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novaursa · 3 months ago

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The Flames We Loved (to wake a dragon)

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it. The story gets progressively worse with each chapter. You have been warned.

- Summary: It started with Harrenhal and the year of false spring, where you danced with a dragon trying to calm his flames.

- Paring: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Note: Since people liked the intro posted, here is the first part of the official story before I retire for the night. Enjoy. ❤️

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: prelude

- Next part: to ignite an ember

The weight of the crown sits lightly upon your head, the soft petals of blue winter roses brushing against your brow as you sit, dazed, in the gallery. Rhaegar’s silent proclamation, his silver hair gleaming as he rode past, had left the entire court in stunned silence. It was you he had crowned Queen of Love and Beauty—not Elia, his wife. Not the Dornish princess who had been gazing at him with soft eyes and a knowing smile. It was you, Y/N Targaryen, your twin sister by two minutes, born of the same flame in the ruins of Summerhall.

You can feel the weight of their eyes on you, the court buzzing with whispers. The knights, the ladies, even the smallfolk watch, but none more intently than your father. Aerys. His gaze has been fixed on you for far too long, as if he sees something now that he hadn’t before. You shiver under his stare, but not from the cold.

Rhaella, ever pale and fragile, sits beside you. Her hand trembles slightly, hidden beneath her long sleeve, and she’s barely able to smile in congratulations. Her health has declined so much in these years, a thin shadow of the queen she once was. Still, she tries. She always tries.

“Rhaegar…” she murmurs, as though not quite understanding, her soft words almost drowned out by the rising murmurs in the crowd. “Why did he…?”

But she is cut off by the sound of your father’s voice, ringing louder than the court’s gossip. “My daughter! My beautiful, perfect daughter! Crowned by a prince! Crowned by the realm’s future king!”

He’s indulged too much in his wine today. You can tell by the way he sways slightly in his chair, the manic gleam in his violet eyes. Aerys has become more unpredictable over the years, his moods swinging like a pendulum, sometimes sweet as honey, sometimes as sharp as dragonsteel. And today…today he is not sweet.

Tywin Lannister, your father’s Hand, stands behind the king’s seat, his eyes narrowing as he senses the king’s growing unease. Tywin has always been cautious around Aerys, his patience thinning year by year. He tries to step forward, to whisper something in your father’s ear, but Aerys waves him away like a buzzing fly.

“No,” Aerys says, his voice raising, drawing more attention to himself. “No, Tywin, you think I don’t see your game. You’d crown your lioness queen if you could!” His laughter rings out, brittle and sharp, and it makes you flinch in your seat. His gaze slides back to you, hungry and fierce. “But it is my daughter who is queen today!”

A shiver runs down your spine as his eyes linger too long on your form, raking over you in a way that makes your skin crawl. The crowd is watching. You can feel their gazes burning into your skin, and worse, you can feel the whisper of rumors building, slithering through the air like vipers. Cersei Lannister, with her beauty and ambitions, glares at you from her place with her father. The resentment in her gaze is like a dagger, but it is nothing compared to the weight of your father’s stare.

“My king…” you murmur, standing slowly from your seat and approaching your father with a gentle, careful grace. “Perhaps we should—”

“Sit,” Aerys commands sharply, pulling you down into Rhaella’s seat beside him. His grip on your arm is tighter than it should be, and the gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by those around. The court falls into a nervous hush, the once-lively tournament atmosphere now tinged with unease.

“Father, please…” You try to smile, to ease his mood, but the grin he offers in return is unsettling. “The tourney—”

“Do you think they care about a tourney?” Aerys interrupts, waving his hand dismissively at the field, where knights have now ceased their contests, all eyes on the royal box. “No! They’re here for us, for you! My daughter—more beautiful than the moon and stars. More radiant than any queen this realm has ever known.”

“Perhaps we should retire,” Rhaella murmurs, her voice barely audible. “The day has been long, my love…”

“No!” Aerys snaps, his fingers still gripping your arm as he leans closer to you. The sour scent of wine is heavy on his breath, and his words become a low hiss, meant for your ears alone. “Do not leave me.”

You swallow, trying to remain calm. You can feel the dread building in the air, see the way Tywin shifts uncomfortably, his calculating eyes watching the king’s every move. You know you need to de-escalate this, to calm your father down before he makes an even greater spectacle. His moods have been worse lately, more erratic, more dangerous.

“Father,” you whisper, leaning in slightly, trying to ease him, as you always have. “Let us enjoy the rest of the tourney. The people are watching.”

“They watch you,” Aerys breathes, his voice softer now, almost tender. His gaze is too intense, too focused on your face, your lips, your eyes. “You are the jewel of the realm. You shine brighter than Rhaella ever did.”

Your breath catches in your throat. His words feel like a dagger, sharp and cutting, and Rhaella flinches beside you, though she says nothing. She has grown used to such wounds, silent and enduring as ever. But you are not Rhaella. You have always been your father’s favorite, the one who could soothe his tempers, calm his storms.

But now, something has shifted. The way he looks at you is not the way a father should look at his daughter.

“My king,” Tywin speaks up again, his voice cautious but firm. “Perhaps it is best if we retire for the day. The tourney can resume tomorrow, under more favorable circumstances.”

Aerys’s eyes flash with anger, and he releases your arm, turning to Tywin with a sneer. “I do not need your counsel, Lannister. You think you can control me? I am the king! I am fire! I will burn you all before you take what is mine!”

The court falls into an uneasy silence, the tension so thick it is suffocating. You feel the weight of the crown on your head, a crown you did not ask for, a crown that has become a noose. You stand slowly, trying to pull yourself from the chaos that swirls around you.

“Father, please,” you whisper, your voice steady but soft. “Let us leave the field. For now.”

Aerys looks at you, his eyes narrowing as if he is trying to decide whether to listen or lash out. Finally, after a long, tense moment, he rises to his feet. “Yes,” he says, his voice low, but still audible to the crowd. “We will leave. But remember this, Tywin.” He turns to the Hand of the King, his gaze burning with fury. “No lion will ever rule this realm. Only dragons.”

You follow your father as he sweeps out of the gallery, your heart heavy with the knowledge that the rumors will only grow after today. The court will talk, the whispers will spread. And you… you will bear the weight of a crown you never wanted.

You follow in silence, the cold stone of Harrenhal looming ahead, as your father grips your arm with a possessiveness that makes your skin crawl. His steps are uneven, the wine clearly affecting him more than usual, but it’s not just the wine—it’s something deeper, something more dangerous, festering inside him. You’ve seen this before, but never like this.

Aerys leans heavily on you, as though you’re his anchor, his lifeline. His fingers press into your skin, more confident now, more brazen. His touch lingers too long on your arm, sliding down to your wrist, and you feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as you keep your eyes forward, leading him toward the darkened halls of Harrenhal. Behind you, you can hear the footsteps of Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell trailing at a respectful distance, their presence both a comfort and a burden.

“You always know how to calm me,” Aerys murmurs, his voice slurring slightly as he pulls you closer to him. His hand slips to your waist, and you tense, heart racing, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Rhaella could never…not like you.”

You force a smile, the one you’ve perfected over the years, the one that hides the storm brewing inside. “We should retire to the castle, Father. You need to rest. The tourney will continue tomorrow.”

“Rest?” Aerys laughs, a sharp, brittle sound that echoes through the corridor. “Rest is for the weak, Y/N. You think I don’t see how they look at you? At us? They whisper and plot, but they are nothing. Nothing.” He pulls you even closer, his breath hot against your neck, and you fight the instinct to pull away. “You and I… we are fire. We are the blood of Old Valyria. No one else can understand.”

You swallow hard, glancing back at Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell, who remain a discreet distance behind. Their faces are expressionless, their duty unquestionable, but you know they can see. They can hear. The walls of Harrenhal have eyes, ears, and mouths ready to spread stories with each passing breath.

“Father,” you whisper, your voice low but firm. “The guards are watching. The entire court is watching. We must be careful.”

“Let them watch,” he growls, his hand sliding lower, his touch no longer hidden by the guise of fatherly affection. “Let them see how perfect you are, how you were born to rule with me. They don’t understand, but you do. You’ve always understood.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, the once-familiar warmth of your father’s affection now twisted into something dark and possessive. And it feels like you’re losing control, like the storm inside him is growing too powerful for even you to quell.

“Father, please…” you say, more quietly this time, your eyes darting to the guards behind you again. Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell keep their distance, but they’re there, always watching. You need to remind him, to make him understand the danger in his actions.

But Aerys is not disheartened. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you to a stop as you near the entrance to the castle. His eyes, wild and fevered, lock onto yours, and for a moment, it’s as though the world around you fades. His breath is heavy, his gaze piercing, and he no longer sees you as his daughter—not in the way he should.

“They think they can take you from me,” he whispers, his lips too close to your ear, his voice dripping with possessiveness. “But they can’t. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

A shiver runs down your spine, not from fear—no, not yet—but from the realization that you are losing him. Losing the man you thought you could save. Losing control over the only thing that ever made sense in this madness. The father you once loved and idolized has become something else. Someone else.

“We should go inside,” you murmur, forcing your voice to remain calm. “Away from prying eyes.”

Aerys laughs again, a high, unhinged sound that makes your stomach twist. “Yes… inside. Where no one can see. Where it’s just us.”

His words hang in the air, and you nod, leading him forward, praying that once you’re behind the walls of Harrenhal, you can regain control—praying that you can pull him back from the brink before it’s too late.

But as his fingers dig deeper into your waist, you know that prayer might not be enough.

You walk through the halls of Harrenhal, Aerys still holding onto you as though he might crumble without your support. His hand still lingers on your waist, too tight, too familiar, but you keep your pace steady, knowing that any hesitation, any sign of discomfort, might set him off again. The weight of his touch feels heavier than it ever has before, each step echoing with the sharp reality that you’re losing the father you once knew.

Behind you, Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell follow at a distance, shadows in their silent vigilance. You are keenly aware of their presence, of the eyes watching from the corners of the great castle, waiting for another spectacle to unfold. You must get him to the royal quarters, away from the prying eyes, before his madness consumes him fully in public.

You take a breath, trying to steady yourself, and engage him in conversation. "Father… how are your nightmares?" Your voice is gentle, coaxing, as if you’re speaking to a wounded animal. "Is Pycelle’s tonic helping at all?"

For a moment, you wonder if he heard you, his gaze still fixed on you, his fingers tightening briefly before loosening again. But then he laughs softly, leaning more heavily into you. His breath, tainted by the wine, is warm against your ear as he speaks. “The nightmares? Ah, Y/N, my sweet, my perfect daughter… the dreams have changed.”

You stiffen, your stomach twisting. “Changed?” You try to keep your voice light, unassuming, but there’s a tremor of unease that you can’t quite suppress. You’ve never heard him speak of his dreams like this, not with such… intensity.

He nods, his head resting against your shoulder for a moment as if he finds comfort in your presence. But his words are anything but comforting. “They’re not nightmares anymore. No… they are visions. I see us, Y/N. You and I—together. In fire and in blood, we are unstoppable. No one can take you from me. No one.”

You feel his words sink into you, cold and suffocating. His descent into madness has been long and gradual, like watching a star fall from the sky, knowing it will burn out before it hits the earth. But this—this talk of visions and dreams—it feels different. Darker. More dangerous.

You force yourself to keep walking, though your legs feel heavy, leaden with the weight of what he’s saying. “Visions?” you echo softly, trying to keep him talking, to calm him, to pull him back from whatever dark place he’s slipping into. “What do you see, Father?”

Aerys stops suddenly, turning toward you with a manic gleam in his eyes. His hand moves from your waist to your face, his thumb brushing your cheek in a way that feels far too intimate, far too wrong. “I see you beside me. Always beside me. As my queen. As my fire. The world will burn for us, Y/N. They don’t understand, but they will. I’ll show them. We’ll show them.

You stiffen, unable to hide your reaction this time. The words coming from him are not those of a father—they are the delusions of a madman. The way he speaks of you, the way he looks at you, makes your skin crawl, but more than that, it fills you with a deep, aching sadness. You’ve known for some time that Aerys’s mind was slipping, that the father you loved was disappearing beneath the weight of his paranoia and his madness. But this… this feels like something more. Something worse.

“Father…” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. “These are just dreams. Just… dreams.”

But Aerys shakes his head, his grip on you tightening again. “No, no, Y/N. They are not just dreams. They are the future. I see it. I feel it. The dragons are speaking to me again. Just as they did in the days of old. I am the last dragon, Y/N, and you—you are my fire. Together, we will bring the realm to its knees.”

The words make your heart race, but not with fear—at least not yet. It’s the sadness, the overwhelming sorrow of watching him unravel before you, that grips you most. You’ve always known there was something more to his madness, something beyond the paranoia and the cruelty. The way he speaks now, of visions, of dragons… it’s as though he truly believes he is touched by something divine, something ancient. And that makes it all the more dangerous.

“You must rest, Father,” you say, your voice trembling slightly as you try to lead him toward the royal quarters. “Let us get you to your chambers, where you can lie down. You need to rest.”

Aerys doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on you either. His eyes are still fixed on you, wild and intense, as though you are the only thing tethering him to this world. “I don’t need rest,” he mutters, his voice lowering to a whisper as he leans in closer. “I need you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You’ve always been the one to calm him, the one he relied on when no one else could reach him. But now, that reliance has twisted into something else entirely. Something you’re not sure you can control anymore.

As you finally reach the entrance to his chambers, you gently pull away, forcing a smile even as your heart pounds in your chest. “You’ll feel better after some sleep,” you say softly, guiding him inside.

But as he releases you, his eyes linger on yours, and the words he speaks next send a chill down your spine.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, stepping inside. “Yes… but the visions will come again. And when they do, Y/N… I will make them real.”

As the door to Aerys’s chambers closes with a soft thud, you stand there for a moment, the cold stone walls of Harrenhal pressing in on you. Your chest feels tight, each breath shallow and shaky as you replay his words in your mind. The visions. The way he spoke to you. The way he looked at you. It had never been like that before—not like this.

You’re lost in your thoughts when you hear a voice beside you, low and gentle, yet full of concern. “Princess,” Ser Gerold Hightower speaks, his brow furrowed in quiet worry. “Are you well?”

You turn to him, forcing a small, tight smile. “I am… fine, Ser Gerold. I just—” Your voice falters, the exhaustion of the evening catching up to you. You’ve spent so many years keeping up this facade, being the only one to soothe Aerys’s temper. But tonight, you feel as though the weight of it all might crush you.

“If it pleases you, Princess,” Ser Gerold continues carefully, his eyes kind but watchful, “I could escort you back to the festivities. Perhaps it would help you clear your mind.”

The thought of returning to the tourney, to the laughter and the noise, makes your stomach churn. You cannot go back out there, not after what just happened. Not after the way Aerys’s gaze lingered on you, how the court must be whispering even now, waiting for the next scandal to unfold.

“No,” you say quietly, shaking your head. “No, Ser Gerold. I think I should retire for the night.”

Ser Gerold nods, his expression softening with understanding. “As you wish, Princess. I will escort you to your chambers.”

You allow him to lead the way, his presence a steady and silent comfort as the halls of Harrenhal stretch before you. The castle feels oppressive in its vastness, the shadows long and deep, like ghosts of the past watching your every step. You feel raw, exposed, and the weight of what just happened with your father hangs heavy on your shoulders.

When you finally reach the door to your chambers, Ser Gerold bows his head respectfully. “Should you need anything, Princess, I will be near. Rest well.”

“Thank you, Ser Gerold,” you reply softly, offering him a faint smile. “Good night.”

He waits until you’ve safely entered your chambers before he steps away, his heavy footfalls fading down the corridor. Once inside, you allow yourself to breathe—really breathe—as the door clicks shut behind you. The stillness of the room is suffocating, but also a relief. You’ve been holding yourself together for so long, keeping your composure for the sake of appearances, for the sake of the court, for the sake of your father.

Now, in the solitude of your chambers, you finally let the mask slip.

You move to the window, resting your hands on the cold stone sill, and stare out into the darkened sky. The stars glitter faintly above, distant and unreachable, much like the peace you seek. Aerys’s words echo in your mind—visions of fire and blood, of you at his side, as his queen. It is madness. You know this. You’ve always known his mind was slipping, but tonight, it felt different. Darker. More certain.

And the worst part? Some small, nagging part of you wonders if there’s truth in his visions, if the madness of the Targaryens is something far more ancient than you ever realized. Could Aerys’s madness be a reflection of something real? Or is it simply the ravings of a mind long broken?

You lean against the wall, your head resting against the cold stone as you try to calm your racing thoughts. But no matter how much you try to rationalize it, to push it away, the weight of his words lingers.

When sleep finally claims you, it is shallow and restless.

Hours pass, though it feels like mere moments, before you hear it—Aerys’s voice, loud and frantic, piercing through the silence of the night.

“Y/N! Y/N!”

You bolt upright in bed, your heart pounding in your chest. His voice is ragged, desperate, echoing through the halls of Harrenhal. You hold your breath, listening intently, hoping it was just a dream. But no—the sound comes again, louder this time, closer.

“Y/N!”

He’s calling for you. Again and again, his voice cracks with desperation, sending a chill down your spine. You can feel the familiar panic rising in your chest, the fear that he’s slipped further into his madness, that he’ll come for you, that his delusions have become too strong for even you to quell.

You sit there, frozen in the darkness, your hands gripping the edge of the bed as you try to steady yourself. But the sound of your name, repeated over and over, claws at your nerves.

And then, after what feels like an eternity, the sound begins to fade. His cries for you grow distant, muffled by the thick walls of the castle, until finally… silence.

You exhale a shaky breath, your body trembling with the effort of holding yourself together. But sleep will not come again. Not tonight.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, your mind too heavy with worry, with fear, with the inescapable truth that the father you once loved is slipping further away from you. And no matter how hard you try, you cannot pull him back.

As the night drags on, you wonder if anyone else heard him. If anyone else knows the truth of what’s happening behind the closed doors of Harrenhal. But even if they did… what could they do?

Nothing can save Aerys from his descent. And nothing, it seems, can save you from the weight of it all.

In the dead of night, with the echoes of his voice still ringing in your ears, you wonder how much longer you can carry this burden.

The grand hall of Harrenhal buzzes with quiet murmurs and the clink of cutlery against silver plates, but there’s an invisible weight that presses down on everyone seated at the long tables. You sit among the courtiers, doing your best to appear composed, regal. Your hands rest in your lap, still, despite the storm churning inside you from the events of the night before. Your father’s words, his cries for you in the dead of night, echo in your mind like a ghost that refuses to fade.

You’ve had no sleep, and it shows in the subtle stiffness of your movements, the way your fingers grip the stem of your goblet just a touch too tightly. But you keep your head high, your face calm and composed as you’ve always been taught to do. The princess cannot be rattled, not in front of the court. Especially not after yesterday.

To your right, Rhaegar sits beside his wife, Elia Martell. Her head is bowed, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup absently, her mind clearly elsewhere. You can feel the rift between them like an open wound, one that you know is your doing. When Rhaegar placed that crown of winter roses on your head instead of hers, you could feel the fracture it caused, the hurt in Elia’s downcast eyes, the murmurs that spread like wildfire across the tourney grounds.

But it is Rhaegar’s eyes you feel most acutely, burning into the side of your face, seeing through the mask you wear. His indigo eyes, a mirror of your own, have always had that unsettling ability to see the truth in you. And now, as you glance at him from the corner of your eye, you can see the concern in his gaze, the unspoken questions hanging between you. He knows. He saw what happened last night, how Aerys’s grip on you lingered too long, how his words were too intimate, too possessive.

You can feel Rhaegar’s stare, but you don’t meet it. You can’t. Not with the eyes of the court upon you, waiting for something—anything—to confirm the rumors that have begun to swirl. Rhaella, sitting further down the table, looks paler than usual, her eyes darting nervously toward the door as though she expects Aerys to burst in at any moment. She has always known the worst of him. She lives with the consequences of his madness every day.

And then, as if summoned by her thoughts, the grand doors open with a creak, and a hush falls over the hall.

Aerys enters.

The tension in the room settles immediately, the subtle sounds of the hall fading to nothing as all eyes turn toward the king. He is dressed in his usual dark robes, his silver hair hanging loose and wild around his shoulders. His eyes—those bright, fevered eyes—scan the room, and for a brief moment, they land on Rhaella, who shrinks under his gaze. Then they move to you, and your breath catches in your throat as his lips curl into a twisted smile.

He strides forward with purpose, his presence commanding and unsettling all at once. No one speaks as he moves through the hall, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor. You can feel the weight of the room’s collective gaze, watching, waiting, wondering what will happen next.

Aerys reaches your side, and you feel the shift in the air as he stops behind your chair. His hand rests on the back of your seat, a touch that feels like a brand on your skin. You force yourself to stay still, to keep your breathing steady as the room holds its breath.

Then, without warning, Aerys leans down, his lips brushing against your ear in a way that makes your skin crawl. His voice is a low, dangerous whisper, meant only for you.

“Did you sleep well, my sweet?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “Or did you miss me in the dark?”

You stiffen, your fingers clenching in your lap as you will yourself to remain composed. He knows. He must know how his calls in the night haunted you, how the sound of your name on his lips was enough to keep sleep far from your reach. But his words are not filled with concern. No, there’s something darker in them.

The hall is silent, the court frozen as they watch the king’s every move. Rhaegar’s eyes are on you, you can feel them burning into you, filled with a quiet fury, a protectiveness he cannot show here. Not now. Not with all these eyes upon you.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Aerys’s face from the corner of your eye. His smile is sharp, his eyes gleaming with something you can’t name—something unhinged.

“I—” Your voice catches in your throat, and you force yourself to swallow the fear, the unease that threatens to bubble to the surface. “I slept well, Father,” you manage to say, your voice steady despite the weight pressing down on you. “Thank you for your concern.”

His fingers brush the back of your neck, and you fight the urge to flinch, to recoil from his touch. “Good,” he says, still leaning close. “You’ll need your strength, my daughter. The dragons demand it.”

With that, he straightens, his presence still looming over you for a moment longer before he moves away, walking toward his seat at the head of the table. The court watches him in silence, unsure whether to speak, to breathe, to act.

You can feel the weight of the moment, the whispers that will follow this breakfast, the eyes that are already on you, waiting for a sign, a crack in your composure. You sit there, your heart pounding in your chest, but outwardly, you appear calm. Regal.

It’s only when you glance at Rhaegar that you see the truth reflected in his eyes—he knows. He knows what Aerys is doing to you, what this descent into madness is costing you. His gaze, filled with sorrow and silent fury, makes your chest tighten. But this is not a fight that can be won with swords or crowns.

You turn away, focusing on the empty plate before you, your mind spinning with the weight of what has just happened, and what might come next.

You are the daughter of a king, the jewel of House Targaryen, but today, more than ever, you feel like a prisoner in a cage made of fire and blood.

Aerys settles into his seat at the head of the table, his presence as heavy as a storm cloud over the grand hall. Silence lingers in the air as everyone watches him with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Then, suddenly, his voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp and commanding.

“Music!” he calls, his voice booming across the hall. “We are not at a funeral!”

The court startles, eyes darting toward the musicians, who scramble to lift their instruments and fill the hall with sound. It’s a jarring shift, the mournful silence replaced by lively music that seems wholly out of place after the events of the previous day. But Aerys seems pleased, his grin spreading as he leans back in his chair, as though he’s basking in the uneasy energy of the room.

The music provides a brief reprieve, a distraction, and Rhaegar takes the opportunity to lean closer to you. His voice is low, meant for you alone as he keeps his eyes trained ahead. “Y/N,” he says, his tone soft but laced with concern. “I saw what happened last night… with Father. Are you—” He hesitates, searching your face for any sign of what you’re feeling beneath the mask of calm you wear. “Are you alright?”

You force a small smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m fine, Rhaegar,” you murmur, keeping your voice even. “You don’t need to worry.”

Rhaegar’s frown deepens, his indigo eyes—the same as yours—piercing as he looks at you. He knows you too well to be fooled by your reassurances. “I know how he is with you,” he says quietly. “What he wants from you. It’s not right.”

You glance around the hall, feeling the weight of Aerys’s gaze on you even before you hear his voice. “We all do what we must,” you reply softly, your voice laced with an edge of resignation. “It’s the only way to keep the peace.”

But Rhaegar shakes his head slightly, his jaw clenched in frustration. “This is not peace. This is madness. If you keep indulging him—”

Before he can finish, Aerys’s voice booms once more across the hall, cutting through the music like a crack of thunder.

“Y/N!”

The entire hall goes still. Your breath catches in your throat as all eyes turn toward you, including Rhaegar’s, filled with alarm. Slowly, you turn your gaze to your father, who is standing now, his wild eyes fixed on you with a strange intensity.

“Come,” he says, his voice carrying across the hall with a commanding force. “Dance with me.”

You feel the air leave the room, the shock rippling through the courtiers like a wave. Aerys hasn’t danced in years. Not since before the madness began to consume him. You hear the whispers rising from the tables, hushed murmurs of confusion and disbelief. But it’s Rhaegar’s voice, low and urgent, that cuts through the noise.

“Don’t,” he says, his hand reaching out to gently touch yours beneath the table. “Y/N, don’t indulge him. You know how he gets with you.”

You turn to your twin, seeing the worry etched in his face, the same worry you’ve seen so many times before. He knows. He’s always known, even if he’s never spoken of it directly. He’s seen the way Aerys’s affection for you has twisted into something else. But you also know what happens when Aerys is denied what he wants. The court has seen it, felt the wrath of his temper.

You place your hand over Rhaegar’s and offer him a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine,” you say quietly. “If I indulge him, it might lift his spirits. And if he’s in a good mood, the court will breathe easier. We all will.”

Rhaegar’s lips press into a thin line, his hand tightening around yours as if he doesn’t want to let go. “Y/N…”

“I’ll be fine,” you repeat, your voice firmer this time. You withdraw your hand gently from his, rising to your feet and smoothing the folds of your gown.

The hall watches in stunned silence as you make your way to the center of the room, the music continuing but softer now, as if even the musicians are unsure of what to do. Aerys waits for you, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling hunger that makes your skin prickle. But you keep your expression calm, collected, as you step toward him, your head held high.

When you reach him, he holds out his hand, and for a brief moment, you hesitate. But then, with a deep breath, you place your hand in his.

The dance begins.

At first, the steps are simple, the movements slow and measured. Aerys’s hand rests on your waist, his grip firm but not yet inappropriate. The court watches, their shock evident, as they witness the spectacle before them—the king, who hasn’t danced in years, leading his daughter in a dance that feels far too intimate, far too close.

You feel the tension in his body, the way his hand tightens on your waist as the music swells. His touch lingers, his fingers brushing the small of your back in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. You try to focus on the dance, on the steps you’ve memorized from countless royal functions, but it’s impossible to ignore the way he leans in, his breath warm against your neck again.

“I see it, Y/N,” Aerys murmurs, his voice low and possessive. “The fire in you. Just like me.”

You stiffen, your heart pounding in your chest as his lips brush against your ear. The entire court watches, their eyes wide with disbelief. They’ve seen Aerys’s madness, his erratic behavior, but this—this is something new.

You want to pull away, to distance yourself from him, but you know you can’t. Not here. Not with all these eyes upon you. So you force yourself to continue the dance, to match his steps, to keep the illusion of control even as his grip tightens and his whispers become more unsettling.

The music crescendos, the dance moving faster now, and Aerys pulls you closer, his hand sliding up your back, his fingers grazing your neck. His lips hover near your cheek, too close, too intimate, and you can feel the court’s gaze burning into you like flames.

“Together, we will burn this world,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin.

The music swells around you as the dance continues, your body moving in rhythm with Aerys, though your heart races with each step. His hand, once resting lightly on your waist, has crept lower, his touch lingering in a way that makes your skin crawl. But you don’t flinch. You can’t. You’ve always known how to handle him—how to soothe his temper, how to pull him back from the edge when no one else could. It’s always been your role, to keep him tethered to some semblance of sanity.

Today, though, feels different. The madness in his eyes is brighter, more intense, and his gaze has lingered on you in ways that make your stomach twist. You try to focus, to keep him engaged, to steer him away from the edge once more. You’ve done it before. You can do it again.

“Our blood,” Aerys murmurs, his voice low and thick with the weight of years of delusion, “is pure, Y/N. We are the last dragons.” His grip on you tightens, pulling you closer until there is barely any space between your bodies. “No one else can understand that. No one but us.”

You nod, keeping your face serene, though your mind is racing. “Yes, Father,” you whisper, your voice soft and coaxing, just as you’ve always done. “Only we understand. We’re the last of our kind.”

His eyes gleam with that fevered madness as he searches your face, looking for something—what, you’re not sure. “You understand,” he breathes. “You’ve always understood.”

Rhaegar watches from the side of the hall, his hands clenched into fists as his gaze follows every movement, every touch. His concern is visible, his eyes filled with worry, but you avoid his gaze, knowing that if you acknowledge it, if you let yourself show any weakness, Aerys will sense it. He will know, and you cannot afford that. Not now.

Instead, you keep your attention on Aerys, smiling softly as you’ve done a thousand times before, as though you are indulging a wayward child rather than a mad king. His hand slides up your back, and you allow it, letting him take these small liberties, knowing it will keep him placated. If you can control this moment, you can control the situation. That’s what you tell yourself.

But as the dance proceeds, you feel his touch become more brazen. His fingers trace the curve of your spine, his other hand coming to rest at the small of your back, pulling you even closer, until you’re pressed against him. The court is watching with wide eyes, uncertain of what they’re seeing. They’ve never seen the king like this—so close, so affectionate.

And neither have you.

You lean into him, as you’ve done in the past, resting your head lightly against his shoulder, hoping that the familiarity of the gesture will calm him, remind him of who he was before Duskendale, before the madness truly took hold. The king who was once kind to you, the father who looked at you with pride and love. You’re trying to reach him, trying to coax that man out of the depths of his madness, as you always do.

But today once more, there is no reaching him.

Aerys leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “I’ve starved for months, Y/N.” His voice is raw, edged with something dark, something that makes your heart pound with a new kind of fear. “But you… you are my fire.”

You stiffen, the meaning behind his words sinking in, and you realize, with a sickening lurch, that you’ve gone too far. You’ve played your part too well this time, given him too much liberty. You thought you could control him, could keep him in check by indulging him as you’ve always done. But now, it feels as though you’ve let the dragon out of its cage, and he is far more dangerous than you anticipated.

His hand slides to your hip, and though you try to remain calm, your body stiff. You feel trapped, ensnared in this dance, unable to pull away without causing a scene that would ripple through the court. The eyes of everyone in the hall are upon you, watching, waiting, and you know that any misstep could lead to disaster. You glance toward Rhaegar, whose expression has shifted from concern to something far more alarmed, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Father,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the music, “perhaps we should—”

“Shhh,” Aerys murmurs, his lips grazing your cheek now, his breath hot against your skin. “This is where we belong, Y/N. Together. Always.”

You feel the blood drain from your face as his words settle over you, their meaning as clear as the fire in his eyes. He is not just indulging in a dance; he is making a spectacle, a claim—one that the court will remember. One that they will whisper about long after this day is over. And you realize, too late, that you’ve given him too much.

The music swells again, and Aerys pulls you even closer, his hand sliding to your waist as he spins you in a way that feels possessive, claiming. You’ve danced with him before in your girlhood, but never like this. Never with this kind of intensity, this kind of hunger.

The hall is silent save for the music, but you can feel the eyes of the courtiers following your every move, their shock and unease unhidden. The whispers will spread by the next morning, you know that, but in this moment, all you can do is continue the dance.

You rest your head against his shoulder again, though this time it feels like a surrender, like you are giving him something you cannot take back. You close your eyes, trying to block out the sensation of his hand on your waist, of his breath on your skin, of the court watching this spectacle unfold.

The music plays on, and you continue to dance, locked in this twisted waltz with a king who has long since lost himself to madness.

And as the day stretches on, you wonder how much longer you can keep playing this part. How much longer you can keep the dragon in check before he burns you alive.

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #asoiaf/got #asoiaf x reader #asoiaf x y/n #asoiaf x you #game of thrones #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #fire and blood #house of the dragon #the flames we loved #aerys ii x y/n #aerys ii x you #aerys ii x reader #aerys ii targaryen #the mad king #dark content

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thelunarfairy · 3 months ago

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In the end, it doesn't even matter

Time is a valuable thing, watch it fly by as the pendulum swings, watch it count down to the end of the day, the clock ticks life away, it's so unreal.

Watch the time go right out the window, trying to hold on, to didn't even know

I wasted it all just to watch you go

I kept everything inside, and even though I tried, it all fell apart what it meant to me will eventually

Be a memory of a time when I tried so hard and got so far

But in the end, it doesn't even matter.

I had to fall to lose it all

But in the end, it doesn't even matter.

In spite of the way you were mocking me

Acting like I was part of your property

Remembering all the times you fought with me, I'm surprised it got so far.

Things aren't the way they were before

You wouldn't even recognize me anymore

Not that you knew me back then

But it all comes back to me (in the end).

You kept everything inside

And even though I tried, it all fell apart, what it meant to me will eventually be a memory of a time when

I tried so hard and got so far

But in the end, it doesn't even matter

I had to fall to lose it all

But in the end, it doesn't even matter.

I've put my trust in you

Pushed as far as I can go

For all this

There's only one thing you should know

I tried so hard and got so far

But in the end, it doesn't even matter

I had to fall to lose it all

But in the end, it doesn't even matter.

When pain becomes a sonnet, a rhyme that echoes so loudly inside the chest that it becomes a song.

The voice of someone who cannot be heard, who cannot, not because he does not have the strength to scream, but because there is no one to listen, or who intends not to listen.

There are those who recognize this song, the sound that accompanied me for so long, that made me discover my favorite music band, oh yes, this song, tragically fits Tsukasa perfectly - as does the band's vocalist.

The two had the same fate, one day they decided it was no longer worth staying, and they left. The vocalist, of course, was never able to return, but he left his legacy.

But Tsukasa had to come back, and he is not allowed to leave again.

Tsukasa still sings the song, he still tries to allow the pain to leave his chest somehow - if he still feels anything.

The legacy continues The selfishness continues The pain continues

But in the end, it doesn't even matter.

youtube

#when nothing else makes sense #the music that plays over and over again to try to ease the pain #the pain that never eases #that always comes back #tbhk #jshk #toilet bound hanako kun #jibaku shounen hanako kun #amane yugi #aidairo #jshk spoilers #hanako kun #yugi twins #hanakokun #tbhk tsukasa #tsukasa yugi #jshk amane #yugi amane #Youtube

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feelingsofaithless · 3 months ago

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30 Days Music Challenge {2024 Edition}

↪ Day 21: The first song you listened to from a band → In the End – Linkin Park Time is a valuable thing Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings Watch it count down to the end of the day The clock ticks life away

#30 Days Music Challenge #30daysmusicchallenge2024 #Linkin Park #linkinparkps #In the End video #Hybrid Theory #gifs

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arkashas · 1 year ago

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i thought about why the firefly man will created in secondo had his hands clasped together in prayer, and it led me to a new realisation of where exactly i’d seen something like that before -

the angels from coquilles. in coquilles, the angel maker thought he could sense evil in people and would kill and turn those people into angels, purifying them in the process.

the prisoner killed mischa and will delivered justice for that crime through chiyoh, and elevated him in the process, just like what the angel maker did to his victims (will would come to be known as the “lamb of god” who takes away your sins in the red dragon arc). another reason why the angel maker created the angels was so they’d watch over him, because he didn’t want to die in his sleep. though will doesn’t sleep under the firefly man, he spiritually died in mizumono and references to him being dead are brought up more than a few times in the first few episodes of season 3. and consider this scene just before will creates the firefly man -

jack is in the norman chapel along with pazzi. jack tells pazzi, who asks him if he’s a believer, “aren’t we all? belief comes with imagination. we also imagine the possibility that we all live on after death. will graham died. he was dead. i was dead. we didn’t imagine that”. before he says this though, he lights a votive candle. votive candles are used as divine offerings to god, and combined with jack’s words about imagining the possibility of life after death, we can see will creating the firefly man as an answer to jack’s prayer, since with this tableau, he literally created life after death.

how did will create life after death? when they first meet, chiyoh tells will the prisoner is only allowed the sound of water like what the unborn hear. the firefly is the last stage of metamorphosis from the pupal form, so the prisoner goes from the unborn stage to the mature adult stage because of will turning him into the firefly. we also see the prisoner eating snails, which as hannibal tells bedelia in contorno, is the fuel which the firefly larvae use to transform themselves into delicate creatures of such beauty.

something chiyoh also says is that will is not allowed to look at the prisoner or speak to him, saying he’s cast aside the social graces afforded to human beings by killing mischa. since chiyoh says that the prisoner is unborn directly after saying this, there is a direct link between the prisoner not being looked at, or “seen”, and his being unborn.

“belief comes with imagination”, and what is will known for? his imagination, his empathy. it’s will’s empathy which allows for the possibility of life after death. will grants his gift of being seen to the prisoner through his empathy and gives him a rebirth, just like he did with randall tier who wanted to be seen and who had his becoming when he was turned into a beast and displayed in the museum. the prisoner lived his whole life in a dark, damp prison, so with his wings and with the lights reflecting off of him and around him, will sets him free and gives him what he couldn’t have in life in death.

not only is the prisoner reborn, will is as well. will has just created the imago, the flying insect which is the final stage of transformation which he and hannibal discussed in mizumono. and think of the journey will undergoes to get to this point, it occurs entirely through water -

“he’s only allowed the sound of water. it’s what the unborn hear”.

we also see hannibal’s kitchen being flooded with blood in primavera, and a close up of will’s guts in aperitivo, which is compared to a womb in the script, while hannibal embraces him and then stabs him.

will sinks in this bloody water in primavera, and walks on its surface to get to lecter castle in secondo (walking backwards because he’s going backwards in time like when he lets the pendulum swing and recreates a crime scene - he’s recreating mischa’s crime scene, going back to when the teacup first shattered so that he can understand hannibal).

what about jack and his belief that he’s dead though? it’s in aperitivo that jack lets go of bella and puts her to sleep permanently. bella had told him before that he’s not going to go into the ground with her, so we can see this as jack beginning to accept that he belongs to the land of the living. in contorno, he tells hannibal that after he’s gone, he’ll feel alive, before pushing him out a window. coming back to the angel maker, the angel maker had cancer and would make angels to watch over him so that he doesn’t die of cancer in his sleep. bella directly compares hannibal to a cancer within jack, saying he can cut out what’s killing him. was jack as successful as the angel maker or bella in cutting out his cancer (read: not successful not all)? the evidence suggests so, since in the red dragon arc he’s again back to his old ways and back to his old dynamic with will and hannibal, making use of them to solve cases in an effort to save lives.

#hannibal #nbc hannibal #hannibal meta #will graham #jack crawford #i am so not confident about that last part of the post but w/e #long post

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star-girl69 · 2 years ago

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Ultraviolence

Natalie Scatorccio x Fem!Reader

—-

a/n: thanks to google translate and my very limited knowledge of high school french for their help this chapter 😍 i hope you all enjoy!!

warnings: blood, injury, swearing, kissing, tell me if i missed anything!!

Chapter Twelve - Amoureuse

—-

1996-

The séance was held in the attic. If you closed your eyes and breathed in deep, you could still smell the slight rot of a dead body.

“O’ keeper of this wild and hidden place…” Jackie dipped her finger into a bowl of something red, swirling it around. “We anoint ourselves with blood and earth.”

She draws an X on Shauna’s forehead, who has a piece of cloth wrapped around her face, and is holding the hunting knife by a string tied to it.

Jackie turns back around with a chipper smile, an X already drawn on her forehead.

“Here,” she says, handing it to Travis. He looks at the metal bowl, shooting her a look. “It’s just dirt and deer blood. Class witch recipe. Relax.”

He takes the bowl and marks a X to his forehead, before handing it to Natalie, who doesn’t even notice he’s handing it to her because she’s too busy staring at you.

You could feel her eyes on your back the entire walk back, and you can feel them on you now.

Jackie breathes out, sitting down, wiping her bloody finger onto the cabin floor. She raises her hands up, and Misty, who you’ve ended up next to, does as well.

The rest of the girls shuffle around with passing the bowl of blood, still besides.

“O spirit, we offer our sister as your instrument. Come to us and speak your peace.”

“It is I, Jacques,” Shauna says. A few of the girls laugh at her light monotone voice. She clears her throat. “Jacques,” she says, her voice deeper, earning more laughs. “Ask your questions. The pendulum will answer them.”

“Okay,” Van says, passing off the bowl of blood and clearing her throat, raising her hands out, palms to the sky. “Dear dead hunter guy… did O.J. do it?”

You and the other girls laugh, and you smile, grabbing the bowl of blood from Misty. You dip your finger in, looking at the bright red rippling.

“Come on, you guys, serious questions.”

“The veil is thin between our two worlds,” Shauna- or Jacques- confirms.

You tap your finger against the side of the bowl, watching the excess blood fly off, before lifting it back up to your forehead. Your eye’s meet Natalie’s.

You inhale and draw the X, handing the bowl off to the girl next to you.

“Ask what is in your heart,” Shauna says.

“Okay,” Mark says, holding her hands out and closing her eyes. “Is Principal Berzonsky screwing Ms. DeWine?”

The girls laugh before turning to Shauna and the pendulum. It spins in a circle, and a few of the girls gasp.

“It is certain,” Shauna smiles.

“Hunter guy, if we hadn’t crashed, would we have won Nationals?” Akilah asks.

The knife swings back in forth, and the girls start booing and laughing.

A few more questions go by, all making you laugh and forget about everything that happened earlier that day.

“They’re obviously fake,” Nat says. The conversation had steered towards Christie Caper’s boobs. “You really need a ghost to tell you that?”

“You think?” Mari asks, as Javi comes upstairs and sits between Nat and Travis. “But who would have paid for them? Her parents?”

“I think they got divorced recently. It could have been guilt money.”

“Well that’s just creepy,” Mari replies to Van.

A small smile crosses Van’s face. “‘Well, honey, your mom and I are splitting up but don’t worry, ‘cause your tits are gonna look amazing!’”

“Okay, guys, guys, focus,” Jackie says through the laughter. “Next question.”

Misty raises her hand, and Jackie motions for her to go. She looks around the circle excitedly, before closing her eyes.

“Dear spirit, I need to know the truth. Does the person I like like me back?” A few of the girls coo, and you can’t help but smile at her, trying not to look at Natalie.

The pendulum spins in a circle, and a few of the girls whoop and whistle, applauding Misty.

“Okay, next question?”

Javi raises his hand and Jackie nods.

“Are we all gonna die out here?”

The circle becomes silent.

The knife starts spinning.

“Okay, an eight?” Van asks, shuffling slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not an eight, it’s an infinity,” Mari says.

“Yeah, okay, Aristotle.”

Lottie screeches at the top of her lungs. Everyone jumps back and the window swings open, the candles all going out, the attic turning dark. More screaming fills the cabin, and you realize one of the screams is yours.

“Who has the matches?” Jackie shouts.

Someone closes the window. Your back is nearly pressed against the wall, huddled into the corner.

A few of the girls crowd around Lottie while she pants and sobs.

“Guys, somethings really wrong with her,” Van says, holding onto Lottie’s shoulder, who lets out another scream.

“What’s happening?” someone shrieks.

“It wants… it wants…” Lottie cries.

“Misty, what do we do?” Van shouts.

“It wants!”

“Lottie, I swear to God, if you’re fucking with us-”

“I thinks she’s, like, possessed!” Akilah shouts back.

“Lottie. Lottie, Lottie, sweetie,” Shauna says. “What’s going on? What is ‘it’?”

“More like what does ‘it’ want?”

“Hungry,” she cries. “Hungry.”

She starts laughing cackling, a shiver rips across your spine, and you almost scream when someone places their hand on your shoulder.

“Y/N?” Natalie. “Are- are you okay-?”

“Shh,” Lottie says, grabbing onto Shauna. “It’s in you already.” Shauna bats her away and stands up.

“Lottie. This isn’t a game,” Tai says like she’s scolding her. But the more you look at her, the more you watch her, the more you think she’s not faking.

Lottie sits up straight.

She starts speaking in something that’s not English.

You grab Natalie’s hand, the one that’s still on your shoulder, and she squeezes, still looking with wide eyes at Lottie.

“Is that French?” someone asks, and you listen closer. “Since when does Lottie speak French?”

“Jackie, w-wasn’t she in your class?”

“Yeah, but she sucks at French!”

Lottie is speaking French. You let go of Natalie’s hand and take a step forward, trying to listen, even when Nat tugs on you and says your name.

“Well, what’s she saying?”

“I don’t know! I suck at French, too!”

“Damn it, Jackie, try not to!”

“Ça veut du sang,” Lottie keeps repeating, over and over.

“It wants blood,” you mutter to yourself, as Jackie tries in vain to translate Lottie’s hurried sentences, one after another, blending together.

“Uh, uh, it wants!” Jackie yells after a moment. “What? What does it want?”

“God, Jackie!” you shout, walking over to Lottie and crouching in front of her. “It wants blood! It wants blood! Have you never paid any attention to Madame?!”

“Blood?!” Jackie yells.

“Not the word I want to be hearing right now,” someone shouts.

“Lottie, what? What else? Uh- pourqoui, Lottie? Pourquoi veut-il du sang? Why does it want blood?!”

She stands up and turns around, facing that one lonely attic window, staring out into it.

“Ici,” she pants. “Ici, ici,”

“Here!” you shout, trying to work up the courage to go up to Lottie again. “She’s saying ‘here’!”

“There’s blood where, Lottie?” Van shouts, before tugging on your arm. “Translate that!”

“Fuck, uh, où y a-t-il du sang?”

“Why are you encouraging her, Van?” Tai shouts.

Lottie doesn’t answer.

“Blood here? Or out there?” Van shouts.

“Ici? Là-bas?” you shout. “Where, Lottie? Where?!”

“You must spill blood,” she whispers finally, and it’s not in French anymore. “Or else…”

“Or else what, Lottie?!”

Then, she throws her head back, rearing up, and plunges her head right through the glass of the window.

You scream. It’s all you can think to do this moment, but you’re not even thinking- it’s all you can do.

When Lottie turns back around, blood falls down her forehead, dripping past her nose. She raises her hand to the space in between her eyebrows, and looks at her fingers, which come away slick with blood.

She starts wailing.

The girls help her to the floor, and she just keeps wailing and wailing, screaming like banshee, and all you can do is stand there and try not to scream as well.

“The power of Christ compels you!” Laura Lee shouts, running past you with a Bible in her hands. “Begone, Satan! Lottie! Lottie, stop!”

Then, just when it seems like Lottie will just scream and wail forever, Laura Lee throws the Bible at her.

The wailing stops.

“Ow!” she shouts. “What the hell, Laura Lee?”

“Seriously?” Mari asks. “What the motherfuck just happened?”

All you can do is stand there, looking at the blood falling down Lottie’s face, the memory of her screams ringing around in your head.

—-

“Do we think it’s still up there?”

The subject of the seance and the attic had become taboo in the last hour. After cleaning Lottie’s wound and letting her go off to bed- everyone had tried to get to bed themselves. But all of you were thinking it. Akilah had just said it first.

“You all need to stop,” Taissa hissed, sitting up. “There’s nothing up there. Lottie’s been acting weird for weeks.”

A small snore came from the cot Lottie was sleeping on.

You can’t help but sit up as well. “I don’t mean to, like, freak anyone out but- I once overheard Lottie say she was close to failing French. I don’t- l don’t think she knows how to say what she said.”

Taissa cuts you a death glare. But the rest of the girls remain silent.

“Fine,” she spits, grabbing her blanket and pillow and standing up. “I’ll prove it.”

“You’re gonna sleep up there?” someone asks.

“That’s right. Who’s with me?”

You lay back down on your bed, listening to Laura Lee’s prayers.

“Fine. More room for me then,” Taissa says, and you listne to her footsteps going towards the attic, then up the ladder.

Laura Lee keeps praying.

Eventually, Shauna and Jackie start whispering, and Shauna ends up going to the attic as well.

You sigh, and try to go to bed, the fire dying down, the room becoming shrouded in darkness.

Someone taps your shoulder.

Your makeshift bed was still next to Natalie’s, a remnant of when you were just friends, and maybe if you weren’t so drained from the seance, you would have moved to another spot.

“Y/N.” You pretend you’re asleep, you can’t face her, not yet, not right now. She shakes you. “Turn around, please.”

You stay silent, trying to control your breathing, scared of everything that could happen.

She exhales. “I know you’re not asleep. C’mon.” She tugs on your arm, and unwillingly, you roll over, shifting so there’s still space between you, staring at her.

“What?” your voice doesn’t come out quite as firm as you want it to. You sound like a child trying to hide the fact they’re crying.

“Are you okay? After tonight? I mean, you were like right in front of her, being really smart and shit, but- still.”

Your shoulders relax, and you wish that they didn’t.

“‘M fine, yeah.”

She smiles lightly, awkwardly, and you feel bad that you’ve caused all this weirdness between the two of you.

“Hey, I- I know its fucked up, but, can we talk?”

“Natalie, I’m tired-”

She leans forward and brushes her lips against yours.

She closes her eyes, but you’re left shocked, your eyes wide open, your lips parted, hers pressed hard against yours, not even a kiss, like she just wants to say that she did it, check a box. She’s just pressing her lips to yours, and your stomach flips and turns because you love it.

She pulls back, and takes a breath, so you can feel it on your skin.

“Sorry. For that. I-I just didn’t know how to tell you-”

All you can do is stare at her.

You can hear sirens go off in your mind, screaming danger, danger at every turn. This could all crash and burn like everything else that’s happened in these past few weeks- but maybe Natalie is just a single speck of violence in a world full of it, and maybe having someone on your side, someone with you, is just want you need.

Just what you want.

Not just someone to protect you, to be with, but you want her.

You’ve spent so long in these woods denying it because you were scared of losing her, of losing your friendship- but after tonight? The worst has already happened to you. You didn’t choose it. You’ve already been plagued with violence and this time- you want to choose it. You want to choose her.

You choose her, and press your lips against hers, violence in a world of violence, and don’t pull away until you’ve completely sunk into her, into her ultraviolence.

Loving her is violence, but you’re choosing it, and this violence feels like love.

—-

taglist:

@sweetdayme4427 @dreaming-for-an-escape @peachydoki

#yellowjackets x reader #natalie scatorccio #natalie scatorccio x reader

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shakballoonshack · 7 months ago

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All I know

Time is a valuable thing

Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings

Watch it count down to the end of the day

The clock ticks life away

It's so unreal

Didn't look out below

Watch the time go right out the window

Tryin' to hold on, did-didn't even know

I wasted it all just to watch you go

#dante #dante limbus company #limbus company #but in the end #it doesn't even matter #balloon #balloon art #balloon animals #balloons

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edward-lygma-ballz · 10 months ago

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GUYS! CHESTER BENNINGTON FORESHADOWED HIS ROLL IN SAW!!! (NOT CLICK BAIT)

In the Linkin Park song, "In The End" there is a lyric that goes, "Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings" and WHAT is the name of one of the traps from saw 5?! THE PENDULUM!!!!!

#saw franchise #saw 5 #saw movies #saw

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amwult · 10 months ago

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time is a valuable thing. watch it fly by as the pendulum swings.

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the-troll-book-of-mormon · 2 months ago

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I TRIED SO HARD. AND GOT SO FAR. BUT IN THE END. IT DOESN'T EVEN MATTER.

#TIME IS A VALUABLE THING. WATCH IT FLY BY. AS THE PENDULUM SWINGS.#homestuck #caliborn

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sillymarigolds · 2 years ago

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Between the Lines

I'm back writing fanfic after many years away from the wonderful community of writers and readers! This is my first THG fic and was inspired by the prompt "This Would Have Happened Anyway" on @promptseverlark but I just never got around to writing it in time for the challenge.

Also posted on my ao3 here (I'm sillymarigolds there, too!)

Synopsis: If the 74th Hunger Games had never brought them together, perhaps the 75th Hunger Games would bring Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark together instead. A canon-divergent AU fic based on the “This would have happened anyway” prompt on @promptseverlark

~*~

Early Summer

Crouching in the scrub, I strain my ears listening for the rustling of leaves that might give away any game. The chorus of birds is absent today, leaving only the hum of insects emanating from the trees.

I watch the shadows of the trees grow taller on the forest floor and sigh. It’s time to go.

I trudge back to the hollowed tree stump where I carefully wrap my bow in oilcloth to protect it against the elements. Readjusting my game bag with only two hares and some wild greens to show for my afternoon, I pick up my pace to a trot, making my way towards the fence. I stop briefly to listen for the hum of electricity. Hearing nothing, I wriggle under a loose section close to home.

The streets of the Seam are quiet, still awaiting the next layer of coal to be deposited off the backs of the miners toiling underground. I make this journey alone most days now. Since Gale has turned nineteen and started work at the mines, we are hunting partners only on his weekends off.

I have started to feel very envious of Gale sometimes. He no longer has to go to school and listen to lessons on the importance of coal production to Panem. He can finally support his family financially without relying on selling game at the Hob. And most of all he has survived the reapings.

The only place where I don’t have those terrible thoughts is the woods. Because in the woods there is no District 12. There is no Hunger Games. There is only green and bird song.

From the street, I catch sight of the clock atop the Hall of Justice and realise I am late to pick up Prim. Sliding my father’s hunting jacket off and dumping the game bag in front of an angry Buttercup who yowls in response, I cut through backyards to make it back to the schoolhouse.

The schoolhouse has apparently not changed in anyone living’s memory. It is only one room, built of whitewashed wood harvested from the forest that now lies outside the fence. Prim was supposed to wait outside on the front steps for me, but I can’t see her.

I fly up the steps, my braid swinging like a crazed pendulum behind me. Two of the long desks we sit at during classes have been covered in old cloths stained in many colours. The long bench seats have been pulled either side making it look more like a formal dinner setting than a classroom. Old jars stand filled with opaque shades of brown, grey, blue and violet atop the table. Pencils and charcoal are dotted between them. Darius, one of the younger peacekeepers is napping on a chair in the corner of the room, his hands resting on a folio stuffed with paper. The late afternoon sunlight casts a bright orange glow onto the crown of his head which rests on the window. The room is otherwise empty, but I see the back door is open, so I slow to a walk and make my way out the back.

I see the backs of Prim and Miss Flora our old schoolmistress standing over a tub together washing out paintbrushes quietly singing a folk song that calls for a good harvest. I take the stairs two at a time and walk around to stand opposite so as not to scare them knowing I have a light tread. “Prim, you said you would be out front,” I say hands on hips. Prim’s eyes widen pleading forgiveness. Miss Flora turns looks at me through her grimy spectacles and I swear I can almost see a hint of a smirk on her lips. She looks over to Prim and exclaims, “I’m sorry dear, time must have gotten away from us both. Thank you for all your help, I can take it from here.”

“But Miss Flora, Katniss and I could stay for a little…”

I open my mouth to rebut that no, we do not have time and that we need to make it home so I can cook dinner, but Prim continues:

“We still have to take all the paintings inside!”

Miss Flora pulls her hands out of the tub and wipes them on her apron, pushing her spectacles back up her nose. “I would certainly appreciate it if you two would do that, my knees aren’t quite what they used to be. If you could stack them all against the wall next to the blackboard.”

My stomach growls as I go to frown at Prim, but she is already wiping off her own hands on her skirts and skipping around the side to the building.

Miss Flora looks up at me and says, “Thank you Katniss, see you tomorrow morning,” and goes back to washing up, whistling the chorus of the song.

I follow Prim around the side of the schoolhouse to where the canvases are lined up to dry in the late afternoon sun. She has already got one in each hand and is heading inside with them. “Thank you, Katniss,” she says sweetly, and my face softens. I could never be angry with Prim.

As we pass one another, I catch sight of one of the paintings —a portrait of a man opening the door as he comes home from work in the mines. It is every bit a beloved father painted by an adoring child. But everything in it is too clean – the house, the father’s face, his clothes. One thing strikes me as true though, and that is his smile. I can remember my father always having one on as he walked through the door, bending down to hug me as I clung to his knees, and then he would scoop up a baby Prim to plant a kiss on her temple. Always the left one, where she has a birthmark so close to her hairline it is almost invisible. Sometimes I see her touching it when she looks at the photo of our father on the mantlepiece. Suddenly my chest feels tight, and I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the emotion swelling in my throat from spilling over into tears.

When I close my eyes, I can still see President Snow’s face pulling that letter out of the wooden box, his eyes cold as he reads out the words: “On the 75th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that the beauty and peace they enjoy at the generosity of the Capitol is still young, each district will send their youngest eligible male and female as tributes.”

The art was Snow’s addition. That “all the potential tributes should showcase their district and the generosity of the Capitol in art to be displayed in the Capitol before the Games.” There have never been proper art classes at school before. Only ever graphite pencils and plain paper which were already scarce. Most of the children in Twelve had only ever drawn on frosty windowpanes when there wasn’t enough money to keep the fire stoked with the coal their fathers toiled underground to mine during the long, harsh winters.

The day after President Snow’s announcement, a peacekeeper-guarded train arrived filled with coloured pencils, paints and paintbrushes in all the colours I could imagine and some that I couldn’t. There had been an announcement to all parents that children were to stay on Friday afternoons until the reaping to work on their pieces that would be considered for the “great honour” of travelling to the Capitol and representing our district. Of course, that should have include me, but I was excused by Miss Flora on account of my inability to think of anything I was remotely grateful for that the Capitol had given me. How could I be grateful to people who killed my father and left me and Prim to starve? Who will take away twenty-four twelve-year-olds to fight to the death for entertainment?

What I love about Twelve has nothing to do with them. I love Prim and my mother. I love Gale and his family. And I love the woods. Besides, my artistic abilities are limited to drawing hunting maps in the mud with a stick.

I blink my eyes back open into the afternoon and rub my eyelids with the hem of my shirt before Prim comes back. I grab two more canvases trying not to look at them and head back into the schoolhouse to lay them next to Darius’s chair with the others. Darius is still snoring softly, but has been joined by Purnia, another of the peacekeepers who is sitting on the opposite side of the room. We nod politely to one another having seen each other around the Hob. Prim and I continue this dance, passing each other with paintings in each hand, until I see Prim heading for the last two and I wait inside for her while Purnia starts collecting up the art materials from the tables into a large metal box with a lock. Purnia has almost cleared the tables and Prim still hasn’t come back inside, so I head back through the door and around the side where I see her standing perfectly still.

I walk towards her, my steps quickening as she fails to look away. “Prim,” I say from a metre or so away, but I get no response. She is so enraptured by the canvas she is looking at.

I reach for her shoulder placing my hand on top of it and eyeing her with concern. “Katniss,” she whispers quietly in reply, never turning her head to look at me. And so, I turn my head to see what has struck her almost dumb.

I recognise the scene immediately — it is the woods at the outskirts of District 12; the woods I left to come here. The leaves are the perfect shades of green with streaks of gold reflecting the sun overhead. There is even the dappled shade that covers the ground in the afternoons. I have this strange feeling of wanting to reach out and touch the leaves and hear them rustle under my fingertips. And then I focus on the figure in the middle of the painting, a girl with her face turned away and a long braid of black hair resting down the middle of her blue, floaty dress. Birds are perched in all the trees like a silent audience. Their beaks are shut, and they watch intently as if they have been held entranced by the girl.

“Katniss it’s you.” Prim says quietly, finally turning to look at me with tears in her eyes. It’s my turn to be struck dumb because I know she is telling the truth. My tongue feels like it has swollen up to the roof of my mouth and my throat feels as dry as if I hadn’t had a drop of water all day. Prim reaches out to me and takes my left hand in both of hers. She knows I can’t express whatever I’m feeling and not to make me try. She lets go of my hand to walk over and pick up the canvas with both hands, treating it with the utmost care, and starts walking it inside. I look over to the canvas next to it and see a warm hearth with a large scruffy yellow tabby cat and goat curled up on a rug and I smile knowing that Prim can always see the good through the grime.

Reaping Day - Part I

The sun is high in the sky, glaring off the windows in the square. There is no wind to flap the flag of Panem or the banners that have been hung on the Hall of Justice.

Prim and I have scrubbed ourselves to a healthy looking pink. My mother laid out her blue dress for me again, but at the thought of the painting I folded it and left it on the end of her bed. Instead, I am dressed in my favourite green blouse and skirt with my signature braid coiled up into a bun that sits on the nape of my neck.

My eyes flick between the stage and the younger girls a few rows ahead where I see Prim standing in her pink blouse and brown skirt. I have to keep reminding myself that she is safe. This time, my mind adds.

There is no need for the reaping balls this year. Everyone has known who will be going since the announcement or soon afterwards. The little girl Nona’s body shakes with her sobs. The boy Martin is trying to be brave, standing as tall as he can, but I can see the fear in his eyes. They are both Seam children — he the eldest of five, she the youngest of four. I walked past their parents: one mother sobbing like her only daughter, the other completely silent as if she had no tears left to cry as the baby slung across grabbed at her chest for comfort.

The paintings going to the Capitol have been hung behind the stage on a large piece of red fabric that I learned is called velvet. Prim’s painting is there amongst a dozen or so others. The painting of me is there as well. Together they tell a very different story of District 12 — one with fathers who always make it home, where there is always food to eat and coal to burn, where we are all surrounded by cleanliness and greenery.

Effie Trinket is back for the televised broadcast of the reaping. As usual she sports the bizarre fashions of the Capitol, with a gold wig teetering atop her head and red jewels stuck on her face. I adopt as neutral an expression I can through the proceedings. The entire district is silent apart from the wails of babies and the soft wooshes of fans held by adults to keep them from fainting. I can see the faces of the peacekeepers starting to falter as they too are struggling with the prospect of sending our youngest away to die far from home for the amusement of strangers. They end up having to restrain Nona as she tries to run for her parents. The only person whose resolve seems not to be tested is Haymitch Abernathy which I think is simply because he is too drunk to be aware of what’s going on.

When Nona and Martin have been taken to the train along with the paintings, the crowd slowly disperses. Prim comes and takes my hand, rubbing circles with her thumb over the back of it to soothe me. I can feel the tension in my jaw loosen a little. “What should we do, little duck?” I ask her, pulling my mouth into a closed smile.

“Can we go and look at the cakes in the bakery window?”

“Of course.” I know Mother will have already gone home to lie down.

Hand in hand we walk over to the bakery, an old brick building painted white and kept meticulously clean. I know the baker, Mr Mellark, well as he is one of my best customers. He loves squirrel, although I can only sell them to him when his wife isn’t around. She is a proud woman who thinks it is beneath them to eat game since they can afford “proper” meat.

I catch sight of the baker at the counter through the glass in the door and he dips his head at me in greeting, his eyes twinkling. Prim drags me towards the window, her nose mere inches from the glass, eyes roaming hungrily over cakes we could never afford.

As I stand there bent over holding Prim’s hand, I notice a new tray being pushed into the cabinet. Small cakes decorated with bright iced flowers on top. They remind me of the paint boxes from the Capitol. I stand up expecting see the baker, but instead my eyes meet his in a different face, that of his son, Peeta Mellark. His reaping clothes are covered by a well-used apron that bears splotches in many colours and a dusting of flour. I notice Peeta’s hands are covered in the same bright hues.

We hold each other’s gaze for a moment, I feel like he wants to ask me something. But then I hear his mother call out for him and his shoulders sag slightly and he turns away and disappears out the back.

Peeta the painter. It must have been him. Which just begs the question, why Peeta who has this comfortable life choose to paint me in the woods?

Reaping Day - Part II

Later that evening, out of our reaping clothes, we are drinking mugs of dandelion tea in candlelight in front of the empty hearth. I am oiling my boots to keep my hands busy and Prim is sitting cross legged with Buttercup on her lap. Instead of turning in to bed, Mother has fallen asleep in one of the armchairs. She dipped into her emergency stash of Ripper’s white liquor, which means she found today more distressing than usual. Father’s photo looks down on all of us from the mantle. The only sounds are my cloth rubbing against well-worn leather and the purr Buttercup eminates as Prim’s nails scratch his scalp. The broadcast of the reaping is at last over, each face of the tributes flashing before my eyes making me rub harder, my knuckles turning white.

A gentle knock on the front door brings me to my feet. Prim’s eyes are wide and worried as she stays rooted to the ground. Mother continues to slumber on.

I tiptoe over to the door and take a deep breath in as I open it into the cool night breeze unsure of what I will find.

A young man stands outside half in shadow, his head tilted down. “I’m sorry to come by so late,” he says, moving towards the light.

It's Peeta Mellark.

The left side of his face is covered with an ugly hand-shaped welt that has swollen his left-eye half shut. He is still dressed in his clothes from the reaping, his hands awkwardly holding his elbows.

My brain struggles to pass words to my mouth, so I instead wave him in and lock the door behind him. Prim’s hands are over her mouth. Peeta winces knowing what a sight he must be.

His blue eyes meet my grey ones. “I thought maybe your mother…” his sentence trails off. Of course, he is here for Mother.

I go to her and squeeze her forearm, but get no response, so I move to squeeze her shoulder. “Mother, wake up,” I say, my voice a little shaky. She screws her nose up but resists opening her eyes. Prim comes to stand next to me, taking Mother’s opposite hand, “Mother, please, there’s a patient here to see you.”

Prim has said the magic word. Mother’s eyes fly open, and she pushes down into the armchair to stand, smoothing down the front of her dress. She turns to see Peter still standing near the doorway. She gives no hint of pity in seeing his swollen face or his broken spirit.

“Come, sit,” she says like someone who was asleep only moments before. “Prim grab my bag. Katniss, boil some water.” She takes Peeta by the arm and leads him to our kitchen table, settling him in one of the chairs.

As instructed, I head outside to fill the kettle from the pump in the backyard. Seconds later I hear Mother come out behind me, and in my peripheral vision I can see her outline heading for the outhouse. The liquor must have caught up with her.

We head back inside together, not speaking until, as we are a foot away from the back door, she whispers almost inaudibly, “She always did have a nasty temper, his mother.” I almost stumble and fall behind her, closing the door behind me. In the dim light, I catch my reflection in the glass panes of the door and feel like I am looking at a ghost.

I put the kettle on the stovetop and sit down at the end of the kitchen table, watching Mother and Prim working together like a well-oiled machine. They grind up herbs and roots out of jars kept in Mother’s leather apothecary bag to make a poultice. The train of thoughts in my head stretches on without end:

How could his own mother do this?

On a day she was able to keep her son?

I must have lost track of time as I am broken out of my reverie by the order “Katniss, make Peeta tea with some willow bark,” as the kettle whistle crescendos in the background.

I make my way over to the stove, shifting the kettle off the hot plate. “How do you take your tea?” I ask without turning to face Peeta.

“No shu-argh-no sugar, thank you,” he replies, wincing at the sting of whatever Mother is applying.

I steep the willow bark with the tea leaves in one of our nicer mugs, listening to Prim ask Mother questions about the ingredients in the ointment she has applied. When the tea is ready, I make my way around the table to stand in front of Peeta. He is sitting quietly, hands folded in his lap, looking down.

I hold out the mug to him with both hands. He lifts his head up and I get a better look at the mark his mother’s hand has made. If I had a paintbrush, I could trace the outline of each of her fingers. There is a small section that is deeper and jagged where a ring has torn into the milky flesh of his cheek. Peeta reaches both of his hands out for the mug and his fingertips brush mine ever so gently. I want to yelp as the feeling of an electric shock runs up my arms, but I end up biting my tongue.

Our eyes meet again, and I look away.

Every time I see his eyes, I am back there, sitting in the rain outside the bakery.

“Thank you, Katniss,” he whispers quietly.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. “Excuse me,” I say to the room as I head back outside to rinse my mouth out.

When his tea is finished, Mother sends Peeta home with a small jar of the ointment and a poultice to keep on it to reduce the swelling. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him, so I sat there awkwardly with my stomach twisting and turning on itself.

She tidies up and heads to bed without saying another word. Prim gets into bed with her, pre-empting the nightmares she will have after today.

I crawl into my own bed alone, pulling the thin, woven blanket over me. I stare up at the ceiling and feel like the world is moving around me ever so slightly, pitching my stomach side to side even as I lie as still as possible. I feel so unbalanced and all I want to do is sleep to make it go away, but I also don’t want to close my eyes. I don’t want to watch the reaping replayed in my dreams. I don’t want to trace the outline of the mark on Peeta’s face. I can’t tell which is worse anymore, being awake or being asleep. I exhale all the air in my lungs and try to focus on the sliver of sky I can see through the roof, hoping sleep will take me by surprise.

Late Summer

I take every opportunity after the reaping to disappear into the woods.

The weather is still warm, but I leave my father’s hunting jacket on and stick to the shade cast by grandfather trees. The song of invisible birds rings out through the small clearing not too far from the fence. There is no need to hunt today, but I carry my bow out of habit. “If you aren’t prepared to fight then you have already lost,” as my father used to say.

As my eyes wander through the trees, I am reminded of Peeta’s painting — all those birds perched, listening. I feel silly, but I want it to be real, so I lower my bow and clear my throat. The words are tucked deep into my memory, and so as I start to sing, I close my eyes to help bring them to my lips:

“Down in the valley, valley so low, Late in the evening, hear the train blow. The train, love, hear the train blow. Late in the evening, hear the train blow. Go build me a mansion, build it so high, So I can see my true love go by. See him go by, love, see him go by. So I can see my true—" I swirl around as a twig snaps behind me.

The corner of a blue shirt and brown boot catch my eye from behind the trunk of a red oak.

I can feel my heartbeat thudding in my ears as I raise and draw my bow.

“Who’s there?” I ask. The birds are silent like curious onlookers.

From behind the tree Peeta steps out his hands raised in surrender. The mark on his face has vanished.

“Sorry,” he says, looking up past me to the trees, “I’m just here to paint,” he leans his head over to his left shoulder which carries a canvas bag. “I was going to move along but…” his voice trails off.

“But what,” I snapped, my bow still raised at his throat.

“But you really can make the birds fall silent.” He gestured up at the trees and I turned around to see the birds had come out into the open, onto the edges of the tree branches like spectators in the highest stands of an arena. They all stood perfectly still as if Peeta and I were Covey midway through an act.

“I remember you singing that song when we were in music class.” Peeta adds.

“My father always said your father could make all the birds fall silent too.”

I am glad I have my back turned to Peeta at this point because I don’t know what to say. I just stand their silently, making eye contact with each of the birds in turn.

“He wanted to marry your mother you know, my father that is. I don’t think my mother’s ever gotten over feeling like a second choice…” He adds.

“I’ll go,” Peeta says after the silence between us grows, he shifts his weight with the resultant rustle of leaves.

“Peeta, I’m sorry.” I blurt out as I turn back around and narrow the gap between us.

Now it’s Peeta’s turn to be confused. He looks at me with a furrowed brow, sunlight glinting off his eyelashes making them outline his eyes in gold.

“I’m sorry your mother did that.” I clarify, tipping my nose towards his left cheek.

Peeta’s brow relaxes, and his face twists into a sad smile. “She was so angry when she saw that painting,” he explains.

“But this was what I thought of when I thought about everything good and pure in District Twelve.”

I duck my head and feel the heat of a blush rise in my cheeks.

Peeta’s voice picks up where I left off:

“—so I can see my true love go by.

Go write a letter, send it by mail. Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail. Capitol jail, love, to the Capitol jail. Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail.”

There is a commotion as the birds prepare to take flight, jostled by this new voice that sings in a slightly off-key tenor. To settle them, I join him to finish: “Roses are red, love; violets are blue. Birds in the heavens know I love you. Know I love you, oh, know I love you, Birds in the heavens know I love you.”

The last note of our voices intertwined seems to hang in the air, vibrating slowly.

Something different is in Peeta’s eyes when I meet them this time. It is both steely and determined, soft and enveloping. The trees behind him seem to shift back and forth despite there being no wind.

I feel myself drawn towards him and reach out for the same place that ugly welt marked his face. As lightly as moth wings, I place my hand where his mother’s lay. His skin feels like it is burning my fingertips.

Peeta reaches up to encircle my wrist.

“Katniss,” he says softly, looking straight at me.

And to make everything straighten out I press my lips against his.

#thg fanfiction #the hunger games #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3fic #everlark #this would have happened anyway #sillymarigolds

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