiveness. She did not want blood on her hands or more death. She just wanted to understand everything that happened so she could decide whether she could forgive Aemond – if she wanted to.

“I just want this journey to be over,” she whispered, “so we can go home.”

Aemond’s arms went slack, but he did not let her go. “I… yes, I want that too. I want to go home – with you. Everything will be better once we’re home.”

It was a lie, she knew. But it was nice to let herself believe the lie, if only for a moment.

It was easier, she decided, not to fight.

Easier to let Aemond help her dress, his fingers skimming lightly on her skin in a cruel imitation of past worshipful caresses. To let him serve her food and to eat it all to please him and avoid his pleading for the sake of her and the babes. To let him arrange the pillows and furs in the wheelhouse until they were just so before he sat beside her, holding her in his arms so she could find comfort and rest.

So much easier to not constantly be on guard, ready to snap at his every word. To not constantly fight over every little thing. To find some measure of peace, despite the circumstances.

It was a peace as fragile as spun sugar, but it was peace nonetheless.

At the very least, she could sleep again—without waking to be sick, without fumbling in the sheets to try to find comfort, without reaching across the bed only to find it cold and empty.

After again fussing over her at supper, Aemond would help her prepare for bed. While a bath was being drawn, he would help her disrobe and remove the braids in her hair, brushing out tangles with the singular focus of a holy man studying his texts. When he led her to whatever bathing room their accommodations provided, he did not touch her more than absolutely necessary – a hand to help her stand, a gentle grasp on her elbow as she walked, and his arms around her when she stepped into the bath. Then, he left her alone.

Before, he would never have done so. He would either join her in the bath, touching and teasing her so much that the water went cold by the time they actually washed themselves, or sit beside it while he read to her.

It was odd to bathe alone, with neither husband nor servants to attend her. The quiet made the room seem infinitely larger. And lonely, even with the babes in her belly. She made a point of bathing as quickly as possible so she did not have to endure it for too long.

When she called for Aemond, she would listen to each of his footsteps before he paused at the door, knocking softly. He would not enter unless she allowed it and affirmed it twice. When he helped her out of the bath and dried her, he hesitated before moving to certain parts of her body – her chest, her face, between her legs – and his touch grew even gentler, like he was afraid she would break if he pressed too hard. She was both grateful for it and incensed that it had become necessary.

He brushed and braided her hair once more and dressed her in her nightgown before tucking her tightly into bed and crawling in beside her. He took her in his arms and pulled her close, softly singing Valyrian lullabies into her ear until she fell asleep.

On the twelfth night after leaving King’s Landing, neither acknowledged aloud that their peace would irreparably shatter the next day – when they arrived at Harrenhal at last.

Night had long since fallen when the towers of Harrenhal appeared over the tops of the trees. Aemond brought his wife closer to his chest, careful not to wake her. He knew that with their arrival, the relative harmony – the precious near-normality – of the last few days would soon end, possibly forever.

He dreaded seeing her at Harrenhal. It was too broken, too dirty, too dark for her. She would stand out like the moon against the night sky. And when she looked at those ruined black walls… he would have to see the pain on her face as she looked at each room and alcove, wondering if it was one of the places he’d been with Alys.

That would be the worst – seeing her face Alys. Each time he tried to convince her not to meet the witch, she refused, saying she wanted ‘answers.’ It wounded him deeply to hear her say that, but he understood. He had betrayed her trust. Destroyed her trust in him as thoroughly as he had all those towns and villages during the war.

Still, he would not give up trying to change her mind. He would not push her, but he would say whatever he must to protect her.

As the walls of the fortress loomed taller and taller, Aemond knew he needed to wake her soon. But he wanted to savor their last moments of peace, for it very well could be the last they would ever share.

He leaned down to kiss her temple, lightly brushing his knuckles over her cheek. She stirred slightly but did not wake. “Avy jorrāelan, ābrazȳrītsos,” he whispered. “Mīvojughilās jāla dōrī. Ao mirro rȳbilun.” I love you, ābrazȳrītsos. Never forget it. Whatever you hear.

She did not wake until the wheelhouse rumbled over the uneven stones at Harrenhal’s gates. The moment they passed through the thick black walls, she pulled away from him as if his touch would burn her. He felt sick, and forced himself to look away from her.

The fortress appeared just as Aemond remembered, yet it had changed monumentally in the mere days since he had last been within its walls. The towering palisades of melted stone had once seemed strong and imposing but now struck him as decrepit and hubristic. And its inhabitants – now standing in a line to greet the closest thing they had to a lord and master – he had once seen as a mighty and determined army, people he was proud to lead. He saw them for what they truly were now – tired, hungry, and desperate.

As he scanned the crowd, looking for a face he knew would enrage him, he recognized the wide-eyed look he once thought was reverence as something far different. It was fear. These people were afraid of him. He couldn’t allow himself to think too hard on that, not when he still had not seen those sickly green eyes.

Part of him hoped she wasn’t here so his wife could sleep well for one more night. Part of him hoped she was so he could strike her down in front of this crowd of hundreds and prove that she meant nothing to him. Though the babe she carried…

Those eyes weren’t there. Alys wasn’t there. He gave a prayer of thanks for it despite his bloodlust. His ābrazȳrītsos wanted to meet her, yes, but it shouldn’t be here. Not in front of so many people, not when she was exhausted from a long day on the road. And displaying such violence before her, when he knew how she despised it, would break her forever.

He glanced at her and fondly remembered how she had clung to his hand throughout their wedding tourney. What they had done each night after the games to help her forget the violence she’d seen.

It seemed she felt his gaze on her and turned to him. His smile faded. Her eyes, which he had always thought to be full of light and warmth, like a burning hearth, were dull and cold, like the very stones of Harrenhal.

“Is she…” She swallowed thickly. “Is she here?”

She did not face any of those gathered, as if afraid to accidentally look at the witch. He stepped toward her, subtly blocking them all from her view. “No, raqiarzītsos.” He raised a hand to cup her cheek, as he had so many times in the last few days, but now, she moved out of his reach. “She’s not.”

“Can we go inside, then? I’m tired.”

“Of course,” he said as he took her arm – grateful that she still allowed that, at the very least. “But you should eat something before you retire for the night. You have not eaten since midday.”

She blinked, though her face showed no emotion. “I am not hungry.”

Aemond sighed as he guided her to the keep’s entrance. “That may be so, but the babes need you to eat for their sake if not yours.” She gave no reply, but before he could press for an answer, they came upon Ronnel Cratter, the slight, anxious man Aemond appointed to serve as Steward of Harrenhal after Simon Strong had met his fate alongside all others of their line… almost all.

“My prince, how wonderful it is to see you returned!” The poor man was already sweating. “And to at last meet your lovely lady wife. Your husband has always spoken very highly of you, princess.”

She lifted her head to examine Ronnel, her eyes sad yet appraising. Her lips parted slightly but closed again as she inclined her head. He understood the flicker of wariness that passed over her face. She wondered whether the man in front of her knew what her husband had done—if he was complicit in it.

He needed to turn her mind to something else, quickly. “Is everything prepared for the negotiations?”

“Oh, um… yes, they are,” Ronnel stammered.

“When will Stark arrive?” Aemond asked, thankful to have not seen the Northman or any of his forces among those that came to greet them. Their absence would give him time to sort out what to do with Alys before the negotiations demanded his full attention.

Ronnel winced, his rough cheeks turning bright red. The man had never been able to conceal a lie—it was the reason Aemond chose him as steward of Harrenhal. “Lord Stark arrived three days ago, my prince.” He shrunk into himself slightly, rightly anticipating his master’s anger at his words. “He claimed it was too late to greet you and the princess and asked that I tell you he looks forward to meeting you at the negotiations tomorrow morning.”

The sheer fucking disrespect. To be in what was his keep in all but name and refuse to greet him upon arrival? Somewhere in his mind, Aemond knew why Stark had done it, to establish his dominance like the pissing dog he was. But he could only truly think about the insult of it. His very bones sang with bloodlust, negotiations and peace be damned.

But then, a gentle hand on his arm. Warm, even through his thick leathers. Her hand. Her graceful, soft, beautiful hand. She looked at him, gaze never wavering.

“I’m tired, Aemond.”

Only she could have stayed his hand. He had grown so accustomed to bloodlust in the months he’d been here that any other solution seemed folly. But to kill or even maim Cregan Stark would likely reignite war and, worse, deprive him forever of his wife’s love. If he hadn’t lost that already.

So, Aemond turned to Ronnel and fought to control his breathing. “Take us directly to our rooms.”

As they followed the steward through the dark stone halls, his wife looked at him from the corner of her eye but swiftly looked away. Her eyes roved every hall, alcove, and doorway, fear and hurt in her eyes. Did she think she could somehow see where he had been with Alys? Could she see the lingering ghosts of his betrayal?

He was certain he could—he would. That is if he were to enter any part of the keep where he had been with Alys, and he certainly had no intention of doing so. He had sent a raven to Ronnel with specific instructions to prevent it, although his ābrazȳrītsos’ request to meet Alys might require it…

“Here we are, my prince,” Ronnel said as he opened the door to a well-appointed, if somewhat small suite in the guest’s wing. “And princess!” he added hastily. “Forgive me, princess. I have become quite used to only addressing your husband…”

She ignored him entirely, walking to the center of the sitting room as she surveyed the space. The rooms were less than half the size of those Aemond had occupied before. But he could not bring his wife to those rooms or that bed. Perhaps he would have them burnt.

He watched as she crossed the room, headed directly for the bed. She brushed a hand against the blankets before recoiling as if the bed would bite her. Slowly, she turned to face him with such a look of desperation that he came to her side immediately.

“What is it, my love?” He crossed the room and took her hands in his own, holding them close to his chest. “What’s wrong?”

Tears formed in her eyes as she looked from him to the bed and back again. “Is this…” She took a shaky breath. “Was she in here? With you?”

Ronnel’s eyes went wide before he made a hasty, silent exit.

“No!” Aemond answered nearly before she finished her question. He leaned forward, pressing their brows together. “Of course not, ābrazȳrītsos. I promise, I – never, in this room. I swear it on my life.”

There was still mistrust in her eyes, but she nodded. “I don’t like it here.”

Once, he did. Once, this was his domain, his kingdom. Now, it was a barren wasteland occupied only by regret and shame. “I do not like it, either.”

She looked at his chest, but he knew she was somewhere far away. “I want to sleep.”

“I know,” he pulled away, brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Though it had only been thirteen days, he was sure he could see a new fullness to her cheeks, a new softness around her waist, and a renewed light beneath her skin. He would not allow that progress to falter. “But you must eat, remember?”

She sat at the foot of the bed, wrapping her arms around herself. “I really am not hungry, Aemond.”

“You needn’t eat much,” he countered, sitting next to her and trying not to flinch when she angled herself away from him. “Some broth? Perhaps with a little bread? You must have something.”

He watched as her hand cradled her belly, stroking softly as if to soothe the babes with her touch. Resisting the urge to put his hand over hers was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but he understood full well that to do so was a privilege he did not deserve.

“Very well,” she said at last. “But just a little.”

“Of course.” Aemond held his hand out for her to take, but she hardly glanced at it. “Is there anything else I can do, ābrazȳrītsos?”

She thought for a moment. “I would like to bathe before I retire.” Aemond immediately rose and positioned himself to help her stand, as he had for days now. “Can you summon servants to help me?”

A simple request shouldn’t have wounded him so deeply, yet it did. The bond they had begun to reform was gone, perhaps forever. Being denied this – the mere pleasure of helping his wife – felt like a mortal wound.

“Yes, I will fetch them now.” His voice was wavering. He could hear it as he could feel his composure teetering ever closer to breaking. He lingered a moment longer, hoping she would say something more, that she would change her mind and let him help her, or that she would say something to suggest that she still trusted him, still cared for him.

She said nothing.

Aemond almost wished she would scream and rage and roar at him as she did that first night in King’s Landing. It was better than this, the half-life she seemed to be living. The exhaustion and indifference. Let this be because of her pregnancy, he silently begged the gods. Let us finish this, go home, and be well again. Let her be well again.

“I love you,” he whispered before exiting the room.

He did not expect her to say it back, but the silence still stung.

The servants arrived before Aemond did. It caused no small amount of unease in his wife’s chest. As the servants he sent undressed her and prepared her bath, all she could think of was where he could have gone and why he’d left her for so long. Had he gone to fetch food himself?

It didn’t help that the servants were utterly silent. It wasn’t like the light quietness that sometimes settled over her own servants at the Red Keep. This was a heavy, cloying silence. None could hold her gaze for more than a moment before looking sheepishly away.

They know, she realized. They all know what Aemond did.

Her mind started to race. They probably even helped him. Alys is likely their friend. After all, she was a servant before. When they leave here, they’ll probably run straight to the witch to tell her how pathetic she is and how Alys is far more beautiful than her. They’d –

She could stand their presence no longer. As one of them brought a dampened cloth to wash her shoulder, she flinched away, splashing water over the edge of the copper tub. “Get out!” Her voice was foreign to her as she screamed, cruel and hoarse with desperation. “All of you, leave! Now! Get out, get out, get out, get out!”

She continued shouting, covering her ears with her hands and scrunching her eyes shut. The babes protested, kicking frantically against her stomach. But she could not stop screaming.

How could she do anything other than scream? And cry? And rage? She was trapped in the very place where the worst thing to ever happen to her had occurred.

This was hell. It had to be, for being in these walls was torture. What had she done to deserve such a thing? What grave sin had she unknowingly committed? Why was this happening? Why? Why? Why? Wh –

“Ābrazȳrītsos!” Aemond’s voice was accompanied by the feeling of his large hands wrapping around her wrists, gently prying her hands away from her ears. “Ābrazȳrītsos, look at me! Please, my love, you must calm down.”

His words did no such thing; she barely even registered that he was speaking to her or touching her. This was just another torture, to be constantly with the man she both loved and loathed.

“Lykirī, ābrazȳrītsos, kostilus.” The words, now spoken in their mother tongue, finally began to slip through the whirling thoughts in her mind. “Āmāzin. Tolvȳn sȳri issa. Ao ȳghāpa iksā, jemot kīvio ñuhe tepan. Yn ao lykemās bēvilās, iā jāla riñari ōdrikōt.” Calm down, ābrazȳrītsos, please. I am back. All is well. You are safe, I promise. But you must calm yourself, or it may harm the babes.

“Kostan daor,” she pled. I cannot.

Aemond tightened his grip on her. “Ao bēvilās, kostilus!” You must, please!

She shook her head as her entire body began to tremble, and a chill numbness crept into her fingertips. “Jeme gīmīt, Aemond. Jeme līr nyke istan gīmīt.” They know, Aemond. They know what you did.

“Gīmin, ābrazȳrītsos, drējī usōven.” He leaned closer to her, his elbows now resting in the bath, water creeping up his sleeves. “Drējī usōven.” I know, ābrazȳrītsos, I am so sorry. I am so sorry.

She curled in on herself as tightly as she could. “Ao ōdrittan yne. Ao qrimpāletan yne.” You hurt me. You betrayed me.

“Gīmin. Jāle hegnīr daor jaelan. Tolikta mirroso.” He was half in the bath with her now. I know. I regret it. More than anything.

“Istan aōha riñari nevīlen,” she cradled her belly protectively, “se vasīr toile ābroma ēdan ojenille hēnkirī.” I was pregnant, with your children, and you still fucked another woman.

“Gōntan.” I did.

“Ao yne pirtra ivestretan, avy hen yne hēdrȳ ruartan.” You lied to me, hid her from me.

“Gōntan.” I did.

“Ao īlē nevīlen aōha ilībōño gōntā. You let her carry your bastard.

He flinched then. Unlike before, seeing him hurt didn’t make her feel any better. “Gōntan.” I did.

“Lo Daemon ivestretaks yne gōntē daor, nyke dobotēdāvī iemnȳ glaesilun. Ao yne ivestrilū gaomilū daor.” If Daemon hadn’t told me, I would have lived forever in ignorance. You were never going to tell me.

“Istan.” I was.

“Skorȳso?” Her voice failed her, morphing into a wordless cry, and it became painful to speak in the language of their ancestors – yet another thing she and Aemond shared. Had it been tainted by Alys, too? “Why? Have I done something to displease you? Am I not enough for you? Do you not love me the way I love you? Do you hate me?”

“No! No, my dear, I – ” He swallowed a choking sob as he stammered. “I love you. I love you more than anyone has ever loved another. You are my very soul, ābrazȳrītsos.”

There was no hint of falsehood in him. But how could that be true? How could he love her so much and hurt her so deeply? She lifted her head to face him. She had never seen him so distraught, even the night his secret had been revealed. “Then why?”

“I…” He dropped his head, his brow coming to rest on the edge of the copper bath. “I don’t know. I cannot explain it. I was foolish. And weak. But know I will do anything to show you how sorry I am. I will be your eternal servant. I will go into exile if you ask it of me.”

He pulled away from her, drawing his dagger and positioning it before his heart, the tip biting ever so slightly into his leather surcoat. “I will end my own life if that is what it takes to make you happy.”

“No!” Her reaction was immediate, a tug on some unseen string that connected them soul to soul. What would she become if that line was cut? “I don’t want that. I just – I want to sleep.”

Aemond’s dagger clattered to the stone floor. She didn’t know if it was relief or regret that painted his face. She didn’t know which she would prefer.

“Let’s get you out of the bath and dry first,” he sighed as he stood to fetch a towel. It was somewhat irritating that he did not ask if she wanted his help. But even if she had, she would have said yes. She would much rather endure his presence than the servants who looked at her as if she were a freak in a mummers show.

With the towel slung over his shoulder, Aemond extended his hand to help her stand. His touch was again hesitant and respectful. His eye turned as far away from her as he could allow it while still being able to help her.

“Where did you go?” Her question caused him to freeze with his hands on her shoulders as he softly dried the lingering water from her back. “After you summoned the servants, where did you go?”

He sighed. “I was waiting in the hall, ābrazȳrītsos. I thought you would not want me to intrude while you were…” another sigh. “I was only in the hall, I promise.”

Begrudgingly, she believed him. He had arrived quickly after she started screaming. But knowing he had not sought out Alys made her feel little better. She did not know why.

A dark seed of mistrust had been planted in her heart, strangling it with thorns of anger and spite as it grew and grew. Would that it were only a plant, she would tear it out of her chest with her own hands with no thought to the blood and thorns that would shred through her. It would still be better than this.

That terrible, unnatural silence again fell upon them as if it were a specter haunting their every thought and movement—a shadow larger and more terrible than Vhagar herself that turned each glance into a piercing shard of ice and each touch into the grating pain of fingernails digging into stone. It vanished only when Aemond slid into the bed beside her and moved to embrace her.

“No!” she hissed as she pulled away. “Not… not tonight. Not while we are here.” She felt Aemond’s hand pulling back as if the limb were her own. Felt the shifting of the bed as if it were the earth quaking and rending beneath her.

“I understand, ābrazȳrītsos. Drējī usōven.”

She could see him in her mind’s eye, lying next to her like a corpse prepared by the Silent Sisters – his legs straight and arms folded over his ribs. She could see the pain on his face, the tears likely spilling over his temples and into his hair. She could see his fingers trembling as he fought his body and soul’s command to touch her, hold her, love her.

Cruel visions sent by the ghost Aemond had created the moment he took Alys to his bed.

They followed her into her dreams.

Aemond did not sleep.

Though he lay in bed, he found no rest. From the moment his wife closed her eyes, he was haunted by demons of his own making – memories and visions of his sins.

He saw the first night he fucked Alys. Saw how weak and small he looked as he sat before the fire in his chambers, staring at the black sky outside the window. Saw the fear and doubt on his face as he thought about leading men into battle when the sun rose. Saw himself as a pathetic little boy, not a prince or the rider of the largest dragon in the world, certainly not like a man who could win a war.

He watched as his attempts at resisting Alys became quickly feeble. That night, he was desperate for anything to tether him to himself, and his Ābrazȳrītsos was so far away… he was little better than an animal. He was an animal. The way he touched her, clawed at her, bit her was no less than beastly.

Everything that made him a man – made him worthy of his wife – vanished the moment he touched her. To gain it back would not be so easy.

It would begin with the peace negotiations. Putting an end to the war that had driven this wedge between them would be the first step, not only in saving his marriage but also in healing what would soon be his realm—their realm.

He turned his head to look at his Ābrazȳrītsos. His queen- his dārītsos. It was a pleasure he had not allowed himself since lying beside her.

She was so beautiful. She would always be beautiful. Even when she was so thin, and her brow was creased with sadness, she was beautiful. How had he ever thought that he deserved such a perfect wife?

Perhaps it would be best if he agreed to what Aegon had threatened. Exiling him and Vhagar would undoubtedly put many who supported Rhaenyra at ease. Then, she would marry Aegon and become the queen she deserved to be, at least for a while. None could protest the legitimacy of their babes’ claims to the throne if she were the crowned queen.

In his exile, Aemond could travel to the ruins of Old Valyria to let whatever horrors his ancestors left behind mete out the judgment for his sins.

But Aegon would die soon, leaving her a widow. A widowed queen could never remarry. She would become little more than a decoration, the poor dowager queen forever standing in the shadows. And she would not be allowed to serve as regent for their heir – nor would their mother, despite having governed the realm for years while their father was infirm.

Who would speak on behalf of their child? The Small Council was filled with vultures seeking their own advantage. Larys Strong and his ilk slithered like snakes into every and any ear they could to try and advance their positions. Traitors who had only sworn loyalty to Aegon when it became clear Rhaenyra’s claim was doomed.

The only people he trusted to guide the children would be Grand Maester Orwyle, newly freed from the Black Cells, or Tyland Lannister. But that wasn’t enough. Who would protect her from those who would seek to take advantage of her?

No, he could not leave her. Despite her feelings toward him, he was the only one capable of keeping her safe. He had to stay, for her sake, he told himself.

Though in his heart, he knew the decision was selfish.

Aemond stared at her until the first rays of sunlight shone through the eastern window, imagining her perfect features on their children. Her dark eyes, the curls in her hair, the soft innocence of her smile. He nearly wished that he would see nothing of himself in the babes.

Then, those dark eyes opened, looking blearily at him. He swore there was a flicker of unabashed joy and love in them before they again went cold. At least the rising sun still gilded them with gold. Yes, the babes should have those eyes.

She turned away from him and tried to stand.

“Don’t wake, my love.” He said gently, a hand hovering just above her shoulder to stop her from rising. “Stay and rest, please.”

“No, Aemond.” She frowned, that sweet mouth set in a hard line. “I do not want to sleep. I wish to go with you today.”

She had been so upset by his leaving the night before. Had she not believed him when he gave his answer? Did she want to monitor him to ensure he did not betray her again? He shook his head. “I promise I am not going to see – ”

“I know you aren’t.” She sat upright, facing away from him. He wanted to embrace her, to hold her against his chest, but she hadn’t wanted that last night. He had resisted touching her since then. He could remain strong. “I wish to accompany you to the negotiations with Lord Stark.”

That wasn’t what he’d been expecting. She had never shown an interest in such things before. “Whatever for?”

She pouted in response. “If I am to be your queen, I must be prepared. Mother ruled alongside Viserys. I intend to do the same.”

Their mother had not only advised Viserys but ruled in his stead when he was too ill to sit the throne himself. It made sense that she would want to follow the path Queen Alicent had made. She knew little of what it took to rule a kingdom, but she was smart, she would learn.  

“Very well.” He nodded as he stood from the bed to help her stand. His heart almost burst when her hand touched his. “I must admit that to have you beside me will fortify my resolve.”

He expected that would make her smile – hoped it would.

She dropped his hand. “And after, you will take me to see Alys.”

Damn it. Damn it all, especially that witch.

“Ābrazȳrītsos…” she scoffed and turned away from him, ignoring his outstretched arms. He followed her into the dressing room. “Raqiarzītsos, please. I beg you, do not insist on this.”

“I need answers, Aemond.” She hid her face in the mass of dresses that now hung on racks, but he could still hear the wavering determination in her voice.

He understood well what she was too polite to say plainly. She needed answers from Alys because she did not trust that Aemond told the whole truth. Even the implication stung deep in his chest. On that, he knew he could not change her mind.

“I understand,” he said carefully, remaining in his place by the door. It was the truth. “But Ābrazȳrītsos… can it not wait until you are stronger? Until the babes are born and you have recovered from the hell they’ve put you through? Then I can fly you back here on Vhagar so you don’t have to stay here and wonder…”

Only once had she acknowledged her curiosity about where in the keep Aemond had been with Alys – when they first arrived in their rooms. But he had seen it from the moment they passed through the walls. That uncertainty made her seem even frailer than she already was.

Her hand tightened on the velvet of a green dress. “I don’t want to come back.” He took a step forward, but she faced him. The tears in her eyes halted him immediately. “I don’t ever want to come back to this place again, so it must be now. Today.”

Aemond’s heart had shattered days ago, but the pure agony in his ābrazȳrītsos’s beautiful eyes then trampled the remaining shards to dust.

“Today it will be, then.” He could not banish the worry from his face, but she smiled anyway. “Tomorrow, we will go home. If Stark still has anything to say, he can follow us back to King’s Landing.”

Cregan Stark was already in the great hall when they arrived, along with what seemed like the bulk of his forces. Of course he was. After his absence at their arrival last night, Aemond was a fool to think he’d do anything else.

The Lord of Winterfell was every bit a wolf.

He certainly smiled like one as Aemond walked through the doors, standing to bow only his head. He seemed to think his prideful displays of irreverence would somehow give him an advantage in the negotiations.

But a wolf was nothing to a dragon.

“My prince,” the lord’s voice was anything but respectful. Perhaps he still held a grudge for the death of Jacaerys. Not that anyone was to blame for that but the bastard himself. “You have joined us at last.”

Aemond adopted a similar arrogant countenance. His was far more deserved. “Alas, my wife’s comfort was of greater importance to me than your patience, Lord Stark.”

Stark’s eyes slid behind Aemond to his ābrazȳrītsos, the feral glint within them softening, then sharpening in something like concern. “Princess,” he said with a deep bow—far deeper than what he gave Aemond, his Prince Regent. “I was not expecting to meet you, but I am very glad of it. I hope you are well?”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, quiet yet confident. “The journey was long, but I fared well.”

“That is good news.” Cregan arched a thick black brow as he thoroughly examined her, his eyes landing on her belly. “I hope your condition is not giving you too much trouble.”

“She is perfectly well,” Aemond snapped before she could even open her mouth. He did not like the way the wolf looked at her like she needed protection. She was his wife, his to protect. He would not endure the suggestion that he had failed in that duty. Despite what he’d done, she had remained safe.

Her eyes found him, then turned to Stark. She nodded primly, the barest remnants of a smile on her lips. Even as he recalled her old smiles, wide, bright, and perfect, seeing her lift her lips made his heart swell with affection. Perhaps one day, he would see her truly smile once more.

“Let us begin, then.” He led her to the table, seating her at his right hand before taking his place at the head of the table. Stark regarded him with barely disguised disdain but was silent as he continued. “You have been chosen to represent those who foolishly supported my half-sister. By my brother, King Aegon’s grace, you have been granted your lives despite your treason. But our concern now is not revenge, but peace.”

He glanced at his wife, his reason for peace. He would do anything he could to ensure she and their children never again faced war—even this. “What is it you and your allies require to ensure peace?

Stark again donned that wolfish smile, though it faltered slightly when he, too, looked to Aemond’s wife. “We thank you for your… generosity, my prince. But, before we begin any negotiations, I would ask for assurance that whatever terms we agree to will be upheld.”

The nerve to ask for such a thing as the defeated traitor was astounding. Aemond had half a mind to simply kill the man. It would send a message to those who had supported Rhaenyra. Scare them away from further rebellion.

Though perhaps it was not the message he wanted to send. Not the way he wanted to begin his reign.

Not something he wanted his wife – his queen – to witness.

So, he took a deep breath and summoned a matching cocky grin. “You have the assurance of the crown and throne, Lord Stark.”

“And how am I to trust that?” Cregan said, tipping his head so far it rested against the back of his chair. “With your brother… as he is, you are the crown and throne, Prince Aemond. I expect you will have them for yourself soon rather than borrowing them from Aegon. How am I to trust you?”

Cold suspicion crept up Aemond’s spine as Stark again looked at his wife, something like an apology on his face.

It disappeared when he again looked at Aemond. “How am I to trust that you will uphold your promises to me, when you cannot even be trusted to honor your vows to your wife?

He fucking knew. Somehow, he fucking knew.

Aemond would kill him.

He would sew that wolf’s smile shut so he could not scream. He would tear out his eyes and rip out his fingernails. He would use every method of torture he had ever learned of – through his books and his own practical experience – to kill Stark slowly. He may even invent some new techniques of his own.

He would find the person who told him – likely one of the servants in the keep he’d bribed while waiting for Aemond’s arrival – and do the same to them, as he would to anyone who ever spoke a word about it in his wife’s presence. He would –  

The burning rage inside him cooled in an instant, as if smothered by a northern wind. But it was not a cold wind that brushed against his hand – it was the warm, smooth skin of his wife.

While he had become blinded by his anger, she had reached across the table to entwine her fingers with his. Her grip was stiff and too tight, and he could feel her shivering, but she had done it.

She had touched him.

Of her own free will.

Even with all he had done, all the ways he had wounded her, she was still there – still with him, offering her support.

He did not delude himself into thinking it was forgiveness or even a gesture of love. There was no hint of affection in her eyes. For all he knew, she may never touch him again.

But she still stood by his side as his wife. His future queen.

And that simple gesture was enough that the corners of Stark’s mouth turned down, and his swaggering lessened. Aemond beamed at his wife, letting her see all his gratitude and love. She nodded, and he decided that was enough, at least for now.

He turned back to the wolf at the end of the table. “State your terms.”

The negotiations were still a battle, though they never again came close to physical blows. An agreement was reached, with the crown conceding more than Aemond wanted but less than Stark wanted. No one was happy—a perfect compromise.

When it was over, and Stark rose to leave, Aemond turned to Ronnel, who sat at his left, to make preparations for their departure tomorrow. He wanted everything ready so they could depart at dawn and leave this wretched place behind. But a low voice began murmuring to his right.

Cregan godsdamned Stark was whispering in his wife’s ear.

She did not smile, but her cheeks were flushed. When Stark finally closed his bastard mouth, she whispered something back. The thirst for murder slowly crept back into Aemond’s heart. But then Cregan was walking away, and his wife held his gaze.

“He was only apologizing,” she whispered cautiously. “For what he said, and how it hurt me.”

Of course, Aemond received no such apology. He didn’t want one anyway. He would much rather have Stark’s head on a spike while his body was fed to Vhagar. Fulfilling that wish could wait, if it would ever be possible. Now, she was his only true concern.

“I’m sorry as well, ābrazȳrītsos. You should not have been put in that position.” He reached for her hand, but she stood—without aid, he noted.

She tried and failed to smile. “It wasn’t me he was insulting. Can we go now?”

Ronnel laughed slightly, a paltry attempt at ridding them of the tension. “I’m afraid the horses and wheelhouse won’t be ready until tomorrow, my princess. I can – ”

“That is not what I mean.” He could see her breath quicken as she looked directly at him. “Aemond, I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?” He couldn’t help but ask, couldn’t let this one last opportunity pass him by. “You don’t have to, love.”

Her mouth tightened, and her brows set. “I know, but I want to.”

There was an open door at the end of the servants’ hall, a fire flickering within.

Alys was expecting them. Had she seen it in a vision, or had the servants from the night before told her?

It didn’t matter, she knew. This would be unpleasant either way. But the thought of Alys knowing how pathetic she’d been the night before still haunted her.

When they were mere paces away from the open door, Aemond said his first words since leaving the great hall: “You do not have to do this, ābrazȳrītsos. We can still turn around.”

She didn’t reply. She had already locked eyes with her husband’s whore as she stepped into the doorway.

Alys was beautiful. Of course she was beautiful. And so different from her.

There was not a single similarity she could find other than the swell of their breasts and bellies from carrying Aemond’s children. Where her hair was pale as the moon, Alys’ was as dark as the night surrounding it. Where her eyes were a warm, deep brown, Alys’ were the cool green of fresh grass. Where she was but a little girl of 17 pretending at womanhood, Alys’ was a woman, with wisdom in her gaze and elegant, dignified lines framing her face to prove it.

Most men would have slighted her in favor of Alys. She just wished Aemond had been stronger than most men.

“My prince,” Alys curtsied as well as she could with her in her state, then turned her eyes to her. “My princess, what a joy it is to meet you at last.”

“Alys,” Aemond growled, stepping between the two women. He began whispering to his mistress so softly that his wife could not understand. It angered her.

“I said –” her voice came out louder than she intended, and the distant noise of conversation from the other servants quieted. That, she had not intended, but at least Aemond and Alys now faced her. “I said I wanted to talk to her, Aemond. Not you.”

His mouth tightened, but he nodded, retreating to stand behind her, still close enough to defend her. Alys smiled at her—not a viper’s smile, leering and poisonous. It was open and kind, as if she were a dear friend rather than the woman who’d slept with her husband and destroyed their marriage.

“Please, come in, princess. I know you must be more comfortable sitting than standing in a hallway.” Though she hated that the woman would dare to make assumptions, it was accurate. Her legs and back were already aching from the walk from the great hall.

Alys opened the door further, ushering them inside. It was a quaint room. Unusually well-appointed with a hearth and seating area, but still obviously a servant’s quarters. Perhaps it had once housed the steward until Alys had become so important to Aemond.

Aemond led her to one of the two stuffed chairs by the hearth, extending a hand to help her sit. She recoiled, eyes flitting to the bed. Had they…?

“Not here,” he whispered, his mouth curling into a frown. “I never… she was always the one to come to me.”

He called her to him like any other servant. He had not sought Alys out himself. It made little difference—he had still summoned her. But it was enough that she accepted his hand and sat, pulling away from him the moment she no longer required his aid.

Alys sat in the chair opposite her, again with that same kind expression. “You have questions for me, yes?”

She nodded, unsure of how else to answer. Alys was not at all what she expected. This was Aemond’s mistress. She had expected a cruel, vain woman who would laugh at her, mock her, and boast that she’d stolen Aemond from her. That was the image she saw when she imagined asking her questions, not this.

“That is quite understandable, dear.” Alys reached out, placing her hand on the arm of the opposite chair, their fingers nearly touching. “I will answer your questions. And I swear, by my own life and that of my child’s, that I will answer truthfully.”

Aemond scoffed quietly, his hand wrapping protectively around the back of the chair. Rage radiated from him, hotter than the fire they faced. She ignored it, and him, entirely.

She believed, once, that she could always trust Aemond. The woman across from her proved otherwise. If the world made so little sense that she could not trust her brother, her husband, her soulmate, then why couldn’t she trust a whore and a witch when she swore on the life of her bastard?

All her questions, all the loose threads she plucked from the story Aemond had woven for her, raced in her mind. Her head began to pulse under the pressure of the storm of anger, devastation, and sadness that raged within her.

But one question returned, over and over again, until it at last reached her lips.

“Did you know about me?”

“I did, my dear. Everyone in the realm and beyond knows of you. The ‘Little Princess,’ they call you.”

“You knew I was – I am – Aemond’s wife?”

Behind her, Aemond stepped forward to stand at her side, a hand extended in question and offering. Offering his support, the strengthening knowledge that he was there for her. The same thing she had given him only hours ago when the peace of the realm teetered on the edge of war.

This time, she did not take his hand.

Alys’ soft smile fell, and what looked to be genuine regret passed over her perfect face. “I did.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“After Aemond gave the order for every man, woman, and child carrying Strong blood was to be killed, my choices were to die with the family who had only ever done precious little for me,” Alys scoffed, as if the possibility was utterly ridiculous, “or to save myself by being whatever your husband wanted me to be. Can you truly fault me for wishing to save my own life?”

No, she couldn’t. If she had been in Alys’ position, she may well have done the same. Had considered it, even, when Rhaenyra and Daemon had taken King’s Landing. To save her children and mother, and to survive until Aemond could rescue them. Fortunately, her uncle had shown no interest in her. Still, she’d been willing to give up that part of her – if it meant keeping the people she loved safe.

“I understand your motivation to save your life,” she said slowly, wetting her lips with her tongue as she glanced up at Aemond, who looked at Alys like he was only barely holding himself back from strangling her. The hand he had not offered her was fisted at his side, knuckles white as bone.

Did hearing how he had been so easily manipulated humiliate him? Did it sting to know that Alys had only truly desired her freedom, not him? That she had used him as much as he had used her?

“I will assure you that I did resist. At least at first.”

In the story Aemond told, Alys was the one who pursued him. He said he spared her because of her visions, not her beauty or any lust for her. Alys was implying she only lain with him because he wanted it, that he was the one who began the affair.

Which was true? Was Alys lying, or Aemond?

Something in Alys’ keen eyes made her think the witch knew her thoughts. “Was he not satisfied with using your powers to aid him in winning the war?”

“My visions can provide guidance, but they are not infallible. And they are not always pleasant. I needed assurance that I would not be killed if the future was altered or if your husband was displeased with what I told him.”

“Surely you could have simply explained this to him,” she mumbled. Aemond was a reasonable man. He would not blame someone for something out of their control—or at least, he had been once.

Alys laughed, quiet and cackling and full of pity. “Oh, my poor dear, you have no idea what your husband became within these walls, do you?”

Aemond stepped forward, a hand on his sword. “Alys…”

She ignored him pointedly. “I know he didn’t tell you in his letters – I was there when he wrote many of them.” A small smile and a smug hum pointed at Aemond as she revealed a piece of what he’d hidden. “But I assumed since he’s now told you about me, he would have told you everything else.”

“Stop, Alys.” Aemond’s voice had grown lower and angrier than she’d ever heard—the voice of the man who had won the war nearly single-handedly, not of her beloved husband and brother. It frightened her. Even when he put a hand on her shoulder, she could not face him, fearing what she would see in that once familiar face.

There was a sickly glint in Alys’ eyes and a curling grin on her full lips. She looked only at Aemond as she spoke. “Did he tell you that he not only gave the order for the entire Strong bloodline be wiped from existence, but that he killed them all himself? Old men, women, and children all died by his sword. No matter how much they begged to be spared or how much they screamed and wept. He was wholly without mercy.” Her mouth hung open, ready to say more, but she glanced back at the princess and quieted, seeing the pain in her eyes.

No, she wanted to say as her stomach turned to burning cold lead. Aemond isn’t so cruel as that. He told her violence was only ever a necessity, not something to be enjoyed. At their wedding tourney –,

Aemond was silent. No rebuttals or denials. Not even an attempt at explanation. He slowly lowered his hand from his sword, as if ashamed to touch it.

That may have been the worst of it, for it meant what Alys was saying was the truth.

Pulling herself out of his grip, she ignored his small grunt of hurt and disbelief, blinked away tears, and fought to keep her voice steady. “Yet he spared you. Because you offered him your visions?”

“Yes, dear.”

She chafed under the seeming affection in Alys’ gaze. This was the woman who had seduced her husband, shared his bed for months, and carried his bastard. Why was she being so godsdamned kind?

“Was it true, then? Your vision about his first battle? That he would need to be fearless going into the battle.” She could feel her entire being trembling with fearful anticipation and guttural rage. “It was because of that vision that you convinced him to bed you, wasn’t it?”

Alys’ eyes flicked to Aemond for the first time since she’d sat down. He tensed behind her with a soft gasp, then a growl.

“It was,” Alys finally said.

“And all the times after?” She heard leather creaking behind her and knew Aemond had dropped his head. “Were there visions for those?”

“I wish I could say there were, if only to spare you from this pain,” Alys sighed, pity practically dripping from her, “but no. I still had visions and shared them with your husband, but none required continued intimacy.”

The stinging tears in her eyes began to fall, and Alys winced at the sight. “I am truly sorry, princess, for the hurt we have caused you. But I cannot regret what I’ve done, for I do believe it saved my life.”

Saved Aemond’s life, as well, if those visions had indeed kept him safe. She again felt that slight tug of gratitude in her chest, only for it to be swallowed by the raging deluge of anger and grief. It threatened to choke her. “And the babe?”

Alys sat back in her seat, absentmindedly stroking where that babe lay. “An unexpected, but not entirely unwanted consequence.”

“You did not drink moon tea?” It was a stupid question, she knew. The evidence that she didn’t was quite visible.

“Such things are luxuries when living in the heart of a war. Those herbs were better used for those who needed them to survive.” Alys’ gaze dropped to where Aemond’s other babes lay. “It took some time, after your wedding, for his seed to take, yes?

Aemond growled again, little better than a guard dog at this point.

Her cheeks flushed. It had taken nearly two years, so long that the maesters began to worry, and the court started whispering. She knew that their grandsire had brought it to the Small Council more than once, and was thankful she was not present – the gods only knew what solutions those men had devised.

“It takes longer for some women than others,” Alys said through a grimace. “It is no shame, merely the unknowable will of the gods.”

“It happened very quickly for you.” In the end, the bastard only proved that whatever had prevented her and Aemond from conceiving was her fault, not his. Perhaps the gods had seen the man he was to become, and those two years were their attempt to push them apart.

Alys thought for a minute, her gaze drifting to the fire between them, turning her eyes into something that did not seem quite human. She frowned, “A stroke of fortune. Good or ill, I cannot decide.”

The witch – for she was indeed a witch, those eyes proved it so – continued to stare into the flames. Aemond again set a hand on his wife’s shoulder, and she wondered whether he considered the bastard to be good fortune. He had not said anything to suggest he was glad of it, but there were memories that suggested he was.

He had learned things from Alys that he tried to use on her. How to hold her to relieve the weight of the babes, and how to cushion her belly when in the carriage. She was sure there was more, perhaps he had done them, and she just hadn’t noticed. But he had held Alys and taken care to protect her child.

It was intimate in a way that suggested they shared more than just sex.

“Does Aemond love you?” Even the crackling of the fire seemed to quiet as the words left her mouth unbidden. But this was the most important question. How deep did Aemond’s betrayal go?

Alys’ answer was just as sudden. “No. Nor I him.”

Her heart pounded to hear those words. Alys had taken so much. Half a year of their lives. Aemond’s touch. The trust between them. But she hadn’t taken Aemond’s heart. That belonged only to her.

Even if she wasn’t sure she wanted it.

She fell silent, considering all she had learned. Aemond fucked Alys, but he didn’t love her. He called her to his room, but her comfortable quarters suggested she didn’t stay with him. He spilled his seed inside her, but took no precautions against siring a bastard. He knew he was to have a child by Alys, but planned to return to his wife. He…

He kept her and the child secret. He had commanded that all those who knew of the affair remain silent, if Ser Willis’ words could be trusted.

Why would he go to such lengths to uphold the secret if he knew he was coming home rather than staying at Harrenhal?

A chill wind passed through her despite the heat of the fire, numbing her, body and soul.

“Did you know Daemon was going to tell me?”

“Ah,” Alys looked ashamed for the first time she had seen. “No. That escaped my vision. It was likely a decision he made just prior to departing for the God’s Eye after I had my initial vision of Aemond’s triumph. And oh, what changes that decision has made.”

That meant… “You believed I wouldn’t find out?”

“Until Aemond returned from the battle, yes.” A humorless laugh. “I was nearly as shocked as him.”

“Then you saw a future where you and your child remained hidden from me.” A statement, not a question, as the truth began to take shape in her mind.

“Yes.”

“Alys, stop.” Aemond had gone entirely still and silent since she asked if he loved Alys. Now, he was frantic and panicked.

She paid him no mind. The truth was in hand, and she would not let it go. “What would have happened? If Daemon hadn’t written that letter?”

“Many things, little one, be more specific.” Alys seemed amused by the turn the line of questioning had taken, almost like a parent helping their child with a logic puzzle.

“Would Aemond…” The words burned in her throat, not the hot burn of anger, but of deathly cold of impending heartbreak. “With you…” she was going to be sick. She could have asked anything else and been fine, but this? She would rather ask how well Aemond had fucked her. “Would it have continued?”

“Ābrazȳrītsos —” He was begging. The man who had slain dragons and burned entire villages was begging, but he did not beg for long.

“Your husband would have taken me back to King’s Landing and brought me into the Red Keep’s household as a wet nurse. I would have nursed your babes and mine, and Aemond would be able to know all his children.”  There was no trace of pride or gloating in Alys’ voice, just the truth. The horrible, horrible truth.

Her tone turned reassuring. “Though, our physical intimacy would not have continued. "When he was finally by your side again, he’d have no use of me in that.” Alys paused, looking once at Aemond. “He does love you, princess. Very much. I’m sorry that I have made you doubt that.”

The bastard would have lived with them. Drank the same milk as her own children. Perhaps even played with them, learned with them. It might even look like them, if it took after its father.

For the first time, she was truly glad for what Daemon had done with his final breaths.

“It was just for the child,” Aemond whispered, his voice utterly broken. “I swear, I… I just wanted to know my child.”

She faced him, feeling nothing at the horror on his face as he fell to his knees beside her. “What about our children? What about me?”

“I thought…” he shook his head as if he did not believe his own words. “I thought that I – ”

“I don’t care, Aemond.” A lie. She cared so much. For him and the love they shared. For the family they were soon to have. For herself. She cared so deeply it felt like a star in her chest, burning with how much she cared.

That star blinked out.

“I don’t care,” she said once more. Then she stood and left the room.

“You lied.”

“Did I?” Alys’ veneer of benevolent politeness was gone the moment they were alone. She looked at Aemond with cold eyes, not a hint of the affection he once saw, feigned as it was. “Your little wife – ābrazȳr��tsos, I believe is the term? – is such a charming little thing. I swore to her that I would tell her the truth. Why would I lie to such a sweet girl?”

This was insufferable. She was insufferable. “When you told her about the vision – your first vision. About Darry. I didn’t notice it when you told me then, but I know you better now.” Fear rose to match the anger in his veins as he stood. “That was a lie.”

Alys looked away. The bitch looked away from him to hide the twist of her lips as she looked into the fire. “You won the battle, didn’t you?”

It was a lie. A lie that had destroyed him. Destroyed his life. Destroyed his ābrazȳrītsos. And it was all a godsdamned lie.

He would never have pursued Alys himself. She pursued him, told him that he needed to be relaxed and without fear to win the battle and spare the bulk of his men. When he had not been able to calm himself, it was she who offered her aid.

He had not known what she meant by that, pushed her away when she first tried to kiss him. He’d wrapped a hand around her throat when she first reached out to touch him. He was going to choke her, kill her.

“It won’t mean anything, my prince,” she said when she snuck her hand between his legs. His body trembled at the touch—it had been so long since he had been touched this way. His ābrazȳrītsos had been too ill from the babe she carried, and he would never force her. He had to admit the pleasure cleared his mind. “I merely wish to help you.”

She only ever meant to help herself, not him or his men. And he had been the fool who fell for her act. Again and again.“How many of your ‘visions’ were lies?”

Alys didn’t even play at coyness. She outright grinned as she poked the fire. “Perhaps half. Perhaps more.”

“You vile whore,” he spat with all the venom he could summon.

“Careful what you say, Aemond,” her tone remained sickeningly sweet, her eyes fixed on the fire. “After all, you are the man who fucked this ‘vile whore.’ Over and over again, while that sweet thing,” she pointed her chin at the door, “was frightened and alone.”

Aemond’s breath left in a rush. “You knew she was sick?”

Alys scoffed. “She’s not sick, you stupid boy, just pregnant. It is more difficult for some women than for others. Although the stress of the war likely did not help.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” If he had only known… if, if, if, his entire life reduced to two letters. Damn the word.

“You would have left if you knew, leaving me to fend for myself.” She shrugged casually, but it did not belie the slight sagging of her shoulders. “Besides, I knew she would be well again.”

“A vision?

She smiled wistfully. Any other man would find it a beautiful sight. It made him want to kill her slowly. “Oh, what a lovely vision it was. You arrived home late in the night while she was brushing her hair. I’ve never seen such happiness as when she saw you in the mirror. Your presence alone restored her vitality. When I saw her again after she’d birthed your sons, she was strong and radiant. From Maiden to Mother.”

A crushing in his chest, pain and joy joined as one terrible whole. “‘Sons?’”

Alys looked at him then, no malice or disdain in her gaze. “Yes, she will deliver you two sons.”

Two babes. Two sons. Two heirs.

Their line would be secure with two trueborn princes. The people would take it as an omen that the gods had blessed them, and few would dispute their rule. There would be no need for further children unless something should happen to the boys. Aemond would never let anything happen to them.

There would be no need for his wife to remain in his bed.

It was his punishment, he supposed. He would have the throne and the family he always coveted at the cost of his wife’s love.

“Will they be healthy?” It was good, he told himself. He deserved this punishment, after all, and she deserved to be free of him, as much as a queen can be free of her king. So long as their sons – their bloodline – were strong.

“They were in my vision, but now that future is changed,” Alys looked back at the fire, poking at it as if searching for something. “I have not seen what will now be.”

“Try.” The babes had to be healthy after all they’d put their mother through. She must not suffer any more than she already had – at their hands or Aemond’s.

She could not bear the loss of a son. Neither could he.

“You know it doesn't work like that, Aemond. I swear, if I could see it, I would tell you.” Again, she scoured the wood and ash and flame. “But when I looked into the fire after you flew south, all I saw was smoke.”

“You lied then. You could be lying now.” He knew she wasn’t. He prayed she was.

“I give my word that this is the truth.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Aemond, this only means I cannot see what will happen. It doesn’t mean that they will not –”

“Do not speak to me!” He roared as he hadn’t since he was told Daemon and Rhaenyra had taken King’s Landing. It felt like fire was trying to burn its way out of his throat. “Do not speak to me ever again or show your face before me. If you do, I…”  

Alys laid a hand on her belly, and he recoiled in shame. To banish her would also be to banish her child—his child.

He shouldn’t care for a bastard, he knew. It was a stain on his honor, a permanent reminder that he was not the man he hoped he would be, the man his ābrazȳrītsos deserved. But it was also his child—his blood.

His eye burned in such pain he could hardly feel his zaldrīzītsos squeezing his hand while she wept. But it was nothing to the gaping hole in his chest where he once hoped his father would lay.

The old man would not even look at him. He appeared as if his greatest concern wasn’t the damage to his son but that he longed for his bed. When Aemond’s mother begged for justice, his father looked on her as if she were mad.

“He is your son, Viserys. Your blood.”

Aemond swore he would not be like his father. He knew what it was to be neglected by those he shared blood with and couldn’t stand the thought of doing it himself.

Yet he had also sworn to do anything for his ābrazȳrītsos’ happiness.

“I will send funds for the child’s care,” his voice was weak now that his inner fire had faded. “But I forbid you from naming me as the father to anyone on pain of death.”

“You would condemn your child to fatherlessness?”

The fire roared back to life, as large as the swaths of destruction he had laid across the Riverlands.

He approached Alys with his dagger in hand, unaware of when he had drawn it. “It is only because of the child that I do not slit your throat here and now. Be grateful for what I am giving you. It is well beyond what most whores receive for their bastards.”

Aemond stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He shut his eye and breathed heavily. In. Out. In. Out. Only when he had calmed – enough that he was no longer on the precipice of violence – did he look down the hall, only to find it empty.  “Ābrazȳrītsos?”

There was no reply. Until –

“Aemond!” Her voice was strained, desperate, and, worst of all, followed by a long moan of pain.

He screamed her name as he ran toward her voice. Why was she in pain? Was she ill again? It had never happened before night fell, as far as he knew. Had someone hurt her? Alys? Stark? He’d kill them – slowly, painfully, without mercy. He’d –

She was slumped against the wall. Her sweet face was flushed and scrunched with pain, her mouth open as she moaned. But there was no hint of injury. She looked whole.

Then, Aemond saw it.

There was a steadily growing pool of liquid surrounding her. Not blood, thank the gods, but… Alys once said there was a release of fluid when a woman began her labors.

No. No. It was too early. The babes were not ready yet. If they were born now, they would not survive. They would be like Rhaenyra’s daughter Visenya – weak and deformed. They would have scales or horns or tails or talons, perhaps even malformed wings.

They couldn’t come now. They couldn’t. Not only for their sake, but if they had those horns or talons, they could kill their mother as they ripped their way out of her.

Aemond couldn’t let it happen. There had to be something he could do, some way he could –

She screamed.

It was the worst sound he’d ever heard. It tore at his chest like a storm ravaged a ship. He could not move, not until he saw her legs wobble as she braced herself against the wall. She was going to fall. He ran forward to catch her, screaming himself.

“Ābrazȳrītsos!”

[daycourtofficial]

Fireling

Pairing: Eris x Rhysand’s sister!reader | WC: 1.5k | warnings: none

Summary: every father’s dream is to be there the day his son first uses his powers. Luckily for Eris, he gets just that.

Note: this is a part of my gingerfucker series and is for day 2 of @erisweekofficial 🥰 I guess you can decide for yourself if this is more of the childhood or legacy promot

Eris sighed as he moved through the halls of the Forest House, the wiggling mass in his arms not deterring him in the slightest. Every time one of his hands was loosened from the boy, it would reappear elsewhere, making the small version of himself wiggle even harder.

In all his years, he had helped raise all of his brothers, became quite familiar with several of the servant’s children over the years, and yet his firstborn child was an utter mystery to him. Almost three years old, Atlas had never been capable of sitting still for even a moment.

It made changing his nappy a monumental task.

A physical replica of himself, Atlas loved roaming the halls and seeing old portraits of Eris, slightly confused when he would be corrected that no, that was Dada. An answer he didn’t like, because the idea of his parents having lives previous to his existence was unfathomable at best and upsetting to the point of tears at worst.

He wiggled around in Eris’ arms, the High Lord looking absurd as he moved his arms to catch where the young heir would go next.

Atlas, above all else, liked routine. He enjoyed structure of some kind. It was very easy for the boy to fall into routines - if you did the same activity three days in a row around the same time, he began expecting it.

Which led Eris to open the door to Atlas’ room, letting the boy down to run.

He closed the door behind him, his son spinning around the room, soft giggles echoing through the space.

“See, dada?”

“Yes, now I understand why spinning in the front foyer was impossible and you had to do it in here under my watch.”

“Mama’s sick, so it’s Dada time.”

You were pregnant again, but it was during the early stages where you were tired all of the time, food did not sound appetizing, and you were incredibly sensitive to smells.

Eris had swelled with pride when you were able to tell him, before immediately throwing up onto his shoes. It was endearing how apologetic you were, even though he opted to just throw out the shoes, the socks, and the trousers before he spent a solid thirty minutes in the bath, scrubbing furiously as he tried to battle the conflicting thoughts that moved through his head. It filled him with immeasurable joy and excitement to see a new babe, his thoughts constantly wondering how much this second babe will resemble Atlas.

But a whole new set of worries came with a second babe. How would Atlas, the center of his world, react to having to share the attention?

Fae having children back to back so quickly was practically unheard of, so Eris had nothing to compare it to.

Atlas was - and remains - an easy babe. He’s a bit particular, but overall he is smart, kind and he cares so much about the smallest things, it constantly leaves Eris both in awe and slightly annoyed that his son insists they greet every tree by name whenever they pass them.

Eris watched as Atlas spun about the room, his red curls bouncing with each step.

You had been sick the past few days, spending the mornings cuddled up in bed with Atlas until his wiggling body made your stomach turn with nausea, which was when Eris would bring Atlas to his room and have him run, jump, and spin around until he wore himself out.

Thus a new routine was built.

Atlas’s giggles changed, becoming quicker and louder causing Eris to look up just in time to watch Atlas spin around the room, his arms outstretched into a ‘T’. As he spun through the air, little sparks began forming in his wake, tracing where he had just been spinning.

Eris stopped breathing, watching carefully. His thoughts stilled, knowing if he said or did anything, Atlas would stop. So he waited with bated breath, watching Atlas spin until he fell down, too dizzy to stay up on his small legs. As he fell, a burst of sparks erupted, small flames shot from his hands as he fell on the pile of pillows.

His giggles became louder, but Eris could hardly hear them.

It had been a few years since Beron’s death, since Eris felt the magic leave Beron’s body and his own absorb it - the same magic Atlas may one day possess. So much of his life was plagued with thoughts that always related back to Beron, all roads leading back to his father.

Some small part of him worried without Beron, there would be some hole in his chest, some emptiness at losing his purpose, the fire within him extinguishing with Beron.

His worries, like most these days, had been for nothing. He hardly ever thought about Beron since his death - only on nights when his dreams turn into nightmares, when various reminders of his father made their presence known amongst the hidden secrets of the Forest House.

Watching Atlas, his mind drifted to Beron. His son looked exactly like he did, but neither of them resembled Beron much. The only difference between Eris and his son were their eyes: Eris had Beron’s eyes - a cold, calculated look to them at all times. Meanwhile Atlas had the Lady of Autumn’s eyes - a bright, kind look that made the amber glow with warmth.

They were both the spitting image of Eris’s mother.

He thought of Beron as Atlas twirled about the room, tiny sparks coming from him getting bigger and bigger. He watched his son spin, the sparks catching onto his sweater before being burnt out.

Most of the clothing worn by anyone working in the Forest House was flame resistant - a lingering tradition from when Eris was young that continued well past the birth of each of his brothers, continuing well after Beron began delighting in making those that were incompetent walk around with flames adorning their clothes, the heat enough to make them sweat.

Eris’s thoughts whirled and swirled, the past few years a whirlwind of managing a court and becoming a father, a title so foreign to him he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Father.

An incredibly loaded word, always on the tip of his tongue as if he were still getting used to it after three years.

The High Lord title was easier to bear.

Atlas now stood, opening and closing his small hands, eyes widening each time he opened them. His brows crinkled as he looked on in determination, briefly flicking his eyes to check if Eris was still watching him.

His stance faltered as he made a small flame appear in one of his hands, amber eyes bright with the light in front of him. His gaze was pulled from the flame to his father, who was watching with a sad gaze.

Eris watched as Atlas produced the flame, a surge of pride and happiness growing in his chest, before the past reared its ugly head. He remembered when he first produced a flame intentionally - he was somewhere around his son’s age, and he had been so ecstatic he had spent the following weeks practicing to show his father.

He remembered how Beron looked down at Eris over his sloping nose, how Eris had felt extraordinarily small beneath his gaze. He thought it was how ants must look up at him.

Beron hadn’t said anything when Eris had shown him his powers, offering an unamused look at being disturbed before leaving the room.

He remembered watching him go, lip wobbling harder with each step, tears streaming down his face until new steps approached, and his mother watched him show off his new skills, despite having seen it each time the past few weeks.

He was jolted from the past, the present coming back to him in vivid colors as warmth flared against his cheeks, a tiny, freckled face looking at him. Atlas had crawled into his lap, his tiny hands too small to hold Eris’s face, but his touch remained there.

His hands were so warm, Eris drew back some of his own heat from his face to really feel his son’s power, to let his cheeks bask in the warmth of a son he never saw coming.

“Dada?”

It took that one word, a soft voice full of wonder and concern. One word from the small boy who warmed his soul.

He had spent months agonizing over what kind of father he would be - fears that were squashed each time Atlas looked up at him as if he had never done anything wrong. As if he held all the answers and all Atlas had to do was ask.

Atlas, much happier with Eris’s full attention on him, stuck out his tongue once more, deep in concentration before Eris saw from the bottom of his peripheral tiny flames dancing across his skin.

His smile was impossible to contain, and Atlas immediately mirrored his father’s expression.

He didn’t know what kind of father he would be. He didn’t know how Atlas and the new babe would speak of him decades and centuries from now.

But he would be there.

And he would try.

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites @the-golden-jhope @hannzoaks @secretlyhers @tothestarsandwhateverend @sarawritestories @chxosangxl

Eris taglist: @magicstrengthandcourage @panther-girl-124

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

I Want To Kill Her (Part 2)

Au where Y/N and Harry are neighbors who find out their spouses are cheating with each other.

Based off Fortnight by Taylor Swift

Part 1

CW: Smut, cursing, unprotected sex, emotional abuse.

Word Count: 10,085

The months following the gut-wrenching discovery of Teddy's affair were a chaotic storm of emotions and turmoil. The idea of my spouse, the person I trusted most in this world, being unfaithful was unbearable. But without any concrete evidence, doubt enveloped me like a thick fog, suffocating me as I struggled to regain my footing. Though I desperately wanted to believe he wasn't cheating, the blatant signs and whispers from those around us made it impossible to deny the painful truth.

Rage and heartbreak battle within me as I struggle to forgive Teddy, to find a way to salvage our relationship. But each attempt is met with the painful memories of his infidelity, burning like acid through my veins. I'm terrified of losing my British citizenship, my sense of identity and belonging, if I leave him. And even worse, I dread the thought of calling my family and confessing the truth - that not only did Teddy betray me with another woman, but in some sick twisted way, I am also to blame. My family adored him like a son, and he gave me a life beyond my wildest dreams. How could I ever reconcile these conflicting emotions?

Harry's sudden decision to divorce Rosie sent shockwaves through the once peaceful fortress of their home. In just a week, he had packed his bags and walked away, leaving behind a cold and empty shell that was now up for sale. As new potential buyers roamed the halls, I couldn't help but feel a sense of betrayal from Harry's abrupt departure. The last time I saw him was in a dingy motel room, where we spent a desperate night together before he vanished without a trace. His disappearance was calculated and cruel, fueled by his seemingly endless wealth and power. Meanwhile, I was left with nothing but uncertainty and the option to return home to Florida. But Harry's resentment only grew as I hesitated to make a final decision. He wanted me to walk away with no regrets, but real life is messy and complicated - far from the neat and tidy ending he desired.

I was trapped in a prison of a house, held captive by a man who claimed to love me but had truly only created a tangled web of chaos and pain. We forced ourselves into therapy every week, desperate to salvage something from the wreckage he had caused. But even after all the sessions, I still felt like I was drowning in the suffocating grip of his selfishness. It was never enough, and I could feel my sanity slipping away with each passing day.

Evenings rolled into nights and days blurred into months. Each moment seemed agonizingly long as I begged time to fly quicker, to wash away the stale taste of betrayal and deception from my existence. The house that once echoed with laughter and love now felt eerily silent, its walls whispering Teddy's betrayal during the quietest hours. My heart ached in ways I never knew possible, each pulse a reminder of the pain he had caused. 

In a bid for relief, I threw myself into cooking elaborate meals, organising closets, watering the drooping plants Teddy had once loved. Yet every activity was tainted with the memory of him - his laughter rings in my mind as I repeat chores we used to do together. It was a desperate plight to keep myself sane amidst the storm that threatened to break me down.

Teddy's unfaithfulness took its toll on my spirit, but Harry's abandonment shattered me entirely. I played over our last night together again and again in my mind. There was something feral about that night; lust mixed with desperation and an underlying tone of finality. He left without any explanation, disappearing like a ghost only leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne and a raw wound that refused to heal.

The cracks were beginning to show. Laughter seemed forced, smiles rarely reached my eyes. The weekly therapy sessions felt more like an interrogation than relief, talks of my own explicit night replaying session after session. Hours spent scrutinizing every detail of our dysfunctional relationship only amplified my misery. Every shared secret, every stolen glance, every whispered promise – all now seemed meaningless and distorted under the harsh scrutiny of reality.

In the end, it was not Teddy who broke me; it was me who had allowed myself to be broken by him. My judgment clouded by love hindered me from seeing the man he truly was – a master manipulator cloaked in charm and charisma. The truth was painful to accept but liberating in its own cruel way. I was no longer in denial. I was no longer the woman who would bend over backwards to accommodate the whims of unfaithful men. I was stronger than my heartbreak, stronger than their deceit. And most importantly, I learned the toughest lesson of my life – not all love is meant to be cherished; sometimes, it's better left discarded.

As I sat in the therapist's office, the stark white walls closing in around me, my voice cracked as I attempted to verbalize the turmoil within me. "I just don't understand how it got to this point," I admitted, tears threatening to spill over.

Dr. Richards leaned forward, her gentle gaze meeting mine with empathy. "It sounds like you've been through a lot of pain and betrayal," she said softly. "But remember, healing begins with acknowledging the truth."

I nodded, wiping away a stray tear that escaped down my cheek. "I know, but it's so hard to let go of everything that was once so real to me."

Dr. Richards offered a kind smile. "It's okay to feel that way. It's all a part of the process." She paused before continuing, "Have you considered what you need to do to move forward from this?"

I took a deep breath, the weight of the question settling heavily on my shoulders. "I... I think I need to start by forgiving myself for allowing this to happen. For not seeing the signs sooner."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken pain and regret. Dr. Richards reached out and placed a comforting hand on mine. "Forgiveness is a powerful tool, both for yourself and for others," she said gently.

I closed my eyes, trying to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. "But how do I forgive someone who shattered me into a million pieces?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Dr. Richards' voice was steady and reassuring as she replied, "Forgiveness doesn't mean forgetting or excusing their actions. It means releasing the hold they have over your heart and mind."

As I sat there, grappling with the weight of forgiveness, a million thoughts raced through my mind. Dr. Richards' words lingered like a balm on my wounded soul, but the path to healing still seemed daunting.

"I understand that forgiveness is crucial, but how do I even begin to untangle the mess he left behind?" I asked, my voice wavering with uncertainty.

Dr. Richards leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. "It's a process, one step at a time," she said gently. "Start by acknowledging your pain and allowing yourself to feel it without judgment."

Tears welled up in my eyes as I nodded, the emotions swirling inside me threatening to spill over. "It's just so hard to let go of the anger and hurt," I confessed.

She nodded in understanding. "Anger is a natural response to betrayal, but holding onto it only prolongs your pain. Remember, forgiveness is not for his benefit, but for yours."

Her words struck a chord deep within me, resonating with a truth I had been avoiding. "I want to move forward, but I don't know where to begin," I admitted, feeling lost in the sea of my own emotions.

Dr. Richards reached for a tissue and handed it to me with a gentle smile. "Start by being gentle with yourself," she advised. "Forgiveness is a gift you give yourself, a release from the burden of carrying someone else's actions."

I took the tissue gratefully, wiping away my tears as her words sank in. "I never thought of it that way," I murmured, feeling a glimmer of hope amidst the pain.

She gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. "You are stronger than you realize. Forgiveness is not about condoning what he did; it's about setting yourself free from his grip on your heart."

As I sat there, enveloped in Dr. Richards' compassion and wisdom, a sense of peace washed over me. The road to forgiveness may be long and arduous, but with her guidance and my own resilience, perhaps one day I could truly let go and embrace the healing that awaited me.

The following weeks were a whirlwind of emotion, a rollercoaster of highs and lows. I spent many sleepless nights replaying old memories, wrestling with anger and regret. But with each passing day, the burden on my heart felt lighter. I began journaling my thoughts, pouring out my hurt into ink instead of letting it fester within me. And despite the painful contents, there was a strange sort of relief in seeing my emotions spelled out on paper.

"Writing can be therapeutic," Dr. Richards had suggested during one of our sessions. "It provides a safe space to confront your feelings, as raw and as tumultuous as they may be."

Within the quiet sanctuary of my mind and the solitude of my room, I started to delve deeper into myself; into the wounds that had been inflicted upon me and the ones I had unknowingly inflicted upon myself. The process was painful but cathartic. For each tear that fell onto the pages of my journal, there was a tiny piece of pain and bitterness being released.

Days turned into weeks, and slowly but surely, I found myself becoming less consumed by his betrayal and more focused on my healing. I started attending group therapy sessions where I met others who bore similar scars – our shared experiences bound us together in a circle of empathy and understanding.

In those group meetings, I realized that pain was universal but so was resilience. Listening to others narrate their journeys of recovery ignited a spark within me. I saw mirrored in their stories my own strength and determination to rise above the ashes.

One day, while looking at myself in the mirror after another group therapy session, something remarkable happened. Staring back at me was a woman who looked familiar but different—a stronger version of myself; a survivor. My reflection no longer showcased the woman betrayed by love but instead revealed a woman who had found strength amidst despair.

“I am not just a victim,” I whispered to my reflection, the words filling the room with a newfound determination. “I am a survivor.”

The following week in Dr. Richard's office, I found myself recalling this moment with a sense of pride. "I am starting to see changes," I admitted, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

She returned my smile, her eyes filled with warmth and encouragement. "Change is a testament to your strength and resilience," she responded. "You're embracing this journey with courage, learning to forgive not just him, but yourself as well."

Her words felt like a beacon of hope guiding me through the foggy path of recovery. While the pain still lingered like an unforgotten ghost, each day it seemed less potent than before. I was indeed learning to forgive—forgive him for his betrayal and forgive myself for my blindness to his deceit.

As our session ended, I left Dr. Richards' office feeling lighter than when I had come in. With every step away from her office and every step towards home, I was journeying farther from the woman who had allowed herself to be broken by betrayal and closer to the woman who had found strength in her own resilience.

Journaling had become my safe haven, a place where I could pour out my deepest thoughts and emotions without fear of judgment. But that sanctuary was shattered when one day, in a rush to make it to therapy on time, I left my journal open on the bed. My heart stopped when I returned to find Teddy holding it, his eyes scanning the pages filled with my most vulnerable moments. In an instant, my privacy was invaded and my trust was broken.

The tense silence in the room shattered as Teddy's furious voice pierced the air, causing my heart to skip a beat. I watched helplessly as he held my journal in a white-knuckled grip, his eyes scanning the pages with growing anger. "What the actual fuck is this?" he bellowed, his face contorted with rage.

I stood frozen, my mind racing to find the right words to diffuse the escalating situation. "Teddy, please put that down," I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper, but he ignored me, his expression dark and menacing.

With a sharp intake of breath, I lunged forward to grab the journal from his hands, but he deftly sidestepped me. The tension crackled between us like electricity, each heartbeat echoing in the turbulent silence that enveloped the room.

"You've been writing about our sessions? and Harry?" Teddy's voice was laced with accusation, his gaze burning into mine with searing intensity.

I felt a surge of defiance rising within me as I squared my shoulders. "It's none of your business," I shot back, my tone sharper than intended, but I refused to back down in the face of his intrusion.

His jaw clenched as he took a step closer, his towering presence casting a shadow over me. "None of my business? You've been documenting our private moments, our struggles! How you also fucked the neighbor?" His voice rose with each word, reverberating off the walls like thunder in a storm “As if that little fucking photo he sent while fucking you, my wife, wasn’t bad enough”.

I could feel my own anger building, fueled by his violation of my privacy. "You have no right to invade my thoughts like this and last I checked, you were the one who started cheating," I retorted, the words dripping with resentment and hurt.

The atmosphere crackled with tension as we stood locked in a battle of wills, neither willing to yield ground. The air grew thick with unspoken accusations and grievances left festering beneath the surface.

"You think you can just hide behind your journal and play the victim?" Teddy's voice was laced with contempt, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine.

My fists clenched at my sides as a surge of defiance coursed through me. "I am not playing anything! This is my way of coping with everything you've put me through, let’s remember who started this mess," I shot back, my voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside me.

His laugh was harsh and bitter, cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade. "Coping? Is that what you call it? Writing about how I've destroyed you? This is pretty much a sex book." His words were like daggers aimed straight at my heart.

The room seemed to shrink around us as we faced off in this battle of words and wills. Every breath felt heavy with unspoken truths and buried emotions that threatened to erupt like a volcano on the verge of eruption.

"I trusted you," I whispered hoarsely, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes as the weight of his betrayal bore down on me like a crushing weight.

Teddy's expression softened for a fleeting moment before hardening once more. "Trusted me? Look where that got you," he sneered, a cruel twist to his lips betraying the depths of his callousness.

The walls seemed to close in around us as the fight escalated into a tumultuous storm of emotions and accusations. Each word exchanged felt like a blow to an already fractured foundation that threatened to crumble under the weight of our shared pain.

The rumble of thunder outside echoed the turmoil inside as our voices rose in a crescendo of anger and hurt. The room pulsed with an energy so charged it felt as though lightning might strike at any moment, igniting a fire that would consume us both.

"I'm tired of being your punching bag," I declared, my voice firm with newfound resolve.

Teddy's face contorted with fury. "You think you're innocent in all this?" he shot back, his words like venom dripping from his lips.

The air crackled with electricity as we faced off in a battle neither willing to concede. It was a clash of egos and emotions, each word exchanged fueling the fire burning between us.

"I won't be silenced by your guilt-tripping," I retorted, my voice cutting through the charged atmosphere with precision.

Teddy's eyes blazed with rage as he took a step closer, his breath hot against my skin. "Guilt-tripping? You've been playing the victim since day one," he accused, his voice dripping with contempt.

The room seemed on the verge of imploding as our tempers flared and our voices clashed in a symphony of discord. It was a battle of wills and wounded pride, each unwilling to yield ground in this war of words.

"You'll never own up to your mistakes," I accused, my voice tinged with frustration and anger.

Teddy's fists clenched at his sides as he glared at me with unbridled fury. "Mistakes? You're the one who shattered everything we had, we could’ve come back from this. You didn’t have to fuck the first guy you saw!" he roared, his words echoing off the walls like thunder on a stormy night.

The fight raged on like an unrelenting tempest, each word exchanged adding fuel to the fire burning between us. The air crackled with tension as we stood face to face in a battle that threatened to consume us both.

“You know what? I’m done,” I seethed, my voice rising to a fever pitch. "I'll find a place to stay and it sure as hell won't be here!" My fists clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I glared daggers at the person in front of me. The fury coursing through my body threatened to consume me, but I welcomed it, fueled by sheer determination to escape this toxic environment.

I took a deep breath and tried to steady my shaking hands as I dialed Bella's number, she was the first close friend I had made in London. The phone rang for what felt like hours before she finally picked up.

"Hey, Bella. It's me," I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside of me.

"Hey, what's up?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

"I need a place to stay for a while. Can I crash with you?" I blurted out, not wanting to beat around the bush.

Bella didn't hesitate. "Of course! What happened?"

"It's a long story," I replied, tears threatening to spill from my eyes again.

"Don't worry about it. Just come over whenever you're ready," she said reassuringly.

I thanked her and hung up the phone before splashing some cold water on my face in an attempt to compose myself. Taking one last look at myself in the mirror, I unlocked the bathroom door and made my way back to the living room.

Teddy was nowhere in sight, probably still seething from our argument. I quickly grabbed my backpack and stuffed some clothes and toiletries inside before heading out the door.

The fresh air outside helped clear my mind as I made my way towards Bella's house. As much as I wanted to stay strong and not let Teddy get to me, his words still stung like open wounds.

I couldn't believe how things had escalated so quickly between us. We used to be inseparable, but now it seemed like we were nothing but strangers living under the same roof.

My thoughts were interrupted as I arrived at Bella's house. She greeted me with open arms and led me inside as Bella and I settled down on her cozy couch, surrounded by the warmth of her living room, she handed me a mug of hot tea. The familiar scent of chamomile filled the air, soothing my frayed nerves.

"So, spill it. What happened between you and Teddy?" Bella asked gently, her eyes reflecting genuine concern.

I took a sip of the tea, feeling its comforting warmth seep into my bones. "It's just... we had another one of those fights about the cheating. The same patterns repeating over and over again. I don't think we can fix this anymore," I admitted, feeling a heavy weight lift off my chest with each word spoken.

Bella nodded knowingly, her empathy palpable. "Sometimes things reach a point where they can't be salvaged, no matter how much we try. It's okay to walk away if it's for your own well-being," she reassured me, her words like a balm to my wounded spirit.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I gazed at my friend, grateful for her unwavering support. "I just feel lost, you know? Like I don't even recognize myself anymore in all of this chaos," I whispered, the vulnerability raw in my voice.

Bella reached out and squeezed my hand reassuringly. "You're not alone in this. You have people who care about you, who want to see you happy and thriving. And remember, sometimes in letting go, we find the strength to rebuild ourselves," she offered with a gentle smile.

Her words resonated deep within me, a glimmer of hope flickering in the darkness that had clouded my heart. I wiped away the tears that had escaped and mustered a small smile in return.

"Thank you, Bella. For everything," I expressed sincerely, feeling a sense of gratitude wash over me for having such a supportive friend by my side.

The early morning light blazed through my window, a stark reminder of the emptiness that awaited me. With a heavy heart, I resolved to find a job, anything to fill the void left by my crumbling marriage. But even as I searched for employment opportunities, my thoughts kept drifting back to Harry. My desperation to know how he was doing gnawed at me like a festering wound, but there was no way to reach out and ask. As I sat in silence, I couldn't help but imagine the different path my life could have taken if I had chosen Harry over Teddy. The image of us together haunted me, a cruel reminder of what could've been. But now it was too late, and there was no turning back from the pain and regret that consumed me.

My fingers danced across the keys of my laptop, typing and retyping cover letters and resumes. The monotony of each hopeful submission echoed the emptiness in my heart, seemingly endless echoes spiraling into a void. To distract myself, I brewed a strong cup of coffee, the familiar smell offering an odd comfort in the chaos that was now my life.

As the day wore on, my efforts bore no fruit. Each potential employer remained a stranger to me, their responses automated and cold. As darkness began to creep into the room, a sense of defeat washed over me and I closed my laptop with a sigh.

I poured myself another cup of coffee, this time opting for the solitude of the balcony to nurse it. The city below shimmered with life just as it always did, indifferent to the turmoil of one seemingly insignificant inhabitant. Despite the layers of concrete and glass that separated us, I felt strangely connected to those anonymous lights - distant beacons in the abyss.

A haunting melody wafted up from somewhere far below, a soulful duet between an old saxophone and an even older piano. The notes danced through the fragmented night air, weaving stories of love lost and found again. Each note was a phantom whispering bittersweet tales into my ear.

Just then, an unexpected sound cut through my thoughts - the shrill ringtone of my phone nudged me back into reality. My heart clenched as I saw Teddy's name flash across the screen. He hadn't called since our fallout; what could he possibly want now? Nervously biting my lip, I answered it. On the other end of the line Teddy’s voice trembled with an emotion I couldn’t quite place; regret perhaps—or was it desperation?

My heart raced as I hung up and blocked Teddy's number. It was a small act of defiance, of reclaiming control over my life. But in that moment, it felt powerful.

I took a deep breath and leaned against the balcony railing, feeling the cold metal press against my cheek. It was a reminder that I was still here, still alive despite the pain and chaos swirling within me.

But even as I tried to convince myself that cutting off all contact with Teddy was for the best, doubts crept into my mind. What if he really did want to talk? What if he wanted to apologize and make things right?

I pushed those thoughts away, refusing to let them cloud my judgement. I couldn't afford to let him back into my life, not when I was finally starting to move on.

With new determination, I went back inside and resumed my job search. As midnight approached and exhaustion began to take hold, I allowed myself a moment of weakness and checked my email one last time.

A spark of hope ignited within me as I read the email from my job recruiter. It informed me that there was a hiring event happening downtown tomorrow and I had been invited to attend. My heart raced with excitement - this could be my chance to finally land a job.

I quickly confirmed my attendance and began mentally preparing for the event. As much as I hated the thought of going out into the world and facing potential rejection, I knew it was something I had to do.

The next morning, after meticulously picking out an outfit and rehearsing what I would say, I set out for downtown. The bustling streets were a chaotic blend of people rushing to work and tourists taking in the sights. As I walked among them, a sense of anonymity washed over me - just another face in the crowd.

Eventually, I reached the building where the hiring event was taking place. After taking a deep breath, I stepped inside and made my way towards the designated area.

The event was packed with job seekers like myself, all eager for a chance at employment. Despite my nerves, I felt emboldened by their determination and pushed forward to talk to employers.

One after another, I introduced myself and handed out resumes with practiced ease. Some showed interest while others dismissed me without a second glance. But instead of feeling defeated by rejection, I soldiered on with renewed purpose.

Hours passed in this manner until finally, just as hope began to wane, someone took notice of me. It was an HR rep from one of the top companies in town, Pleasing.

My heart pounded as I realized this could potentially lead me down the path to seeing Harry again. But I quickly pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the present moment.

The HR rep from Pleasing seemed impressed by my credentials and asked me to come in for an interview the following day. I couldn't believe it - this was exactly the opportunity I had been waiting for.

As I walked out of the hiring event, my mind raced with excitement and nerves. Part of me couldn't help but wonder if Harry still lived in the area, but I quickly shut down that line of thinking. It didn't matter - all that mattered was that I had a chance at a job.

The next day, I arrived at Pleasing's office early, dressed in my best professional attire. The receptionist greeted me with a smile and directed me to the HR department.

I shook myself out of my reverie as the HR rep called me into their office for the interview. Despite my nerves, I answered their questions confidently and highlighted my experience and skills.

As the interview progressed, I could feel the HR rep becoming more and more impressed. The questions became increasingly challenging, but I faced them head-on, demonstrating my knowledge and quick decision-making abilities. 

Slowly, the discussion moved on to my potential role in Pleasing and how I saw myself contributing to the company's future. Here, I outlined a comprehensive plan that included innovation, team synergy, and a commitment to meeting corporate objectives. The HR rep listened attentively, occasionally interjecting to clarify or probe deeper into my responses.

The interview concluded on a positive note and I was told that they would get back to me in a week's time. As I left the building, I felt a sense of accomplishment but there was also an underlying excitement - the possibility of crossing paths with Harry and being able to leave Bella’s to find my own flat.

A week passed in a blur of anticipation and anxiety, each day inching closer to the call from Pleasing. When it eventually came through, my heart skipped a beat. They were pleased with my performance during the interview and wanted me on board.

And so began my journey with Pleasing - a journey that was filled with arduous tasks, demanding projects, and incredible opportunities for growth. The work environment was fast-paced but rewarding, pushing me to work harder each day.

One afternoon, a couple of months into my role at Pleasing, I saw him from afar. It was Harry - my former neighbor and one night stand. He looked just as I remembered him: sharp-witted and focused in his tailored suit, there was an air of high authority about him.

My heart raced as I watched him stride through the office, making his way towards the executive level. Memories of our time together flooded back to me - the late nights he spent on top of me, the way he felt, the way he touched me, how he smelt expensive.

Lost in my thoughts, I suddenly realized that I needed to find a way to meet with him. But how? As a junior employee, I didn't have easy access to top executives like him.

Determined not to let this opportunity pass me by, I approached my manager and asked if there was any way I could have a meeting with Mr. Styles. She gave me a skeptical look but promised to see what she could do.

A few days later, she called me into her office with a smile on her face. "I spoke to Mr. Styles' assistant and they have agreed to give you 15 minutes next week," she said excitedly.

My heart skipped a beat at the thought of seeing Harry again after all this time. But what would I say? What would he think of me now?

The day of the meeting arrived and I nervously made my way up to the executive level. As soon as I stepped into Mr. Styles' office, my nerves disappeared - it felt like no time had passed between us at all.

As I cautiously entered his dark office, my heart pounded in my chest. The scent of tobacco and whiskey filled the air, mingling with the intense aura emanating from Harry's piercing green eyes. I could feel his gaze burning into me as I made my way to a chair by his desk.

"Y/N," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I saw the name and couldn't believe it was you, bloody hell."

A chill ran down my spine at the iciness in his tone. Memories flooded back of our tumultuous past, the love and betrayal that had torn us apart. But now, standing in front of him again, I couldn't deny the powerful pull that still existed between us.

"Harry," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's been a while."

He leaned back in his chair, studying me with an intensity that made my insides churn. "Indeed it has, Y/N," he remarked, his eyes never leaving mine. "I must say, I never expected to see you here."

I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, feeling the weight of unspoken history hanging between us. "I didn't expect to be here either," I admitted, my voice tinged with a hint of regret.

He raised an eyebrow, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face. "And yet fate has a funny way of bringing people back together, doesn't it?"

I nodded, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside me - longing, apprehension, and a spark of unresolved desire. "It seems that way," I said softly.

Harry leaned forward slightly, his expression softening imperceptibly. "Tell me, Y/N," he began, his voice quieter now. "What have you been up to since we last crossed paths?"

I took a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts amidst the whirlwind of emotions his presence evoked. "Well," I started hesitantly, "I've been working here at Pleasing. It's been challenging but rewarding."

A flicker of interest sparked in his eyes. "Impressive." He paused for a moment before continuing, his tone contemplative. "And what made you seek out a meeting with me today?"

I met his gaze squarely, steeling myself against the vulnerability creeping in. "I wanted to reconnect," I confessed quietly. "To clear the air and maybe... find closure."

Harry regarded me thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again. "Closure," he echoed softly. "Perhaps that's something we both need. And Teddy?"

My eyes drop to the ground, avoiding his penetrating gaze. "It's a messy situation, but I had to leave. I've been crashing at my friend Bella's place until I can scrape together enough money for a divorce."

His voice drips with insinuation and I feel my skin prickle with unease. "Oh, how convenient," he sneers. "I knew eventually you would come to your senses, although I thought our night together would have been enough to break you free." My stomach churns at his words.

The atmosphere in the room grew heavy with unspoken tension as their words hung in the air like charged lightning bolts ready to strike.

"You had no right to think that one night could define me or my decisions." I spat.

Harry's eyes flashed with a mix of surprise and something darker as my words cut through the tension between us. "And what right did you have to enter my life again after all this time, Y/N?" he countered sharply, his jaw clenched in frustration.

I squared my shoulders, meeting his challenging gaze head-on. "I didn't come here seeking your approval, Harry," I retorted, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. "I came for myself, to find closure and move on."

He leaned forward, his expression unreadable as he studied me intently. "Closure," he repeated, the word hanging heavily between us. "Is that truly what you need? Or is there something else driving you here?"

A flicker of vulnerability crossed my features before I could stop it, and I felt exposed under his piercing scrutiny. "Maybe it's both," I admitted quietly, feeling the weight of years of unresolved emotions pressing down on me.

Harry's gaze softened slightly, a hint of understanding creeping into his eyes. "I see," he murmured, a touch of regret coloring his tone. "Perhaps we both have demons to face before we can truly move forward."

I nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth in his words. "Maybe so," I agreed, a sense of resignation settling over me. "But facing them together might be easier than doing it alone."

Silence enveloped us for a moment, broken only by the sound of our breathing mingling in the charged atmosphere of the room. Finally, Harry spoke again, his voice softer now. "I never stopped thinking about you, Y/N," he confessed quietly. "Despite everything that happened between us."

My heart clenched at his words, memories flooding back with a force that left me breathless. "I never forgot you either," I whispered, a bittersweet ache settling in my chest.

A myriad of emotions played across Harry's features - longing, regret, and something else I couldn't quite decipher. "Then perhaps we owe it to ourselves to confront the past and see where it leads us, Pleasing has a nice legal plan I can lend to you for a divorce." he suggested tentatively.

I met his gaze, seeing a glimmer of hope reflected in those intense green eyes that had once been my undoing. "Maybe we do," I agreed softly, a sense of anticipation stirring within me.

I stood outside the courtroom, my heart racing with a mix of nerves and anticipation. Today was the day I had been waiting for - the day I could finally end this marriage and start a new chapter in my life. But as I took a deep breath and stepped inside, my eyes were immediately drawn to the sight of Teddy sitting at a table with his lawyer, confidently flipping through some papers.

Next to him sat Rosie, her perfectly styled hair and expensive outfit standing out like a sore thumb among the drab courtroom surroundings. She smiled smugly in my direction as if she knew something I didn't, and suddenly all my confidence wavered.

My lawyer squeezed my hand reassuringly as we walked towards our side of the court, but I couldn't help feeling like an underdog in this battle. How had Teddy managed to go back to Rosie so quickly while still begging for me just a few weeks earlier? And how long had this been going on?

As we began the proceedings, I listened half-heartedly as their lawyer presented their case - painting me as an unfit wife who refused to support her husband's successful career. The lies stung, but I held back from speaking out.

It wasn't until it was my turn to speak that I found my voice. My lawyer had prepared a strong case for me - highlighting all of Teddy's infidelities and emotional abuse throughout our marriage. As I spoke about his controlling behavior and manipulation tactics, Rosie's smug expression faltered.

But when it was time for Teddy to speak, he denied everything with such conviction that even I started doubting myself. His words were smooth and calculated, painting me as an unstable woman who couldn't handle his success.

I felt my anger bubbling up inside me - how dare he twist the truth like this? But before I could say anything, Rosie jumped in with her own version of events. She talked about how supportive Teddy had been during their brief affair, and how I was just a jealous ex who couldn't move on.

As Rosie spoke, her words felt like sharp knives twisting in my chest. The betrayal and deceit were too much to bear, she was the one who was sleeping with my husband. I clenched my fists, trying to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. But then, a familiar voice cut through the tense atmosphere.

"Objection, Your Honor!"

I turned to see my lawyer standing up, his expression firm and determined. "These allegations are baseless and unsubstantiated. My client has provided ample evidence of Mr. Teddy's infidelity and emotional abuse. I request that these false claims be stricken from the record."

The judge nodded solemnly, looking at Teddy and Rosie with a steely gaze. "I will not tolerate false accusations in my courtroom. Stick to the facts."

Teddy shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. Rosie, on the other hand, remained composed, a smug smile playing on her lips.

"I have evidence that will prove my client's case, Your Honor," she declared confidently. "I request permission to present it."

The judge nodded again, signaling for Rosie to proceed. She stood up gracefully, producing a stack of papers from her briefcase.

"These documents show that Mr. Teddy was out of town on the dates in question," she began, flipping through the pages with ease. "He could not have been at the locations alleged by Mrs. Y/N."

I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Could it be true? Had I been mistaken all along? Her proof was just texts from Teddy to her saying he was out of town. Which proves nothing, if anything it was more incriminating.

But then, just as doubt started to creep in, a sudden realization hit me like a bolt of lightning.

"Your Honor," I interrupted, my voice trembling but resolute. "I have proof that Mr. Teddy and Ms. Rosie colluded to fabricate alibis and deceive me. They were working together against me all along."

The courtroom fell into stunned silence as I presented the evidence that exposed their treachery. Teddy's face drained of color, while Rosie's mask of composure finally cracked.

"I-I can explain," Teddy stammered, but it was too late.

The judge slammed his gavel down with finality. "Case closed. Divorce granted in favor of Mrs. Y/N. You are to pay her a monthly settlement of alimony."

As I walked out of the courtroom, a weight lifted off my shoulders. It was finally over - the lies, the betrayal, the manipulation. I could start anew with a sense of freedom and clarity.

And as I glanced back one last time at Teddy and Rosie, their faces twisted with defeat, I knew that justice had been served. 

Waiting outside of the courtroom was Harry with a grin, he did a sassy wave to Rosie and Teddy.

"Congratulations, Y/N," Harry said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and kissing the top of my forehead. "You did it."

I couldn't help but smile, feeling a sense of relief and satisfaction wash over me. "I couldn't have done it without you, Harry. Thank you for everything."

"Always, love," he replied with a gentle smile.

As we walked out of the courthouse hand in hand, I couldn't help but feel grateful for having Harry by my side. 

"I'm so glad this is all over," I said with a sigh, leaning into him as we reached his car.

"Yeah, me too," he agreed, unlocking the door and helping me inside before making his way to the driver's seat.

As we drove away from the courthouse, I couldn't help but feel a sense of closure. My marriage may have ended in betrayal and deceit but now I was free to move on and start over.

"So what's next for you?" Harry asked as we drove through the city streets.

“ I think we should celebrate.” I looked at him with a playful smile.

"Celebrate?" Harry raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "And what did you have in mind for this celebration, Mrs. Y/N?"

I grinned mischievously, leaning over to gently tap his knee. "Oh, nothing too wild. Maybe just a quiet dinner for two at a cozy little bistro."

"A quiet dinner, hmm?" Harry's smirk grew wider. "And what about later, when we're no longer 'quiet'? Any ideas for that celebration?"

"Well," I purred, eyeing him up and down playfully. "That all depends on how good of a date you turn out to be."

"I'll have you know," he countered confidently, "that I'm an excellent date."

"Oh really? And what sort of things do excellent dates do to impress their partners?" I challenged him with a teasing glint in my eye.

Harry chuckled softly before leaning closer to me. "I believe the key to impressing you, love," he whispered against my ear, sending shivers down my spine, "lies somewhere between your pasta and your dessert."

"And exactly how do you plan on pulling that off?" I asked skeptically but with undeniable curiosity piqued within me. 

"Oh," he smirked wickedly as he brushed a strand of hair away from my face. "I'm sure I can come up with something...tasty."

We arrived at the bistro and Harry led me inside, his hand resting on my lower back. The smell of freshly baked bread and spices filled my nostrils as we were greeted by the friendly hostess. She guided us to a cozy booth in the corner of the restaurant before handing us each a menu.

As we perused through the options, I couldn't help but feel grateful for this moment with Harry. Despite the chaos that had been my life recently, he was there to make me smile and forget about all my worries. I was grateful to be able to be like this with him.

"You know," Harry said, breaking the comfortable silence between us, "I haven't had a proper date night in ages."

I smiled at him. Soon after the waiter came to take our orders and after much deliberation, we settled on sharing a few appetizers and ordering our own entrees. As we waited for our food to arrive, Harry reached across the table to take hold of my hand.

"I'm proud of you," he said sincerely, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. "You handled everything with grace and strength."

I felt tears welling up in my eyes at his words. It meant so much to have Harry's support and encouragement through everything I had been going through.

"Thank you," I replied softly, unable to find any other words to express how much his words meant to me.

Our food arrived shortly after and we dug into our dishes with enthusiasm. We laughed and joked as we shared bites of each other's meals, savoring every moment together.

After dinner, Harry insisted on treating me to dessert at a nearby ice cream shop. We walked through the bustling streets hand in hand, enjoying each other's company in the warm summer night.

As we sat on a bench outside the shop, enjoying our ice cream. 

My voice trembles as I stare at Harry, regret and guilt weighing heavily on my chest. "I should've left Teddy that night after the motel," I confess, tears welling up in my eyes. "But I was scared. Scared of losing my residency, scared of facing my family's disappointment. I thought I could endure it for a while longer, or that he would be the one to leave first." My words choke in my throat, coming out as a desperate plea for forgiveness.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," I continue, my voice shaking. "I never meant to hurt you or lead you on. I was just...lost and confused."

Harry's expression softens as he takes in my words. He reaches out to brush away a tear that falls from my eye.

"You don't have to apologize, love," he says gently. "I understand why you stayed with him. But I wish you had told me sooner."

The guilt bubbles up inside of me, threatening to drown me in its heavy weight. How could I have been so blind and selfish? How could I have hurt someone who cared?

"I'll make it right, Harry," I promise him, wiping away the tears from my cheeks.

Harry's eyes light up with hope as he grasps my hand tightly.

"We'll face this together," he says firmly, determination evident in his voice.

And just like that, the burden on my shoulders feels a little bit lighter knowing that I have Harry by my side.

"It's okay," he whispers soothingly, kissing the top of my head. "You did the right thing.”

We finish our ice cream in comfortable silence before heading back to Harry's flat.

"Can I ask you something?" I say, breaking the silence.

"Of course," Harry replies, squeezing my hand reassuringly.

"Why did you never tell me your feelings before?" I ask, feeling a little hesitant.

Harry pauses for a moment before answering. "I didn't want to pressure you or make things awkward between us," he admits. "I wanted you to be happy and if that meant staying with Teddy, then I accepted it. So I left, I couldn’t see you in that situation."

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I realize just how selfless and understanding Harry has always been despite his hardened appearence. He truly cares.

"I'm sorry for being so blind," I say softly.

"It's okay," Harry reassures me. "We all make mistakes."

My heart was pounding as we entered the safety of his flat, my senses heightened by the lingering scent of his cologne. Our fingers traced each other's as he deftly made two cups of steaming tea, every touch sending sparks dancing up my arm.

"Would you like a touch of cream?" Harry asked seductively, a teasing smile playing along his lips. His sultry voice sent trepidating waves through me, igniting an insatiable desire that twisted in my belly.

The sight of him leaning casually against the kitchen counter, bathed in soft light, stirred a primal need within me. I watched as he poured a dash of cream into my cup. The way it swirled and mingled with the dark liquid mirrored our own dance - two intricate beings melding to form something far more tantalizing. 

"Thank you," I murmured, accepting the warm mug from his hand. My fingers brushed against his, eliciting a delicate shiver that rippled down my spine. "I couldn't have asked for anyone better..."

As we navigated our way towards the plush sofa, our bodies brushed together, the heat between us flaring like a bonfire on a cold night. The taste of our shared dinner still lingered on our tongues as we sipped on our teas; notes of cocoa and warm spices cascading over our taste buds.

He leaned back onto the couch, pulling me with him until I was nestled comfortably against his side. A silence fell upon us as we enjoyed our drinks; comfortable and yet teeming with an unspoken promise of what was to come.

"There's no rush," Harry purred into my ear, allowing his fingers to trace lazy circles around my wrist. His hot breath fanned out across my heated skin, setting off tremors beneath my flesh. "Let's just enjoy this moment."

His words washed over me like scalding water, igniting a yearning that threatened to consume us both. I finished my tea swiftly, setting the empty cup on the coffee table before turning back to Harry.

"Harry," I breathed out, staring into his deep emerald eyes. They were dark with desire, a mirror of my own want. "I want you...now."

With those words, our evening took on an entirely new flavor - one more intimate and fervently carnal than the most decadent dessert. And as I let go of all inhibitions and allowed myself to drown in Harry's love- the guilt and fear felt like distant memories.

Where there had been tears earlier now blossomed laughter and sighs of pleasure, echoing off the walls of Harry's flat. The heat between us couldn't be contained within mere cups of tea. It was a passionate flame that ignited every sense, searing through every inch of our bodies as we began to explore each other with newfound fervor and desperation.

The room seemed to shrink as my words echoed around us. I could feel myself growing wetter by the second, my heart pounding in anticipation of what was to come. Without another word, he stood up and pulled me close, our bodies pressing tightly against each other.

My hands found their way to his strong shoulders, digging into his skin as he claimed my lips once more. I moaned deeply into the kiss, tasting the tea we just drank on his tongue as he explored every inch of my mouth. His hands traveled down my back, over my ass cheeks, until they reached the hem of my dress.

I gasped as he lifted me off the ground with ease, carrying me towards the bedroom. My legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him closer still. As we entered the room he kicked the door shut behind us, locking us in together.

As he backed me towards the bed, his cock growing hard, he paused to look down at me. His eyes dark and hungry as he took in the scene laid out before him. "You look so fucking sexy like this," he growled out, his voice rough with desire. I moaned in response, my fingers curling into the sheets beneath us as he lowered me onto the mattress.

His lips trailed hot kisses down my jawline and across my collarbone before moving southward. He nipped at my sensitive flesh while his hands explored every inch of my body, tracing patterns around my tits through the lace fabric of my bra. My breath hitched as his warm mouth hovered over my nipples, making them stand at attention.

"Please," I whispered, arching into him as he teased one of my hardened nubs between his fingers and thumb. His tongue circled around it before finally drawing it into his mouth, sucking on it with such force that I cried out in pleasure.

He pulled away slightly, looking down at me with a smirk that made my stomach do flips. "I'm going to fuck you so good, baby girl." His eyes bore into mine as he slowly undid his pants, revealing his already hard cock straining against his boxers. My mouth watered at the sight of him; all 8 inches of thickness glistening with pre-cum that reflected the light in the room.

I reached up to grab his shirt, pulling him down towards me as I wrapped my legs around his waist again. He groaned into the kiss, deepening it as he lowered himself onto the bed between my spread legs. His teeth grazed against my bottom lip before trailing hot kisses down my neck and chest.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath as he reached behind me to undo the clasp holding together my bra. It fell away from me revealing puckered nipples begging for attention which he eagerly obliged by taking one into his mouth while pinching the other between two fingers causing tiny whimpers to escape from deep within me. 

His lips trailed down my stomach, stopping momentarily to press kisses to my belly button before continuing their journey south. I shivered with anticipation as his fingers hooked into the sides of my lace panties, pulling them down and off of me in one swift motion.

He took a moment to admire me, spread out before him, completely exposed and vulnerable. His gaze traveled over every inch of me, causing goosebumps to rise on my skin.

"God, you're beautiful," he murmured, before diving back in between my legs. His tongue flicked against my clit sending shockwaves of pleasure through me. I gripped onto the sheets tighter as he continued to tease and lick at my most sensitive spot.

I could feel myself getting closer and closer to the edge, his expert mouth bringing me to the brink. Just when I thought I couldn't take it any longer, he pulled away with a smirk on his face.

"Not yet," he said huskily, crawling back up towards me. He kissed me hard on the lips while positioning himself between my legs. I felt his tip brush against my entrance and I lifted my hips in response.

The room around us was hazy from the scent of our arousal, and I couldn't help but feel like I was in a dream as he continued to tease me. With every lick and nip, his touch sent shockwaves of pleasure through me. My body arched off the bed in response to his expert ministrations, my breasts pressed against his strong chest.

"You taste so fucking good," he groaned, his voice dark and rough with need. His hands slid up my thighs, teasingly close to my aching desire before moving away again. It was driving me crazy!

"Please," I begged him. "I can't take much more."

He chuckled deep in his throat, the sound sending shivers down my spine. "Oh, you think you can handle me?" He leaned down and flicked his tongue gently over my clitoris again, making me gasp in surprise at the intense sensation. "We'll see about that."

I couldn't believe how turned on I was by his dominance. As he continued to tease me, I imagined what it would be like to fully submit to him—to let him take control of my body and pleasure me however he saw fit. It was terrifying yet exhilarating all at once.

It felt like hours (or maybe just minutes?) before he finally eased himself into me, filling me up with his thick cock. I gasped at the sudden intrusion but moaned in delight as he began to move slowly inside me. Every thrust sent violent shudders through my body as we found our rhythm together—his hard and demanding possessions; mine willingly given submission underneath him amidst silk pillows and warm blankets scattered across the sheets beneath us.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into me, wanting more, needing more. His hands gripped onto my hips, holding me in place as he continued to thrust into me with increasing speed and force.

I could feel the pleasure building inside of me, growing and swelling until it was almost unbearable. My nails dug into his back as I cried out his name, consumed by the intensity of our union.

He leaned down and captured my lips in a fiery kiss that only added fuel to the fire burning between us. Our bodies moved together in perfect synchronization, reaching higher levels of ecstasy with each passing moment.

The bed rocked beneath us as we gave into pure primal desire. He was an unstoppable force, taking everything from me and giving it back tenfold.

"Fuck," he groaned against my lips, his voice thick with need. "You're so tight."

"Oh, God," I moaned, my toes curling against the sheets. "Don't stop."

He didn't listen to me of course; instead, he continued to pound into me relentlessly, driving me towards the edge again and again until I couldn't take it anymore. My orgasm crashed over me like a tidal wave, consuming every ounce of my being and leaving me shaking in its wake. He followed close behind with a muffled groan as he spilled himself inside of me. He collapsed on top of me, both of us gasping for breath as we came down from our high.

We lay there tangled together for a few moments before he rolled off of me onto his side. He pulled me against him, his arm wrapped tightly around my waist.

"Wow," I finally managed to say.

We lay there panting for several minutes afterward, our heartbeats echoing in our ears above everything else around us.

Finally, he disentangled himself from me and collapsed next to me on the bed, both of us spent and covered in a sheen of sweat.

"Fuck," he breathed out as he ran a hand through his damp hair.

"That was..." I trailed off unable to find the words to describe the intensity of our union.

He let out a bitter, exhausted chuckle laced with satisfaction. "I swore I'd never marry again, but if this is what life could be like on a regular basis, I may have to reconsider," he muttered through gritted teeth. The thought of committing himself again brought a surge of both fear and longing, but for the first time in years, he felt alive.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the landscape, he turned to me with a mix of vulnerability and determination in his eyes. "I never thought I'd find someone who could make me question my own convictions," he said softly, reaching out to gently touch my hand.

I looked back at him, her own eyes filled with understanding and a hint of mischief. "Maybe it's time to rewrite those old promises," I suggested, a smile playing on my lips.

A sense of peace settled over him as he realized that maybe, just maybe, he was ready to take a chance on love once more. With a hopeful heart and a newfound sense of purpose, he whispered, "Maybe it is." 

As the last rays of sunlight slipped beneath the horizon, their eyes locked and they both felt an electric current surge through their bodies. It was a sign that their journey together was just starting and would be filled with endless twists and turns, but they were ready for the challenge.

[justmymindandstuff]

welcome home soldier -Robb Stark x WifeReader

summary: Your husband Robb Stark defeats the Lannister army in the Battle of the Whispering Wood. His first real battle. But the only thing he could think about was you and that he might never see you again. You gladly welcome him back into your arms.

words: 3.160

warnings: angst, talk about battles, blood and death, smut, MDNI (18+)

a/n: Robb Stark lives rentfree in my head. I will never get over him// English is not my first language //no beta// A03

Hope you like it

requests are open // main-masterlist // GoT-masterlist

Restlessly, you pace back and forth in your tent. Hot anxiety burns into your stomach and does not let you rest for a single second.

"Lady Stark. You should get some sleep," your guard sounds a bit concerned while his watchful gaze never leaves you.

"I will sleep when my lord husband is back beside me," you snap at him.

Robb hat left twenty-five men here with you. To protect you and bring you back to Winterfell, if something happened to him. Just the thought that he might die brings tears to your eyes.

Was the kiss you gave him before he rode into battle the last one you will ever share? Was it the last time you saw his blue eyes? Was it the last time you heard his warm voice? "I will be back soon, my sweet girl." Gods, please bring him back to me. You chew on your bloody nail bed as you pace back and forth. You listen outside. Waiting for war drums or the trumpeting of a horn that announces their return. The sun is slowly rising again, and the fear within you grows with each passing minute.

Is it normal for it to take so long? Should you have heard something? Is Robb still alive? You wish you had an answer to at least one of these questions. But this is Robb's first real battle. This is the real war. With real consequences. And the real death.

As you took Robb as your husband at Goodswood and he draped the cloak around your shoulders, you never thought you would someday be sitting in a war camp waiting for him to return from battle.

He will come back, won't he? The thought makes you feel sick. You stop, take a deep breath, and sink to your knees. You close your eyes and begin a new round of prayers to the old gods. If you just pray desperately enough, they must listen, right? There are no weirwood trees here, how can the gods hear you if they have no ears here? You shake off the thought and focus on your prayer.

But it doesn't take long before you hear loud shouts from outside. Immediately, you are on your feet and running.

"Lady Stark, we don't know…." your guard tries to hold you back, but you pay him no mind and storm into the cold morning. The sunlight briefly blinds you, but after you blink you see the Stark banners on the horizon, drawing closer. They are back.

But has Robb returned with them?

The army is approaching quickly and you now recognize the faces of the banner bearers, but you pay them no attention. You just want to see Robb's face. Your eyes search over the front row of men. You see Grey Wind and at his side, Robb. Your gaze meets his a wave of relief washes over you and tears of joy streaming down your cheeks. You close your eyes for a moment and send a prayer of thanks to all the gods of this world.

The noise around you swells as the soldiers stream into the camp. But you ignore them all, your gaze fixed on Robb. He recognizes you and his lips curl into a smile. You run towards Robb. He dismounts his horse, the mud splattering lightly over his boots as he lands on the ground. When you reach him, you crash into his arms. His Armor feels cold and hard, the dirt and dust clinging to him ruin your dress, b ut it doesn't matter to you. Robb's arms wrap around you in a bone-crushing embrace as he pulls you close. You snuggle into him. He smells of sweat, blood, and death, but you don't care.

"Hello my sweet girl," he whispers into your hair. When you hear his warm voice a shiver runs through your bod, and you let out a relieved sob. "hey hey hey." he slightly moves away from you to look you in the face. "Don't cry."

Your gaze sweeps over his face, it's a bit dirty, there's a scratch above his eyebrow but otherwise you can't see any injuries.

"You are alive," you say. "You've come back. Are you hurt?"

He laughs softly. "Yes, I have come back. I will always come back to you.” Robb gently wipes the tears from your cheek. “Just a few bruises.” He lets his hand rest on your cheek and leans down to you. His lips meet yours, the kiss tasting slightly salty from your tears. You are surprised by the intensity of the kiss. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close to you. Breathless you pull away from each other after a moment and Robb leans his forehead against yours. His eyes never leave yours.

"I was so scared for you," you whisper.

"I was scared too," he whispers so softly that you can barely understand him.

You reach for his hand and only now notice that he is slightly trembling. He closes his fingers around yours. You notice how tears gather in his eyes, but he blinks them away. He can not cry here. Not in front of his men. You scratch the sweaty curls in his neck to calm him down a bit.

"Do I get a welcome kiss too?" Theon's voice pulls you both out of your little world. You look over at him, he also seems exhausted but uninjured.

"Gladly, if you're ready to take my husband's sword through your heart afterwards," you reply to him with a slight smile. You are glad that he is unharmed. You release Robb and pull Theon into an embrace. "It's nice to see you."

"What a happy little family you Starks are." at the mocking voice of Jaime Lannister you flinch. You look at the Kingslayer, who is being led through the camp in chains. He looks miserable and defeated. Only the arrogant smile of the golden lion who not so long ago rode through the gates of Winterfell has remained.

"Lock him away." Robb uses his Lord Stark voice as he gives his command and his men drag the prisoner away.

"You have captured the kingslaye,” you say incredulously.

"Yes." Robbs hand finds yours again and he pulls you a little closer to his side.

"What do you plan to do with him?" you ask. Robb's jaw tightens slightly. He would love to chop off his head, you know that. But he can't do that. Not as long as the Lannisters have Ned, Sansa, and Arya as hostages.

"I don't know yet," Robb replies quietly.

"Let's think about it later. Now you need a bath and sleep.” you order, trying to adopt his commanding tone.

"As you command, sweet girl. But first I have to make sure the Kingslayer is well guarded. Can you do me a favor?”

“Everything.” you answer.

“Please make sure that the injured are adequately cared for."

"Of course." you say, squeezing his hand and standing on you tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on the lips. You turn to leave and your hand slips out of his. You immediately notice how you are getting a little restless again. But you straighten your shoulders. He is Lord Stark and you must be Lady Stark now.

"Grey Wind." you hear Robb behind you and the next moment the Direwolf presses his wet, warm snout into your palm. Flanked by the wolf, you get to work.

When you later return to your tent with Grey Wind at your side, the camp has gotten a little quieter. You feel the sleepless night catching up on you.

Robb has taken off his armor, his curls are still a little damp from his bath. When you enter, he looks up. His eyes look tired, but he still smiles at you. Grey Wind's large body scurries past you as the wolf lies down on his blanket next to the entrance. You walk the few steps to Robb. On the way you take a cup of wine and hand it to him. You notice how his whole body slightly trembles as the tension of the battle finally falls away from him and he finds a bit of peace. He takes a few deep breaths and drowns his cup.

"Your guard said you haven't slept." it's not a reproach, he sounds a bit worried.

"Did you really think I could find sleep while you ride into battle?"

"Don't you have any faith in my war skills, wife?" he asks with a slight smile.

"The greatest faith my dear husband" you reply. "But I have only contempt for our enemies and fear that they will take you away from me."

Robb reaches for your hips and pulls you closer to him. You place your hand on his chest, you can feel his heartbeat. Nothing ever made you happier than the steady pounding in his chest.

"No one can ever take me away from you," he says his voice trembling slightly. It sounds like a promise. But you know that he might not be able to keep that promise. From his look, you can see that he knows it too. Tears well up in your eyes.

"I was so scared," you whisper softly.

"I know. I was scared too." Robb buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. You snuggle into his arms. "The kingslayer. He screamed for me and slaughtered our men in the process. I thought for a moment he would reach me, and then I could only think that I would never see you again." his voice trembles slightly. You dig your fingers into the fabric of his shirt. You never want to let him go. "The fear almost paralyzed me."

Fear grips you again and you have to press yourself closer to him. "I want to go home." you whisper. You wish to return behind the safe walls of Winterfell. Back with your family.

"Me too. We will win this war and then we will go home and never travel south again.”

You nod. "That's a good plan." your voice still trembles.

You just stand there for a moment in your embrace. You let it sink in that Robb really has come back. He survived this battle. You don't want to think that it was just one of many. Now you want to enjoy that your husband has come back to you. Robb's warm breath on your neck tickles lightly.

When you suddenly feel his lips on your skin, you shudder. Robb's grip on your hip tightens slightly as his lips kiss their way up your neck. You tilt your head slightly to the side and close your eyes. He kisses from your neck to your cheek and then your lips. The passion, longing, and desire in his kiss surprise you and ignite a hot fire in your lower abdomen. The fatigue is gone. Your lips move in sync with his. You press yourself closer to him. A hot shiver runs through your entire body.

Breathless, you part your lips from each other again. Robb leans his forehead against yours. Your gaze meets his. His hand glides up over your hip. His knuckles glide over the side of your breast, over your collarbone and up your neck. Then he places his warm hand on your cheek.

"I need you." he whispers.

Instead of answering him, you lean forward and place your lips back on his. Your hands begin to unbutton his shirt. As your fingers caress his chest, he moans into the kiss. His fingers unfasten the clasp of your cloak and it slides from your shoulders. Robb breaks the kiss, places his hands back on your hips, and turns you around.

Immediately, he begins to untie the strings of your dress. He is skilled at it, you notice how the dress loosens. Robb's lips find your neck again. This time, you can't suppress a soft gasp. You lean against him. You feel his body heat on your back. Robb pulls the dress over your shoulders and you slip out of the sleeves. Immediately Robb's lips attack the newly exposed skin. He pushes his hips slightly forward, and you feel his hardness against your butt. In your lower abdomen, a pleasant throbbing spreads. All the fear, the uncertainty, and the panic flow out of you and are replaced by desire. You pull at the skirt and the dress slides down your body so that you are left standing there in your white undergarment. It is made of thick wool to keep you warm and not particularly sexy. You turn in Robb's arms, catch his lips in a brief kiss, and then tug at his shirt. Robb raises his arms and you pull the shirt over his head. He tosses it carelessly into a corner.

You examine Robb's bare chest. Apart from a few bruises and scratches he really seems to be uninjured. You send another thanks to the gods. Then you look into Robb's face. His eyes are on you.

"I told you, just a few bruises." He kisses your forehead. "You are beautiful," he says before taking a step back. Robb extends his hand to you. You reach for it and let yourself be helped out of the dress. He kisses your hand. Then he gently pulls you closer to him. Your lips find each other again as your hand rests on the back of his neck and begins to caress his curls. "I'm so lucky that such a beautiful woman is waiting for me at home," he whispers against your lips. You apply gentle pressure to his chest so that he has to take a step towards the bed.

Robb's lips curl into a smile as he pulls back a bit from you. "Eager sweet wife." But then he reaches for you and lifts you in a swift turn. He takes the few steps to the bed and sets you back on your feet. You feel the edge of the bed in the back of your knee.

Robb quickly sheds the rest of his clothes while you slip out of your underwear and boots. You let yourself fall backward onto the soft covers, and in the next moment, Robb is above you.

You open your legs for him while your arms wrap around his neck. He supports himself with one arm next to your head. Your lips meet in a passionate kiss. You feel as if your entire body is on fire. You lean into his warm body, wanting to feel every inch of his skin on yours. Robbs kisses along your neck while his cock rubs between your wet folds. You let out a soft moan. Robb's hand wanders over your body, your breasts, and then rests on your hip. He gently pushes you back into the soft furs.

"Fuck," Robb curses softly against your neck. His voice heavy with his northern accent. His tip rubs over your clit, your fingernails lightly scratch over the skin on your neck, leaving red stripes.

"Please, Robb," you moan and in the next moment he sinks completely into you with one thrust.

Your wet warmth envelops him. You both moan. You wrap your legs around his hips and push yourself forward to bring him even closer to you. Robb's body trembles and you feel his breath on your neck. Gently, you tug at his curls, making him look at you.

His eyes shine with warmth and love. His gaze sends a warm shiver down your body and makes your heart beat faster.

You lean up and your lips meet again. Robb pushes his hips back a little and starts to move. You move your hips in sync with his. Feel him deep inside you. Robb intertwines your hands on the pillow. You notice a pleasant tension building up inside you. Your other hand rests on his muscular shoulder. You feel that even now he is still not close enough. You never want to let him go again. Here he is safe. His deep thrusts make you moan again. Robb kisses your cheeks and then looks into your eyes.

"Please never leave me again," you say softly. His thrusts become slower, he hardly moves inside you anymore, and this fullness makes your toes curl.

Robb smiles sadly and then gently kisses your lips. "I will always come back home to you," he whispers. His eyes find yours, and after a brief moment, you nod slightly. you press your calves slightly into his lower back, making him thrust into you a little faster again. Robb moans. Hearing those sounds from him makes your lower abdomen flutter.

Robb picks up a faster rhythm again. His lips wander back to your neck and with his next thrust, he bites. Your scream of his name is so loud that you are sure the guards outside have heard you.

"The whole time out there I could only think about coming back to you. To feel you in my arms again.” He kisses the bitemark gently. "Wanting to kiss you. I cursed myself for not kissing you enough.” his words are followed by a passionate kiss on your lips. Your legs tremble slightly. "To be able to feel you around me again." his lips wander to your ear.

Robb lets his hand wander from your hip between your bodies and he begins to draw circles over clit. You lean into his hand, feeling yourself start to pulse around his member. He gasps, and his hot breath tickles your neck. You can't focus on anything else but Robb. He picks up a faster rhythm. You match your movements to his. Your bodies tremble together. Your orgasm washes over you, and as you clench around Robb, he follows you and comes. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer as he gently thrusts his hips a few more times. A shiver spreads across your entire body, and you let out a soft moan. Robb lets his weight sink a little further onto you, and you wrap your arms around him.

After a moment you notice how your breath and heartbeat slowly begin to calm down again. Robb sits up a bit and wants to roll off you. But you press your crossed legs together behind his back so that he falls back onto you again. He laughs warmly.

"Don't go away." you whisper and start to scratch his neck again. Robb's cock twitches slightly inside you.

"I'm not going anywhere." Robb buries his nose in the crook of your neck as he shifts his weight slightly, so you are not crushed by his weight. He distributes gentle kisses on the skin of your neck, and you sigh contentedly. You close your eyes and wish that the war, the soldiers and the whole world out there to disappear. You want to live forever with Robb in this moment.

[forestshadow-wolf]

Imagine soap has to go undercover for an op (idk) as a billionaire playboy, ghost is there as another patron, and ghost and gaz are on overwatch (bruce wayne type shit yaknow? Also he definitely made a batman joke). And he almost gets caught, or he does something for the op that would look suspicious and definitely get him caught but then he remembers the role that he is playing ang gets the biggest light bulb idea ever. It's a bad idea. He promised himself he wouldn't do this anymore. It always ends badly. But they're going to get caught it he doesn't, and if they get caughtthey. Low the mission and they'll see Ghost's face and ghost absolutely doesn't want that and that's only for him. He hands ghost the intel, and then.

And then he starts stripping off his jacket. Orders himself a scotch. Waits for it to come out. Downs it then orders another one. And then he's making a scene. Getting loud and rambunctious. His shirt comes off. And his drink come out when he's swinging around in the air above his head. He knocks it back and orders another. The shoes go. And the pants follow. His drink comes and that one goes down the hatch too with another one on the way. And by now his judgment is... shoddy at best, but he's no longer suspicious. Ghost, Gaz and Price are definitely wondering what the hell he's doing, and he'll need to be dragged home by the end of the night, but right now he's having fun.

Out of the corner of his eye he spots a rather large and ornate ice sculpture. And well... up he goes. Clad in only black boxers and matching socks he's dancing up on the sculpture's platform. It's cold through his socks, and the ice sucks the heat from the air between him and it's form, but the alcohol keeps him warm and fuzzy. He spots his drink being carried over, and yells down for someone to get him his drink, an anonymous hand reaches up with his scotch and he takes it. This one doesn't go as quickly. He keeps it with him. And then he's grinding against the ice. Putting on a show. Smile broad. Laugh loud. Hands in the air. There's people telling him to get down now, hut the crowd wants more. And who is he to deny his the crowd? He can hear pice telling him it's enough, but he's drunk and having too much fun. His hands fly up into the air so he can scream in delight. The glass goes flying. And the entire place gets silent save for the music when it crashes. A moment passes. Two. Then he's cheering and the destruction and the place explodes into chaos again.

The drinks keep coming, and the not party keeps partying. And at some point they're able to get him down. And all he remembers from then on is ghost swooping in to get him and the warm, strong arms he falls into.

He doesn't remember getting back. Or what happened after Ghost saved him. But he does remember waking up. It's well past morning, the light through the window hurts his eyes; even closed; and his head is pounding, and he's fighting a losing battle with the nausea, even as he keeps stiller than a statue. But it was a battle he was never going to win. A retribution for his actions of a night full of sin and destruction. And he's flying for the toilet on instinct alone, and just barely makes it because he's puking his guts up. There's a hand on his back rubbing soothing circles on him. It's large, and callused, and warm, and new. And it doesn't stop as he spits into the water. Nor as he stays there incase his roiling stomach tries to turn inside out again. It's comforting. A comfort he's never had. And he thinks he might like it.

And when he finally thinks he's done he grabs for the handle and flushes his sick away, and sits back on his arse. The wall does the work of keeping him up, he's sweaty, he can feel the cold stick on his face. And when he looks up it's Ghost who sits before him. And for some reason that shocks him. And what's more is that he doesn't look disgusted or angry or any of the thousand other looks he's seen after a night like this. No it looks.... soft? And something else that looks a little like pity, but doesn't feel like pity. His mouths tastes sour and foul from stomach acid, but it's a familiar enough taste that it no longer bothers him enough to make him move to amend it.

Ghost gives him a glass of water, and he watches him. Soap does think he even blinks. Not as soap takes a mouthful of water, swishes it around his mouth then spits it into the toilet. Nor as he takes another swig to soothe his burning throat. Nor as he leans his head back against the wall. His head hurts. His everything else is sore. He's forgotten what last nights did to him. And still Ghost doesn't look away. And then.

"Are you okay?" It's soft, like he's being careful not to hurt him. And almost hesitant, like he's unsure if he should speak.

And then he honest to god asks him if he's okay. As if this wasn't his punishment. As if he didn't deserve the splitting headache or he roaring nausea or the bright lights or the too loud sounds or the reprimand that is surely coming his way.

"I will be." It's true. He will be. But right now he feels like death chewed him up and shat his out again. And he's trying to remember how bad he hot last night so he knows how much trouble he's in. And he just needs one more moment before he gets up to see price to collect whatever punishment duties he's in for.

When ghost doesn't respond he cracks open an eye. And. Ghost has a staring problem. But then again everyone in the 141 has problems. Maybe Ghost knows how much trouble he's in.

"D'ya ken what duties Price has me on fer las' night?" It's an off-hand question, he's not expecting anything, really. Maybe Ghost even has some of his own. Ghost makes a small sound, and it makes soap open his eyes to look at him properly. His eyes are sad when they look at him now. And he doesn't know what he did.

"Johnny-" he starts, then he stops. The mask he's wearing moves like he's licked his lips and soap wonders when he learned that tell. "You're not in trouble." Ghost says it softly, sadly, pityingly.

"It's 'k, Ghos'. I ken wh't 'm like on nights like tha' just wanna know what I got m'self into. I'm trouble." He doesn't know how to soothe Ghost, but he hopes that helps.

It doesn't.

"I'm serious, Johnny, you're not in any trouble." Ghost sounds almost hurt to his ears, but he's also hungover so he doubts it.

"'S'k if you dinna' wanna say. I'll ask price in a min. Jus' go' get dr'ss'd."

Maybe part 2 if you beg I remember

[jazjelspen]

when memories snow

alastor x overlord reader

(notes: songfic, angst, reader has similar powers to alastor, al and vox used to be friends in this fic)

-oneshot-

song used: when memories snow - mitski

You looked out your window to see the Hazbin Hotel in ruins, 666 News playing in the background as you stared off. You recently left the V's building after watching the wreck that was Alastor and Adam's battle through Vox's TV, sure it felt good seeing Alastor get what he deserved after what he did to the both of you but still.. lingering feelings of yours stayed present.

You knew he wasn't dead. You could feel it, his soul's presence still reeked as always it always has in hell.. but it was faint. His soul was far and you could feel it recovering,

That was all you could feel though, your powers limited to there.

You never really enjoyed partnering up with Vox, let alone the other Vs in general. Despite him being an ass to work with you enjoyed when you and Vox would complain to each other about how Alastor threw you both aside.

For Vox he was a friend, business partner, but to you-- he was your lover.

Despite how much you liked complaining to him you didn't exactly pay him much attention since he clearly just wanted to reel you in to work against Alastor, in a heat of anger and at the brink of tears you agreed, now you wondered if it was even worth it.

You loved him, you loved Alastor so much. You made so many good memories with him to the point that you couldn't even look at your home the same now that he's been there, nor could you look at the streets, the towns, the corners of hell you've both been in together. Too painful.

The way he left you behind was sad, truly. He was courting you for at least a decade or two and oh was he such a gentleman to you.. a real sweetheart. He'd hold out his hand for you to take when going down steps of stairs, offer you his arm to hold when walking, take you to outings full of wonder and awe despite the setting you both were in, he even gave you private gifts for when he noticed you were stressed out over your work or simply distraught over anything. Yes this seemed like basic relationship actions but to you it meant so much more.

Sure, he was never openly affectionate. He was okay with touch from you and all and even said a few little cheesy remarks towards you that at times that would make your face flush from how pure his words are despite the owner of the tongue that they are coming out of.

You both bonded over how similar your powers were, bonded over dance, music, singing and to you he saw you as a very interesting and peculiar individual with how different your own adventures were, adventures where he just had to come and see what you were to do to end the situation with and how.. even your his and your shadows played around and goofed off themselves.

To him, you were entertaining.

But in private? He was a dream, at times telling you sweet things that made you light-headed in the best way possible and on the very, very rare occasions did he ever land a kiss on you behind closed doors.

You were the only one to see him this way, so in the end it made you feel as if his love for you was true.

Right?

You loved him, you hated him.

You want to rip him apart in a mess of blood and guts but you also want to be near him again.

Conflicting feelings were raging a war in you, your love and your hunger for revenge killing each other slowly to see who would be the fateful victor in this.

Seven years ago on the day of one of your anniversaries he left you with no warning at all, leaving you worried sick and almost grieving. You attempted to use your powers to try to feel his soul somewhere, anywhere.. but it was as if it fizzled out- leaving traces of where he used to be.

You never moved on and seeing him suddenly come back after those painful years passed made you so happy.. feeling his soul walking around was like a breath of the freshest air of Eden, until all he did was only acknowledge everyone but you.. he fucking acknowledged Vox but ignored you and disappeared each time you came around and no matter how hard you tried it pained you immensely how slicker he got to avoid talking to you.

The killing sprees you both went on together? The dates? The care, the protecting.. you sacrificed one of your fellow overlords for him for his radio broadcast when he first came about because you felt like he was an interesting individual with potential. Was it all just-- for naught?

He seemed in love in his own special way.. so why.. why did he leave you with no words and now proceed to pretend as if you're nothing but a limp corpse.

You hated it you couldn't take it.

So you sought refuge in Vox, becoming 'friends' through your fresh hate of Alastor.

Once the news finished its broadcast you couldn't help but still feel a sense of anger rising in you, revenge bubbling in your blood through your skin as if begging you to take your own pound of flesh.

"When memories snow, and cover up the driveway."

Your voice began to sing, singing wasn't something you did since that fateful day your heart was ripped inside out. But.. it was only fitting you finally did now.

"I shovel all those memories, clear the path to drive to the store."

Your feet turned away from the window to walk towards your desk, you looked around briefly to notice how unkept it was.. never fully cleaning your own study due to your emotional rollercoasters.

"And when memories melt," your eyes narrowed down in emotional pain, remembering one of your most exciting escapades with him before he left. "I hear them in the drainpipe."

You leaned against your desk as you hurriedly opened one of your drawers to then pull out a hidden black and white photo of Alastor and you celebrating one of your anniversaries.

You were so happy that day.

Tears began brimming in your eyes as your hand started trembling and wrinkling the photo with how hard you were holding it.

Do you think he'd visit you?...

Your throat cracking slightly yet your singing never dared to falter.

"Dripping through the downspout.. as I lie awake in the dark."

No, no. If he truly wanted to see you again he would've done it six months ago, but he seemed to be more interested and entertained by the Princess of Hell and her dingy hotel.

As the sound around you amplified so did your heart beat, your anger, the exploding rage. Your shadow began to move on its own as an evil smile presented itself on the floorboards. It laughed, it laughed at you yet whispered encouraging words.. encouraging you to get him to regret leaving you behind. The same shadow that laughed at you when you first realized that you were truly in love with him.

The shadow grew more and expanded itself to your wall and over the window, looking down at the window where the ruins of the hotel was visible to you. It laughed and whispered, mumbled and encouraged you.

As your sorrow weighed on you and made you physically lean against your desk with your hand over your heart, the emotional ache washing over you like a tsunami's ocean wave. It felt as if that dreadful day was repeating,

"And if I break,"

You turned around to face the window again, your body leaning on your desk with a pained look on your features. You wanted to stop hurting--

"Could I go on break?"

It will, it'll stop hurting. Your shadow told you so, and it whispered so many secrets and ideas to you you couldn't help but feel confident in what you wanted to do next.

You won't stay down, you'll pick yourself up.

You stood up straight and off from the desk, a newfound optimism seating itself next to your heartbreak. It even reached to your vocal cords with it now making your singing sound more stern and steady.

"Be back in my room, writing speeches in my head."

You took a few steps towards the window, your shadow only growing bigger and widening itself across your room.. basking it all in darkness. It devilishly cheered for you, for your up in coming revenge.

You began to grin, feeling your power enhance with this fire in your heart raging and dancing like a tango.

You raised your arms up as if welcoming in this new revelation, happily bringing in this new purpose.

"Listening to the thousand hands,"

"That clap for me in the dark."

Your grinning face stayed plastered with your emotions as you sang your last words, your song finishing soon after.

In the end, rage won over your soul, overlooking the love you have had for him.

You will get your revenge against Alastor.

Whether he truly felt the same way for you or not, you weren't going to ask yourself that anymore. Avenging yourself was all that mattered.

You picked up your phone, tapping it a few times before it started ringing.. your intended target to help you in your plans answered.

"Vox, do you still have some free time on your hands? We need to have a discussion about the Radio Demon."

You weren't regretting this, you won't regret it.

[flowerandthesongstress]

complaints I've already seen about Coral Island, a new Indonesian kickstarter cozy game: the barman selling a ruined dish is an uncalled-for jab at restaurant workers! cats shouldn't hang out outdoors! eew, this woman shouldn't display her pregnancy stretch marks! where are all the kippot! why is everyone in such good shape! preposterous! this partially deaf character talking in caps lock is triggering me! no one in doctors without borders would be that tattooed, this dreadful representation is literal murder! no doctor would forget her paperwork at a library, for that matter! why is a japanese fisherman talking like a scottish pirate, this is inaccurate!

meanwhile in the game: I freed a stone statue from a magical underground prison and he put an enchantment on my hoe. his brother asked me if I liked figs is he flirting. my hippie boyfriend is heartbroken because his bucket-wearing pet duck is sick but shhh watching tv will heal him. last night when I talked to the outdoors cat she mentioned that she has a crippling fear of birds and thinks of getting therapy. a stem academic looks like a kpop idol and is getting enough sleep. he wears his astrophysics degree all over himself like a linguist would have worn alphabet necklaces, just to spite his dad but it's not working why is it not working ah shit it's working. mermaids hired me as a janitor. it's not pro bono I'm paid in diamonds. my neighbor is worried that his shiba inu went back to rejoin the mountain whence it came from. a turtle won't let me pass until I serve her spaghetti. I'm fighting capitalism with a literal scythe. the local blacksmith is asking my opinion regarding a legendary battle hammer and if it's worth the logistics hassle. it's been a year crabs are still dancing in celebration their zeal is admirable but their choreography could use some work. this giant monkey covered in two layers of meta wants to sell me a nostalgic souvenir. I know it because he sent me a polite letter. how many propaganda flyers can I fish out of this pond a challenge. I barged into a local lab and upended a barrel of seaweed over intricate circuitry now my flowers are five percent prettier. the scientist at the lab attached a mermish translator to my diving suit via the power of coffee. hold on I'm doing meal prep for next week let me finish putting ectoplasmic slime on okra