#within a minute fall dramatically into red’s arms

[teeth-draws]

I’m ashamed at the difference in art style Liefred anyone would think you’re my favourite /// @shepherds-of-haven

Ohhh but he used to think nothing of it…

Torturing my fav RO again from @shepherds-of-haven

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 13: Condemned From The Start] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), death, angsttttttt, more children than usual, Wolfman!

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 8.1k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy the finale.🦀💚

In the Eyrie, one of Rhaena Targaryen’s three dragon eggs has hatched at last; the creature is small and pink, and she has named it Morning. When Rhaena’s tears fall onto the scales of her diminutive wings, they glitter like flecks of rose quartz. Deep within the snow-laden labyrinth of the Mountains of the Moon, Nettles is in hiding with Sheepstealer; already the nearby clans are bringing her offerings of meat and treasure, axes and clubs and daggers, hairpins carved from the ribs of enemies and necklaces made of bear teeth. Silverwing is settling into a lair on an island in the Red Lake at the northwestern corner of the Reach. Word of this has travelled back to King’s Landing, and Borros Baratheon implores Aegon II to seize Silverwing for himself; but the king does not want a new dragon. He wants Sunfyre back. That grim truth aside, Aegon is unable to trek across the continent to tame the beast anyway. Some days he cannot even cross a room. At the bottom of the Gods Eye, bodies are dissolving into bones, threads of long white hair breaking loose to flow in the currents like weightless strands of spider webs torn free by cold drafts. And only a few miles from the border of the Crownlands—preparing to cross the icy waters of the Blackwater Rush—the army of Northmen camps under a full moon in a clear, indigo sky heavy with stars like glinting coins.

“There are passageways under King’s Landing,” Clement Celtigar says. He stands by the bonfire with his sword in his hand, his face flame-bright and eager, forever licking up drops of the Kingmaker’s approval, a stray cat lapping milk splashed in an alley. Increasingly, Cregan Stark finds him tiresome. Clement is brash and dramatic, forever swearing vengeance, reveling in his newfound position as the head of his house. The Warden of the North has never had to beg for attention, admiration, acclaim. These things come to him like snow falls to the earth in winter: effortlessly, inevitably. Yet Cregan tries to be patient. Clement is soon to be his brother-in-law, and it is dishonorable to fail to extend courtesy to one’s kin. Furthermore, it seems, Clement has his uses.

“Are there really?”

Clement nods. He wears the banner of his house on a strip of fabric looped around his upper arm: crabs red like blood, a backdrop of white like snow. “That monster’s disciples used them to kidnap my sister from the Red Keep. But she fought hard. When we searched her rooms, all the furniture was upturned and the sheets ripped from her bed.”

“She is brave,” Cregan murmurs in agreement, though he is distracted now. The air tastes like smoke and ice, the wind rubs raw spots into the soldiers’ faces. They are arriving just in time. The depths of winter is no time to wage war. Cregan Stark imagines how you will greet him when he liberates you: a desperate embrace, hands that refuse to let go, whispered gratitude and breathless kisses on his earth-stained knuckles, bones of steel softened by the innate weakness of womanhood. You will love him, of course you will, fervently and entirely. Then when the realm and succession are secured, the Kingmaker will take you North and wed you in the tradition of his people, under the heart tree where the Old Gods can witness it. And then there will be the wedding night. In Cregan’s understanding, women receive little pleasure from the act itself. It is a burden they bear for the men they love, for the children they are divinely tasked with bringing into existence. Cregan Stark intends to alleviate your suffering in this regard as much as possible…yet he has already begun to choose the names of the sons he will make with you. He especially likes the sound of Brandon, sturdy and grounded and thought to mean leader or prince. “This is the last night your sister will ever spend in the clutches of the Usurper.”

“Praise the Seven.” Then Clement adds diplomatically: “And the Old Gods too, of course.”

“It’s the end of the world,” Cregan Stark says, gazing up into the night sky where constellations tell the stories men deem worthy of remembering. “And the start of a brand new one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“How did you learn to braid hair?” little Jaehaera asks you in her lilting, reedy voice like a bird’s. You are sitting behind her on the floor in Alicent’s bedchamber. Nearby, Autumn is flipping through a child’s book with Rhaenyra’s ever-solemn son, murmuring as she points to colorful illustrations of ravens, dolphins, bears, dragons, crabs. They are learning to read together.

“My sisters taught me,” you tell the princess. Firelight turns her silver hair to gold, her pale skin to flames. Logs crack and pop as they melt to glowing embers. Alicent glances over at you and sighs despairingly. The dowager queen, so thin she might disappear, is hunched in a chair by the fireplace. She has an unshakeable, rattling sort of cough that reminds you of how Sunfyre sounded on Dragonstone when he was near the end. Her long auburn tresses are falling out in handfuls. She will not survive the winter, this is a certainty.

“You have sisters?” Jaehaera says, surprised. “How many?”

You smile faintly as you weave her hair into one thick braid like the kind Aemond once wore when he went to battle. “Three. Piper, Petra, and Penelope.”

“Where are they now?”

“Back on Claw Isle, where I came from. With our mother.” Mourning Father, mourning Everett, writing letters to Clement to keep his spirits high as he and the Warden of the North march towards King’s Landing to slay the Greens’ king and bind me to a different man’s will.

“What’s Claw Isle like?” Jaehaera asks with a child’s clear, boundless curiosity.

“Rocky, misty, grey. But the ocean is beautiful.” You think of Aegon’s eyes, the same as his daughter’s, a murky storm-blue that is deeper than it looks.

“What brought you here?”

You consider this before you answer. You see it, you feel it: cinders like dark snow in the air, Aemond’s iron grip on your forearm. “When your father was burned at the Battle of Rook’s Rest, he needed someone to help heal him. Your uncle Aemond found me.”

“And he asked you to stay with us?”

He would have slit my throat if I said no. “Yes, he asked very politely, as any gentleman would. And of course I agreed. I wanted to make the king strong again. I wanted to take his pain away.”

Jaehaera stares down at her tiny hands, palms crossed with lines that are long and shadowy in the shifting firelight. She does not speak of Aegon. She does not know him, and he frightens her: the burns on his skin, the suffering in his glazed eyes. She has no memories to impress his true character upon her. If she does not make them herself, she will believe whatever she is told. “I miss Aemond. I miss Daeron.”

“I know, sweetheart.” They were formally laid to rest yesterday on two funeral pyres. Daeron’s bloodied, charred, seafoam green cape was burned to ashes on one. All that was left of Aemond—his favorite books, his quills and ink, small leather eyepatches from when he was a boy—were torched on the other. “I miss them too.”

Jaehaera’s braid is finished. You reach into a pocket of your emerald green velvet gown to retrieve what you have brought for her: a thin golden chain necklace with Aegon’s ring as a pendant. He can’t wear it anymore. His fingers are too swollen. “What is this?” Jaehaera says as you place the chain around her neck. She lifts the ring and peers at it, gold wings and jade eyes.

“It’s supposed to resemble Sunfyre,” you explain. “Your father loves you very much, Jaehaera. He wanted you to have this ring and keep it with you always.” Aegon didn’t say that; he rarely mentions Jaehaera at all. Sometimes you think he forgets she exists. But she is a part of him, she is his legacy, and you cannot look at any piece of her without seeing the man you love.

“He gave it to me? Like a gift?”

“Yes. A gift.” A gift, an inheritance, a relic, a reminder.

Jaehaera turns around and looks up at you hopefully, vast wave-blue eyes like winter oceans. “Do you think I’ll have another dragon someday?”

Her own infant beast, Morghul, was killed in the Dragonpit before Rhaenyra fled the city. “Maybe,” you tell her. “There are eggs that could hatch someday. And there are a few unclaimed adults left, Silverwing and the Cannibal. Perhaps you’ll tame one.”

She wrinkles her nose in confusion. “What’s a cannibal?”

Someone who murders, devours, fuels their body to the detriment of their soul. “Someone who eats their own kind. Like a dragon who feeds on other dragons.”

“So just like in the war. Dragons killing dragons.”

“Exactly,” you say, a shiver crawling down your spine. “Now go show your new necklace to Grandmother.”

Jaehaera wobbles to her feet and dashes across the firelit bedchamber to where Alicent is slumped in her chair. “Look, look! It’s Sunfyre!” you hear Jaehaera chirping. Alicent examines the ring—skeletal hands trembling, large dark eyes slick with tears—and dutifully fawns over it, telling the little girl how beautiful she looks, how brave she has been. Then she bundles Jaehaera into her boney arms and holds her like she’ll never let go. Autumn catches your gaze from the other side of the room, and when you leave to return to Aegon she follows.

“What is your plan if the Greens lose the battle?” she says in the hallway under an arc of grey stones. Her tone is urgent, her hazel eyes sharp. Everyone knows the Northmen are within days of King’s Landing. Borros Baratheon—a large, loud, abrasive man, but with a bottomless appetite for combat—and his soldiers will march out of the city tomorrow to meet Cregan Stark’s army on the fields of the Crownlands, sparse and grey with winter. The Lord of Storm’s End has spent hours locked in the council chamber discussing strategy with Larys Strong, Corlys Velaryon, and the misfortunate yet courageous Tyland Lannister, maimed by his months of torture at the hands of the Blacks.

“We won’t.” We can’t.

Autumn slams her palm against the wall behind you; the sick thud of flesh against stone reminds you of the day Helaena died. “Wake up. We might. You’d better have your options figured out.”

And you recall Larys’ words on Dragonstone: I think it’s time for you to consider what your options are if a Green victory no longer appears to be viable. “We’ll run,” you say weakly. “We’ll take Aegon and we’ll escape through the corridors under the Red Keep, just like he did before. Cregan Stark will kill Aegon if he finds him. I can’t let that happen. We’ll have to run.”

“Run where?” Autumn snaps pointedly, pushing you towards a conclusion you refuse to acknowledge.

“I don’t know.”

“Where? Where could we go that is beyond the grasp of your wolf if he seizes the capital?”

“Dorne, Essos. Somewhere, anywhere.”

“The king won’t survive a journey like that.”

You cover your face with your hands, feel the biting cold of snowflakes melting in your hair, see the stains of earth on your thighs as Cregan Stark forces them apart. How can I lie with a man who hailed the deaths of people I loved? How can I spend the rest of my life listening to him being called a hero for killing Aegon? How can I give him children? How could I love a baby that was half-made of him? “We ran before. We’ll have to do it again.”

Autumn scoffs. “You have no idea what it means to be a woman on your own in the world. What will you become without a great house, without protection? A prostitute? A peasant? Will you eat scraps covered with rot or mold? Will you live in a tree? Will you beg some family to take you in? And then when the father who is oh-so-gallant in daylight starts fumbling under your blankets once the candles are blown out, will you let him inside you? Or will you fight him off and risk a blade in your guts, your throat? You have no fucking idea what it’s like out there.”

“I don’t care what happens to me if Aegon’s gone.”

“You would abandon Jaehaera? You would abandon me?” Autumn demands. “You speak for us now. You are the only one who can. Our fates are twisted up with yours.”

That’s true. And I promised Helaena I would look out for her daughter. You can’t imagine a life without Aegon; there was a time when he was only a name—and an infamous one, a terrible one, soulless and monstrous—but now he has broken down the eaves of what you were once resigned to call your life and painted colors in the sky you’d never glimpsed before, never even dreamed of. You ask Autumn with genuine, painful bewilderment: “What is the point of learning that something exists only to have it taken away? Why would that happen? Where is the justice in it, where is the reason?”

Autumn smiles, sad and patient. “Ah, this is an affliction of the highborn. You still believe that there is a design, and that life has some amount of fairness in it. There is no divine judgment being passed, my lady. There is no god weighing the worth of your dragon or your wolf or yourself. Life is random, and it is ungovernable, and it is very often cruel. And that makes it all the more remarkable that you knew the king for the time you did. That you ever met him.”

It wasn’t enough. And I can never go back to who I was before. “I’m sorry. I should not complain to you. Your losses have been terrible.”

“It is no contest,” Autumn replies, weary now. “But I should go back to check on the children. They need me.”

“No. They love you.”

And now she beams, sparkling eyes and copper ringlets. She doesn’t need to say it, you can both feel it in the winter-cold air. She loves them in return. She loves them fiercely. As long as they live, she will have reasons to.

When you reach Aegon’s bedchamber, Grand Maester Orwyle is just leaving. He bows to you and grins, pleased that you have both survived the fall and retaking of King’s Landing. He is haggard from his months in the dungeons when Rhaenyra ruled the capital, but he endured. Who would have guessed at the start of this war that the old man had more years left than Aemond or Daeron or harmless little Maelor? You wait in the hallway for the maester to amble sluggishly by, but then when he is gone, you peer through the slit of the half-open door to see that Lord Larys Strong is speaking to Aegon, who is propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows and wearing only his cotton sleeping trousers. He is thin, frail, ghostly pale with the exception of the scars that are a mosaic of white and scarlet and bruise-like violet. Aegon and Larys have not noticed you. You linger just outside the doorway, watching, listening.

You can take care of Aegon as much as you wish now: feed him, clothe him, clean sweat from his brow, dose him with milk of the poppy, rub rose oil into his scars, stretch his legs, test the heat of his skin for fever. He’s too weak to stop you. He can’t walk, can’t stand, can’t stay awake for more than an hour or two at a time, can’t even pour his own wine or milk of the poppy; the glass bottles are too heavy when full. Yesterday, Aegon had to be carried outside in a litter to see the remnants of his brothers burned on the pyres. And he had exchanged a brief, somber glance with Autumn that you neither anticipated nor understood. He acknowledges her so rarely. And yet her small hazel eyes had been alarmed, knowing.

Larys is saying with a grave expression and his restless hands propped in the handle of his cane: “Lord Borros Baratheon is asking for your assurance that as soon as the war is won, you will take his eldest daughter Cassandra as your wife.”

Aegon stares at him, incredulously, impatiently. Aegon has not called you his wife in the company of others since his homecoming. You do not ask why. You already know. It is not because his intentions have changed; it is because if he is not the victor, your life is in less danger as his captive than as his queen. “Surely even a man as brainless as Borros can surmise that there would not be much benefit for the lady now. I am a worm. Useless, pathetic, deformed, no longer virile.”

“He is willing to take the chance, I gather. And he is placing his eggs in more than one basket. He would like another daughter, Floris, to be married to me.”

“Seven hells,” Aegon mutters. Then he turns determined. “I cannot marry another. I won’t do it. I am claimed already, body and soul.”

“I fear how enthusiastically Borros’ men will fight for you if you do not agree to the match. He is risking his life for your cause. He will expect generous repayment.”

Aegon is quiet for a long time. He stares fixedly at his bedside table: a full cup, a large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. His dagger is still there from when you cut and braided his hair for him this morning; he cannot do it himself anymore. At last Aegon says, almost too low for you to discern from the doorway: “He’s not cruel, is he?”

“Who? Borros Baratheon?”

Aegon glares at Larys. “No.”

After a moment, Larys realizes what his king means. “Cregan Stark isn’t cruel. I’ve heard many whispers from many mouths, but I’ve never heard that.”

“Look at me. Don’t lie to me.”

“He isn’t cruel,” Larys says again. “Perhaps the truth is worse. He is measured, competent, merciful, wise. He is honorable. The Manderlys want to torture everyone and the Boltons itch to sharpen their flaying knives but Stark forbids it. He respects the laws of war. He tries to avoid the slaughter of noncombatants. He forbids his men from burning farms or raping women. He is devoted to the woman you call your wife. He takes no mistresses, visits no brothels. Cregan Stark is not a monster. He’s not soulless. He’s just on the wrong side.”

Aegon nods slowly, then his face breaks into a humorless smirk. “Tell Borros Baratheon that I’ll marry whichever daughter he wants me to when the war is over. I’ll marry all four if that is his preference, and bed them all on the wedding night too, one right after the other. Agree to anything he asks for. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

It doesn’t matter because none of it will ever happen, even if the Baratheon army does win the Iron Throne for the Greens. It doesn’t matter because Aegon does not believe he’ll still be here in a month, or two weeks, or perhaps even days.

But he can’t mean that. He’s not thinking clearly. He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain, you tell yourself, before remembering that Aemond said it first.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Larys is subdued, sorrowful. He bows deeply to his king. Then he turns to depart.

“One more thing,” Aegon says, gesturing to something on the side of his bed you can’t see from where you’re standing. “I hate to impose upon you further, but I can’t manage it myself. Can you take that and empty it somewhere? I don’t care where. But you must keep it hidden from my wife. The red-haired girl Autumn knows, and so do the maesters now. They are all sworn to secrecy. Can I trust you to exercise the same circumspection?”

Larys is gaping down at an object that is a mystery to you. He begins to stammer out a reply, stops to collect himself, and starts again. “Yes. Yes you can.”

“Good.”

Larys picks up the object; you are puzzled to discover that it is a chamber pot, white and porcelain. And as he navigates around Aegon’s bed and towards the door where you wait, you see that the vessel is full of blood.

You gasp before you can stop yourself, a razor-sharp inhale of breath that both men hear. They spot you, lurking in the doorway like someone lost, someone far from home. Shock bolts across Aegon’s face, and then frustration, and then defeat, and then profound misery.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, I just knew…I knew you’d be upset and I…I didn’t want to hurt you. I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”

“How long?”

“It doesn’t matter, Angel.”

“How long?” you ask again. “Just since this morning?”

“Four or five days now.”

“Four or five…?” Your mind whirls like storm winds. He’s dying. He’s really dying. His kidneys are failing and there’s nothing I can do. I can’t cut him open and stitch him back together. There’s no wound to scrub clean with vinegar and then bandage with honey and linen. There’s no brew that can restore the rhythm of his blood and bones and nerves. He’s just dying. That’s all there is. That’s the beginning and the end of it.

“Please don’t cry,” Aegon says, reading your face. “Don’t do that, please don’t, I’ve hurt you enough already.”

His hands stretch out to close the space between you, and as Larys slips from the room you go to Aegon, climb into bed beside him, collapse into him as his arms catch you and rest your head against his bare, scarred chest, his feverish skin mottled with the history of wounds you helped close all those months ago. “I’m sorry,” you sob. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you go after Baela and Moondancer on Dragonstone. I should have stopped you. I should have dragged you inside the castle to wait until Aemond and Vhagar could help you. I shouldn’t have let Aemond go to Harrenhal. I shouldn’t have let Daeron fly south. I shouldn’t have let Autumn go back to King’s Landing, and I shouldn’t have let Everett stay there. I shouldn’t have let Helaena leap from the window. I should have stopped Maelor from being sent to the Reach. I should have stopped Rhaenys and the Red Queen from taking flight to burn you in your armor at Rook’s Rest. I should have stopped this! I should have done something! The only good thing I’ve ever had to offer the world was healing but I can’t save anyone, I can’t stop their suffering, I can’t do anything!”

“None of it was within your control, and none of it was your responsibility. I am the king. The fate of my kingdom and my followers rests with me. I wear their spilled blood, not you. I am so full of red I’m overflowing with it.” And he chuckles, sardonic, exhausted. He’s already battling unconsciousness again; you can hear his heartbeat slackening, the slow laborious expanding and contracting of his lungs.

“Aegon,” you say softly, as if afraid to speak it into existence. “What happens if the Baratheons don’t win tomorrow?”

“They will. They have to. There’s nothing I can do for you if they lose.” Then he winces and groans. It’s his back again, his failing kidneys, overrun with so much ruin—burns and breaks and pressure and heartache—that their cadence faltered and then ceased. You grab his cup of milk of the poppy and tilt it against his lips; and how many times have you done this since you met him, burned nearly to death and half-mad at Rook’s Rest? A hundred? Aegon drinks it down, his arms still tight around your waist. They do not loosen until he’s out like a snuffed candle.

You refill the cup on his bedside table with milk of the poppy in case he needs more when he wakes, pick up the dagger you use to cut his disheveled hair, take it to the dresser. And in the cascade of silver moonlight flooding in through the windows, you practice laying the gleaming blade against your wrists, pressing it to the throbbing arteries of your throat, angling the sharpened point of it between a gap in your ribs and towards your racing heart.

Autumn. Jaehaera. Aemond’s child that Alys carries. I still have promises to keep. I still have tasks that cannot be left unfinished.

Helaena’s words surface like a drowned man dredged from the waves: You must whisper into the right ears.

You set the dagger down on top of the dresser and roam to the castle library where Aemond once spent so many hours. You collect a stack of anatomy books and carry them back to Aegon’s bedchamber. There, before the roaring fireplace, you devour them for any scrap of hope, any last resort. You turn pages until one illustration stops you. It is an unclothed man, his major veins etched in blue and his arteries in red, his nerves a faded yellow, his bones white and unshattered, his body a roadmap of the bricks and mortar used by the architects of nature. You have seen this image before. It is the same page Aegon teased you for studying when you were travelling by carriage back to the capital from Rook’s Rest.

You rip out the page, crumple it violently, pitch it into the fire and watch it burn.

~~~~~~~~~~

At dawn, Lord Borros Baratheon leads his men out of the city. You hear them through the glass panes of the windows, closed against the winter chill and flecked with frost: boots marching, hooves of warhorses clomping against cobblestones. They carry with them swords and spears and bows and morning stars like the one Criston Cole was famed for using. Meanwhile, throughout the city, civilians are arming themselves with anything they can find to ward off an invasion of Northmen, creatures they believe to be bestial and mindless. Men carry kitchen knives and clubs fashioned out of bits of furniture or driftwood. Women hide their young children in cupboards and under creaking wooden floors.

“I should be going with them,” Aegon says. He’s just taken another dose of milk of the poppy and is struggling to keep his eyes open. His long, slow blinks close his vacant eyes for ever-increasing intervals. You’ve changed his clothes and cleaned the sweat from his skin as best you can, but he’s burning from the inside out.

“You’re not able to fight, Aegon. Nobody faults you for that. Everyone knows you were wounded in battle.”

“They must think I’m a coward.”

“No, you inspire them. They love you. I love you.”

Aegon doesn’t say it back. He never says it back. He only offers you the same drowsy, mournful phrase of High Valyrian he always does, not knowing that Aemond told you what it means: To your misfortune.

Autumn is with the children in Alicent’s rooms. The castle is tense and as quiet as a crypt—Alicent weeps soundlessly, Larys paces the halls with Corlys and Tyland Lannister, everyone peeks out of windows constantly to see if bannermen of the victor have appeared on the horizon—but she keeps them distracted with stories and games. You cycle between Alicent’s bedchamber and Aegon’s. He is in and out of consciousness; sometimes you perch beside him on the bed, sometimes you lie curled up against him counting the beats of his heart, sometimes you help Autumn read to Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger. It is just after noon when the city bells begin to toll and screams rise from the streets outside the Red Keep. You and Autumn hurry to a window. In the distance, beyond the city gates, there is a swarming mass of infantry, cavalry, archers. Their banners, when you strain your eyes to decipher them, are not the brazen, vivid yellow of House Baratheon. They are night black and an icy, steely grey. They are the colors of House Stark.

“No,” Autumn says, denial in a protracted, helpless exhale. Alicent shrieks, frightening the children. You grab Autumn’s hand and lead her out into the hallway to warn the others if they don’t know already.

Lord Corlys Velaryon comes bounding up a staircase. “There are soldiers down in the secret passageways!” he booms. “Northmen! Armed! I’ve helped our guards bar the doors, but that won’t hold them back forever.”

Autumn looks to you. “Get the children ready to travel,” you tell her. “Find Larys and inform him.”

“Yes, my lady,” she says, and is gone. You sprint in the opposite direction towards Aegon’s bedchamber. You blow the door open like a strong wind, and Aegon startles awake. You rip through his dresser for things he will need: warm clothes, boots, his dagger, bottles of milk of the poppy.

“Get up, Aegon. We have to go. We’ll run, we’ll flee, there are Northmen in the tunnels but we’ll find another way out, we have to try, we have to, if they catch you they’ll—”

“Come sit with me,” he says from the bed, calmly, like you have all the time in the world. He is reaching out for you with one hand.

“What? No, we have to hurry—”

“Angel,” Aegon says. “I need you to come sit with me now.”

Why isn’t he afraid? Why isn’t he frantic? You cross the room with slow, numb footsteps. When you reach the bed, Aegon takes both of your hands in his own. And suddenly you know exactly what he is going to say. You remember what he told his brother in High Valyrian the last time Aemond left Dragonstone. Your voice is trembling and hoarse. Your throat burns like embers. “Aemond was supposed to be here to help us win. But he’s gone. Daeron, Criston, Helaena, Otto, Everett, Jaehaerys, Maelor, Autumn’s baby, so many people are gone.”

Aegon whispers, smiling softly as tears spill down his cheeks, one scarred and the other pure: “I’m not going to get better this time.”

“No,” you moan. “No, Aegon, no. You can’t say that, you can’t tell me that—”

“I’m not going to get better.” Now his palms cradle your face, forcing you to listen. “I’m not. And it’s okay. I’m not angry, I’m not scared. You’ve done everything you could and you’ve bought me more time and I’m so grateful. But I don’t want it to hurt anymore. I’ve been in pain for so long. I’ve been in pain my whole goddamn life.” He kisses you, like tasting something rare and fleeting. His thumbprint skates along the curve of your jaw, memorizing the angles of your bones, the rhythm of your pulse. “Please, Angel. I don’t want to try to run and die on the side of the road somewhere. I don’t want to die with Cregan Stark’s blade at my throat.”

You shake your head, unable to believe, unable to understand.

Aegon glances to the empty cup on his bedside table, to the large glass bottle of milk of the poppy. Then his eyes return to you. “You know how to do it.”

No. Never. But beneath those cold, dark, stormy waters: It would be painless. “I can’t,” you say, overwhelmed with horror.

“Listen, listen to me—”

“No—”

“Angel.”

“I can’t do that to you. Not to you. I can’t, I can’t.”

“When I’m gone, go to Cregan Stark,” Aegon says. “He is an honorable man, he will ensure your survival. He is the only person who can now. He wants to put his mark on the world. He wants to play Kingmaker. Let him. He can decree that my daughter will marry Rhaenyra’s son and ascend to the Iron Throne. He can end the war. Cregan will keep you safe. Tell him that I kidnapped you, that I forced myself on you. Tell him that I wanted an heir with Valyrian blood. Tell him that I was a drunk, a degenerate. Tell him whatever he wants to hear.”

“You would become a monster?”

“To protect you? I would become anything.”

He’s holding you, he’s pulling you into him until you can feel the fever bleeding from his flesh into yours, until you can number the knots of his spine and the ladder-rungs of his ribcage, counting them with your fingers through the sweat-drenched fabric of his cotton shirt. You draw back to look at him, to really look at him, sunken bloodshot eyes and rasping breaths, scar tissue of the body and the soul. You remember the day you met him, how he’d begged to die and been refused, how you brought him back. You postponed a debt, but you never paid it. It’s not possible to ever pay enough. You stack up gold coins in a vault until they touch the ceiling and still the Stranger comes knocking, jangling his purse sewn with scorched skin and chanting: more, more, more.

Aegon glances to the cup again. “How much?” he asks you, hushed like a prayer.

You don’t answer. Instead, you stand and go to the dresser. You open a small wooden door beneath the mirror. Your reflection is a woman you don’t know, someone who walks through fog and memory, someone made of ghosts. You take four clean cups from the cabinet and set them on Aegon’s bedside table. As he watches—eyes glassy with agony, lungs rattling—you fill them all with smooth, pearlescent, lethal liquid, as well as the empty cup that was already there. “Five,” you say, and it sounds nothing like you. “I think three at once would be enough. Five to make sure.”

He sobs with relief, and only now do you realize how badly he needed this. “Thank you. Oh gods, thank you.”

Your own words come back like an echo: I preserve life, I don’t take it. But that was a different lifetime, a different you. Aegon’s fingers are lacing through yours. He is drawing you back onto the bed, he is brushing your hair back from your face, he is kissing the path of tears down your cheeks so he doesn’t waste a drop of you. He’ll never get another taste, another chance; not in this life, not on this earth.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the end with you,” he says. “I really tried.”

“I know, Aegon.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough.”

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

He looks down at his left hand, then remembers where his ring has gone. He chuckles, darkly, bitterly, dismayed by all the failings he is built of. “I don’t even have anything to give you.” Then he remembers. “My dagger. Can you get my dagger?”

You are petrified. “Why?”

He grins, dull teeth beneath dazed eyes. “I’m not going to hack off a finger or my exemplary cock or something. I promise. Just get it.”

You fetch the dagger and bring it to the bed, and only then do you realize what he means for you to have. He points to it, then threads it through his pale, swollen fingers: his thin lock of hair that you’ve been weaving for him since the day you met. He wants you to take his braid.

“You’ll have to cut it yourself,” he says. “I don’t think I can.”

You hook the blade beneath the top of his braid, and with a few cautious slices of the dagger it is free. You tuck the braid into a pocket of your gown, thick black velvet to guard against the winter cold. Then you lay the dagger on the bedside table and pick up one of the cups filled to the brim with milk of the poppy. Your tears are scalding and torrential; it is almost impossible to see through them. You smooth back Aegon’s white-blond hair as you pour the blissful, deadly brew through his lips and down his throat, hating yourself, knowing it is the kindest thing you can do for him.

Suddenly, when the cup is half-drained, Aegon pushes it away. “You don’t have to be here. You don’t have to watch,” he says. “I can do the rest. Go, now. Right now. If the Boltons or some other house finds you before Cregan does, they might not recognize you. They might not care. You’re only safe with Cregan Stark. He has to find you first.” Aegon takes the cup with one shaking hand and presses a palm to your shoulder with the other. You haven’t moved. You can’t move. “Go. Leave me. Now. Please go. I love you, but you have to go now.”

“I can’t,” you choke out.

“You have to.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”

“Angel,” he says tenderly, smiling. “I’ll see you again. Just not too soon.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and you kiss him, traces of milk of the poppy on his lips that deaden the thunderstruck horror faintly, powerlessly, like small clouds drifting over the sun.

“If there’s anything interesting on the other side, I’ll find a way to let you know.”

The dreams, you think. “Okay,” you say again, barely audible.

“Now go. Right now. Go.”

You wipe tears from your face with your sleeve as you turn away from him. You can’t look back; if you do, you’ll never be able to walk out of this room. You take the dagger from the bedside table. Your bare feet pad across the cold floor. As you step through the doorway, on the periphery of your vision you can see Aegon swallowing down each cupful of poison as quickly as he can. It won’t take long to stop his heart. Minutes, perhaps. Seconds. You walk into the hallway. Autumn has just arrived with Jaehaera’s tiny hand clasped in her own. A few paces behind her, Alicent and Larys stand with Rhaenyra’s son. Two orphans without choices, two pawns in a much grander game.

Autumn is panicked. “Where should we go? What should we do?” Then she takes another look at your face. Her eyes go wide with terror. “What? What happened?”

“Follow me.” Your voice is low, flat, dark like deep water. Your eyes flick briefly to Lord Larys Strong. “Keep the boy here. He’s not safe with the smallfolk yet. But the Northmen won’t harm him.”

Larys knows. It’s over. He is devastated; and yet you think a part of him might be relieved as well. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“I’m not the queen anymore. I never really was.” You give him Aegon’s dagger. “I don’t think you’ll need this, Lord Larys, but now you have it in the event of any danger. Or in case I can’t convince Cregan Stark to spare you and you decide you’ve had enough of this world. You should get a say in how your life ends. You’ve earned it.”

Then you break away from them and glide through the Red Keep, Autumn and Jaehaera trotting swiftly behind you to keep up. You pass the rookery where Aemond wrote his letters. You sweep through the gardens where Helaena loved to collect her insects. You gaze down to the beach where Daeron landed on Tessarion under a dazzling sun before winter came like a plague to King’s Landing. From inside the castle, you can hear Alicent wailing as she discovers her last child’s lifeless body. What was all of this for? Why did this have to happen? Why didn’t anybody stop it?

Out on the streets of the city, the smallfolk have flocked with their makeshift weapons to defend their homes from the Northmen. But their eyes are darting everywhere and their faces are uncertain as they clutch their clubs made out of the legs of chairs and their rusty kitchen knives. They haven’t decided if it’s futile. They don’t want to be butchered for nothing.

“That’s Autumn!” they shout and sigh, especially the women. “The mother of the king’s bastard son, the one murdered by the half-year queen!” They reach out to skim their hands over Autumn’s gown, her long coppery hair, as if she is a saint or a spirit who can impart good luck upon them, who can change their fates. They fall to their knees to bow to Jaehaera, their king’s only living child, and she blinks at them with benign confusion.

But the smallfolk have a different reception for you. You hear their venomous chattering: “Is that the Celtigar woman?” “Her family put this city through hell.” “They served Rhaenyra.” “She’s a traitor, she’s a thief.” A few of them venture close enough to tug at your gown, to strike at you. A woman’s knuckles rap against your cheekbone, raising a bruise there like lavender in a dusk sky. You think dully: I wonder if they’ll gouge out my eyes with those knives like they did to Everett.

“Get back!” Autumn hisses, shoving the smallfolk away. And when she speaks, they listen. “She is going to the Wolf of Winterfell. She is my protector. She is your protector now too. She is the best chance you have left.” And the crowds open up and the three of you pass through King’s Landing unimpeded, though cloaked in thousands of fascinated gazes.

The King’s Gate has been abandoned; the guards must have feared the Boltons’ flaying knives or Lord Stark’s dark justice. Autumn instructs several hulking men of the smallfolk to open the gate if they wish to be spared from the wolf’s wrath. They are reluctant at first, but do as she asks. When the massive doors creak open, the people of the capital huddle behind the wall and peer out skittishly as you, Autumn, and Jaehaera advance to meet the Northmen, who are bloodied from battle and now within a hundred yards of the city. Above, the sky is thick and iron-grey and frigid. Snowflakes—the first of this winter to touch King’s Landing—begin to fall and land in your hair, and you are reminded of how embers rained from the smoldering pine trees at Rook’s Rest.

“Can you catch one on your tongue?” Autumn asks Jaehaera, and the little girl giggles as they both try.

The Warden of the North rides an immense, shaggy warhorse at the head of what remains of his army. He recognizes you immediately, dismounts, approaches with determined, unbreakable strides. Clement is close behind him.

“You’re alive!” your brother shouts joyously. “And apparently not pregnant with a Targaryen bastard! Praise the gods!”

Cregan Stark does not act as if he’s heard this. The Warden of the North is not as you remember him; he is larger, heavier and broader from the muscles won in battle, coarsened by weather and war. His hair is long and dark and pulled back from his face. He wears a sword at his belt that is taller than you are when it’s unsheathed. He is entombed in leather and furs. He does not hesitate before he lays his hands you. You are betrothed to him, you are his property, would a man ask before he grabs his horses or his dogs?

The Warden of the North does not seize your forearm roughly like Aemond once did. Instead, his massive palms and fingers clasp your face as he marvels at you. You can feel the stains of dirt and ashes he leaves there. You want to scream when he touches you, but you can’t. You want to burn with rage and heartache until you crumble like ruins. Your life is already over. Your life has just begun.

“You have suffered greatly,” Cregan Stark says, a marriage of shock and reverence.

“You have no idea.” Perpetual Resurrection, you think. It doesn’t mean you come back better. It just means you’re still here.

“You are safe now,” Cregan swears. “The Usurper will never harm you again.” And it ends the same way it began: with a man mistaking your allegiance and beckoning you into a destiny that he wholeheartedly believes is greater than any you could have envisioned for yourself.

“He’s dead.”

This stuns Cregan. “When? How?”

“Today. Of old wounds sustained in battle.”

He looks at Jaehaera, noticing her for the first time. “Is that his daughter?”

“Yes,” you say. “She must always be treated with kindness. She must be protected.”

“You have an affinity for her,” Cregan notes, intrigued.

You hear Aegon’s voice, so clearly it cuts like a blade: Tell him whatever he wants to hear. “We have been through great trials together. We survived the same monster.”

The Warden of the North nods. This is a story he craves to be told. “Very well. If it is your wish that she not be discreetly disposed of as a Silent Sister, I will betroth her to Rhaenyra’s surviving son. They will unite the noble houses of Westeros and end this war.”

“The worst of the Greens are dead already. Those who remain should be shown mercy. Alicent is old and ill and broken from loss. She poses no threat. She should be permitted to remain in the company of her granddaughter. Corlys was loyal to Rhaenyra until she falsely imprisoned him for treason, and he belongs on Driftmark with Rhaena. Larys Strong, Tyland Lannister, and Grand Maester Orwyle, if no pardon can be arranged for them, should go to the Wall instead of the scaffold. And Autumn, my companion there with Jaehaera…she was a true friend to me. I owe her my life several times over. She must be permitted to stay with Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger as a caretaker, and reside in comfort in the Red Keep for the remainder of her days.”

“Who do you think you are, sister?!” Clement exclaims. “You’re speaking to the Kingmaker, not some handmaiden! You do not command him!”

“I am not commanding,” you counter levelly. “I am pleading for mercy on behalf of imperfect souls who showed me kindness during my captivity. If granted, I will consider these my wedding gifts.”

“She is remarkable, is she not?” Cregan Stark says, grinning to Clement and several other men who have ventured closer. They wear the sigils of Northern houses: Bolton, Cerwyn, Manderly, Hornwood, Dustin. They chuckle in agreement, stroking their wild beards with huge filthy hands. “Dauntless but merciful. Clever but obedient.” And then the Warden of the North claims your lips with his, chaste but overpowering, the first of a thousand kisses you never desired, a thousand acts of affection for a woman who isn’t really you, feigned resignation and bitten-back rage, eternal war with the interminable knowledge that there is something more, more, more…you just aren’t permitted to have it. It was taken from you, it was ripped from your hands like stolen treasure.

All your life you will have to murmur in wounded agreement when people recount the terrible sins of the Usurper. All your life you will have to praise Cregan Stark for killing millions to rescue you. And the days will pass, weeks, months, years, summers and winters, the births of your children and their own marriages; and when Cregan’s boy Rickon, born of his first wife, produces only daughters, your son Brandon and his descendants will become the heirs to Winterfell. In the desolate North—so far from the ocean, so far from everything Aegon ever knew—your greatest solace will be letters from Autumn as she learns to read and write, books that your husband orders for you from the Citadel, setting bones and treating burns, a tiny lock of braided silver hair that you keep in a hidden drawer of your jewelry box, dreams that you never want to wake up from.

But one day, decades after you leave King’s Landing, you will receive a raven from Queen Jaehaera Targaryen, and she will ask you: You knew the Greens in your youth, Wardeness Stark. You knew Aemond, Daeron, Helaena, Alicent, Otto, Maelor, Aegon the Usurper. What can you tell me of them? What was my father like? Who was he really?

And you’ll pick up your quill and begin writing.

[coeurify]

i keep thinking about begging ellie to kiss you while taking a pause when making out and she realizes how much of a hold she has over you. your voice has gone all whiny and wobbly like you’re about to cry grabbing at her shoulders even though she was JUST kissing you. she’s almost laughing because you seem scared she’s gonna get up and leave when there’s no else she would rather be ARGHHHHH

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18 + under the cut. making out. whiny!reader , dom-ish ellie.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: i wrote most this then it got deleted so it may be a little short sorrryy

The moment Ellie pulled away from the kiss, you had chased after her lips in disapproval. Shifting in her lap when pulled back again.

“Nuh uh babe, need you to take a breath,” she hummed— swiping a thumb over your red cheeks. A pout pressed on your lips. So what if you were getting a bit breathless? Who needed air in their lungs when Ellie’s lips are against yours?

“ ‘M fine els, stop..” you try to keep your voice steady— but both of you can hear the slight whine to your tone. Ellie just shook her head, seeming to eye you up and down.

You take a large breath in to please her, albeit a bit dramatically. Then you look at her, at the unreadable expression.

It makes Ellie want to smile, how needy you seem to be for the next kiss. She doesn’t let the emotion show though— falling into her own thoughts as you breathe in small frustrated puffs above her.

At first the pause she started was genuinely sweet.. wanting you to catch your breath and calm the fast beating heart she could feel against her. But upon taking in your attitude.. well it changed.

To push this test further, she leans her back against the wall behind her comfortably, bringing you two even further apart.

Pouting still, you grab her arms, nails scraping against the skin there. Again you lean forward to try and kiss her.. and she turns her cheek.

This denial hurts, enough to make you whine and press your face into her neck, face flushed with embarrassment. This embarrassment twinges your whole being.. eyes stinging. Why was she denying you? All you wanted was a kiss. All you needed was her.

Ellie though? Ellie is having the time of her life. The way you squirm in her lap.. the feeling of your hands gripping at her like she may run away. It makes her feel on top of the whole fucking world.

“El, you’re being mean,” you say upon pulling back up to look at her. “I want a kiss,” you continue— your lip quivering. Unable to help the upset rising from not being pressed against her. If you weren’t already teary eyed you sure were when she shrugged like it didn’t matter.

“I want a kiss, please- Ellie c’mon..”

“What was that baby?” Ellie taunts, tilting her head innocently like you hadn’t spoken loud enough.

You blink back frustrated tears, squirming around more. She was being no fair. What if she really got up without kissing you again?

The thought alone pushes you to speak. “Please let me kiss you again Ellie,” you say it this time as clearly as you can, your chin tilting up to try and seem serious.

“Was just kissing you baby, you really cant wait more than a few seconds?”

Her words send a small jolt through you, the way she coos them in a taunting way.. the way she licks her lips to drive home the point. It’s maddening. A more dramatic part of your brain swears you will die if not kissing her again within the next minute.

“Ellie..” you crumble into her. unable to keep up the strong front as more words tumble from your lips, “please please kiss me again, need it. need you, stop teasing,” you sniffle— like you may actually cry.

God does it do things to Ellie’s brain to see you like this.. a whiny mess over a simple kiss. Your arms are trying to tug her close, tears ready to spill.. how could she say no? How could she ever say no to you? As much as she may be playing hard to get right now.. she was almost as desperate for another kiss too.

“my needy girl..” she patronized— but after another long second leaned forward to finally kiss you again.

[whalesforhands]

lament your melancholy pt. 7.1 (satosugu x reader)

previous masterlist next

warnings: angst, fluff, talks and physical interactions with a corpse, implied obsession with said corpse, satosugu being fathers TOGETHER, please do not judge me too hard for this i already think i made pt.8 too dramatic

“You two.” Yaga’s voice is deep with a hidden emotion as he regards his students. Even he doesn’t want to break it to them.

“The higher-ups are demanding the body be handed over to them.”

It’s only been a few months since your passing.

A desk is abruptly thrown, a near miss that scratches Yaga’s cheek. He doesn’t even flinch, knowing that it was never intended to hurt him.

“Are you fucking with me?”

His Six Eyes alight with pain and desolation, fists clenched tight and fingernails digging themselves deep into the flesh of his palms, slicing through the skin and seeping red.

He slams his bloodied palms into the wall, fist going straight through the stone as it dents and falls under his strength.

“There is no fucking way we’re-!”

Shoko has had enough. She grits her teeth, picks herself up despite the heaviness of her body, the lumps of grief instilled deep within her form as she makes her way toward Gojo Satoru, the harsh scraping of her chair against the floorboards being a sign of warning.

She slaps him. His sunglasses flying off as they land in a heap on the ground. She grabs his collar, forcing him to look her in the eye.

“Can you give it up already?” Her voice is cracking, her tears welling up in her eyes as she holds his gaze.

She knows he needs to let go. He needs to, lest he curses you even in your death.

Her grip on his collar relents, slackens when she realises that she’s finally crying. The reality of it all hitting her.

She doesn’t want to let the remaining ‘you’ go either.

——

Gojo’s hand trails over your cold face, fingers tracing every curve, every groove of your features. He gently drags his nails against your soft skin, letting himself sink into the thoughts that plagued his mind every day, hour, minute and second.

Years could pass, and they would ensure that you’re never forgotten. Engrave your entire existence onto their souls, know you by heart, if only he could listen to every song you’ve heard, breathe everything you’ve breathed, feel everything you’ve felt.

So you won’t ever disappear.

“I miss you.”

You don’t reply. Of course you don’t.

“You should’ve at least said goodbye first, you know?” He’s still tracing his thumb above your colourless lips, eyes concentrated on your pale lips.

He remembers.

“Satoru…” You’re looking at him with misery in your eyes, hands placed together in a pleading manner. The vending machine prices increased yet again…

“Satoruuuu!” Hands reaching for his as you practically prance for joy, mirth in your eyes as you practically jump into his arms, pressing yourself against him as you excitedly hug him, test score much higher than you expected, his hold squeezing you tight, holding you close to him as you quietly celebrated your achievement in his arms.

“Satoru…?” He’s holding his face as he gets overwhelmed from his Six Eyes, pounding in his forehead as he starts to bury his face into his palms, fervently rubbing at his overwhelmed, oversensitive eyes. You gently grasp onto his wrists, moving them away as you place your own hands over his eyes. “Better…?” Very much so. He relaxes into your touch.

“Satoru.” You’re holding one of his hands in both of yours, clearly upset as you look him in the eye. He’s sunburnt, extremely weary and looked so, so weak. You had to convince him to release his technique, just to relax a little. “I’m okay…” He avoids your gaze, his head falling forward onto your shoulder, burying himself into the crook of your neck. “Cause Suguru’s here, isn’t he? You too…”

“Satoru!” The worry in your voice that haunted him, that plagued his very thoughts and every memory of you. “I’ll be fine! Just take care of that brat!” His last words to you. That he’ll deal with the the threat of Toji Fushiguro, that he’ll defeat him and join up with all of you later.

It’s his fault that you’re dead. His fault, that he didn’t understand using the Reverse Cursed Technique. His fault, that he didn’t master his Limitless Technique. His fault that he didn’t kill Toji Fushiguro soon enough.

Hisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfault-

He blinks himself back into reality. The reality in which you don’t exist anymore. He’s done it before, he can do it again, can’t he? A life without you.

It hurts so much he could barely bring himself to fathom the pain, a lone tear making its way onto your cold cheek as the tears start to blur his vision.

…was it just him, or did he just see your cursed energy flicker?

——

“Daddy…! Mimiko’s too, please!” Tugging at Gojo’s dress pants, she shakes her little pink plastic cup decorated with little flowers and sparkles up at him, stuffed toy tucked into her elbow as she puts on the best puppy dog eyes she could.

She wants sugar in her milk after watching him add several spoonfuls to his hot chocolate.

Gojo Satoru’s resolve is falling.

(He can’t. He absolutely can’t give her any. Suguru already lectured him after Nanako was found with a cavity.)

“Oh darling…!” He feints despair, a dramatic hand against his forehead as he pitifully turns away from his cute daughter. “Daddy will get in trouble if he does!”

(Don’t look her in the eye. Don’t look her in the eye. Don’t look her in the eye.)

He’s gulping nervously as he keeps his chin pointed towards the ceiling, eyes still closed as he takes a sneaky sip from his far too sweet drink as he hears more whines and whimpers for sugar, the insistent tugging now moved to his sleeve, cup abandoned on the tall countertop as she now begs for one sip of his.

(It’s his fault that he taught her the wonders of sweetness.)

He starts to cave.

“How about Daddy just gives my sweet Mimi half a scoo-!”

“Mimi-chan, Papa will scold you if he finds out you’re begging Daddy for sugar.” Oh, Tsumiki! His golden voice of reason, his saving grace…!

“And Daddy,” She turns to face him, hands on her hips and cheeks puffed up to show her anger. “Mimiko has her dentist checkup later today, she can’t eat anymore sugar!”

“Ahhh… As usual, Tsumiki knows best…” He’s backing away and laughing as he shoots finger guns at her, before proceeding to rub viciously at her neatly done-up hair, her yelps at him that he’s gonna mess up Papa’s hard work thoroughly ignored.

She’s helping him prepare the dishes for breakfast, fried eggs already done and ready on the tables courtesy of Geto, warm toasted bread out of the toaster ready to be buttered for consumption.

(Tsumiki toasted the bread. Gojo isn’t trusted in the kitchen. He’s just there for supervision in case of any broken dishware.)

Mimiko’s eyes begin to tear up slightly, pouting as she looks at the familiar brand of chocolate milk, void of any additional sweeteners.

(His heart is squeezing.)

Gojo gets down to her level as he begins to pat both the girl’s heads now.

“���will extra strawberry jam on your toast today do?”

(It should be better than pure sugar right…? Suguru made him get the one with the ‘less sugar’ labels…)

He has to bribe the other one too.

“ Tsumiki… I’ll buy everyone cake today if you don’t tell on me to Papa.”

“Deal!”

“Thank you Daddy!”

(So much for that dentist appointment.)

In the other room, they weren’t faring as well.

“…Megumi, you don’t want the elephant shirt either?”

The said boy was shaking his head, soft body shirtless, dressed only in his navy blue shorts with his chubby little arms crossed across his chest as he stared into the closet.

Geto sighs. They’ve been at this for the past 16 minutes, it’s been shirt after shirt and Suguru still couldn’t find the one the stoic little boy wanted to wear to kindergarten.

Nanako voices out, words hindered and muffled from the action of brushing her teeth.

(Suguru’s been watching over her oral care lately… She’s terrified.)

“Pwapa!” The blonde girl peeks her head out from the bathroom, toothbrush in her mouth and her hair a tangled mess upon her head as she scratches her arm, tilting her head to the side to better view the duo. “Gyumi vants thwe dog one!”

The dog one?

Suguru turns his head towards the young boy from his sat cross-legged position on the floor, furrowing his eyebrows in thought as he does a mental do-over of the entirety of his kids’ closets.

“You want the one with the furry black and white dogs?”

Megumi nods quickly.

“Okay, but you need to wear a sweater over it because it’s cold today, promise?” The man sticks his pinky out for the kid to see.

Megumi silently winds his finger around it. Promise.

(He’s secretly happy about it. He loves that shirt.)

“Thank you, Nanako.”

“Nwo prowbs, Pap- ACK! AGH!” She’s accidentally swallowed a bit of toothpaste as Geto hurriedly jumps onto his feet, scooping a disgruntled Megumi up whilst he’s at it to pat her back.

“…no more talking while brushing your teeth.”

“Ye-“ A stern look.

She nods.

Suguru proceeds downstairs with a still half-naked Megumi, the boy having flopped himself onto the broad man’s shoulder and simply laid against him, cold and happy to indulge in the natural heat of his other caretaker’s body.

“Sato- Daddy, did you wash Megumi’s dog shirt? The one with the black and white dogs!”

Silence from the kitchen.

“I thought laundry day was tomorrow!” A clattering of pots and ceramic ware is heard as he sees a dash of white run by him and onto the balcony to check if said clothing was dried.

…

…

Suguru found the shirt in the dryer, unfolded and creased.

(“It’s clean! And that’s good enough, right?!”)

Megumi wore it proudly anyway.

(“I’m taking away any budget you have allocated for treats this week.”

“Suguruuuuuu, you can’t be so mean to me!” The white-haired shaman sniffles as he buried his face into his lover’s neck. “You’re supposed to love me!”)

——

“We’re home!”

Silence. Save for Megumi kicking off his velcro shoes next to her as he starts to take off the light blue sweater Suguru dressed him in.

Where are the twins?

Nanako bounds down the stairs, hurriedly signalling the two siblings to follow her.

“Gumi, Miki! Come, come! Mimi and I found something super cool!”

——

“Why’s there a girl’s uniform in the closet?” Mimiko regards the old clothing with confusion, staring down

Megumi grimaces in disgust at the thought of any of the broad men donning the clothing.

“Oh, hey! There’s more girl clothes in here!” Tsumiki is now deep within the closet, digging up more old clothing. Dresses, skirts, stockings, leg warmers…

Now Megumi really wonders how big of freaks those men were, letting Nanako drag him deep within the large, spacious walk-in closet.

“Gumi, stop being so grumpy!” She holds up a black tee with an old, faded print.

“Kids! I brought cake home! Papa said he’s working late today!”

The lanky man waltzes into the shared home, humming as he takes large strides, practically twirling around in excitement as he holds the sizable crepe cake boxed up neatly by the employee in hand.

(Lesser sugar! The nice lady at the counter said so.)

He gingerly places the box on the dining table.

“Kids?”

Muffled chattering is heard as he uses his Six Eyes to scan the home for his beloved children, locating them within the confines of large master bedroom. The lights have been left off, save for the spillage of luminosity from the walk-in closet’s ajar door.

“Now what do we have here?” A satisfied hum is let out as he regards the kids with pride,

Nanako’s donning an old red hoodie he used to wear, a familiar one that was constantly being loaned out whenever you got cold. It never saw the light of day ever since… Then.

Mimiko’s in a much more comical state. The old Jujutsu uniform jacket, much smaller than his or Suguru’s sizes, thrown over her head with only one arm through the wrong sleeve. Though, this one looked much more shrunken than what he remembers you wearing… The old uniform Shoko washed for you.

Tsumiki’s holding up a dress aged with time and lack of use, left alone within the large closet. It’s been slightly yellowed due to the conditions it was subjected to, yet remains beautiful all the while.

Megumi has an old shirt you used to wear all the time, so worn with holes throughout, the collar beginning to give as its threads begin to unwind. A tee so loved and worn, its graphic pattern has already began to fade… Yet, none could bear to throw it away.

“Don’t you all just look lovely?”

——

“Stop it!” He’s growling up at you, all bark and no bite with no attempts to stop your intruding hand on his fluffy head.

“You’re just like those old men.” He’s puffing his cheeks out, head immediately tilted down when he accidentally catches your gaze when looking at you. So soft and gentle towards him.

(He gets shy.)

“Hmm? Seems like someone isn’t so lonely anymore.” You’re combing your fingers through his hair now, bent down to his level for his comfort. Your voice, so tender and loving as you looked after him in this stupid, stupid dream of his. Chasing away his nightmares and replacing them with the sweet lull of your presence.

“…they’re just weird men. Their kids are nice, I guess.”

“Do you like being there?” Your question is sudden, catching him off-guard. Surprisingly, he doesn’t take long to give you a reply.

“…yea.” You boop his nose, smiling when he tries to swat your hand away.

“Then I think that’s all that matters.”

previous masterlist next

Notes:

Suguru didn’t come to class. He was on a mission.

Yes, your body has been stored for several months. Corpses start rotting in the morgue after a week.

No, reader does not know that Megumi’s parents are STSG. You genuinely think a pair of nice old men took in 4 kids all at once.

Right now, it’s been 3 years since your passing. Current Ages

Twins: 6

Megumi: 6

Tsumiki: 8

Only Suguru is allowed to pick Megumi up. Satoru tried once and he got bitten.

I like thinking Megumi likes physical affection. He’s just too shy to admit it. (Look how he just takes Gojo’s head rubbing in the season 2 episode!!!)

Geto was the first one to start calling Gojo ‘Daddy’ (in a non-sexual manner) and Gojo followed suit by calling him ‘Papa’ (again, non-sexual manner). They did this so that the kids would stop calling them ‘Geto/Gojo-sama’ or any rude names (courtesy of Megumi). And also to avoid the kids picking up the habit of calling them Satoru/Suguru.

Nvy’s aftertalk:

today i dreamt about an old lady on a plane using her bare toes to pinch my naked ankles after i took my crocs off

out of fear, as i have not been on a plane in 10 years, i started to finish this chapter

5 satorussss bcs Gojo has 5 in it haha

[mingkist]

[2:56 PM] It has been two minutes since Wooyoung asked you —in a suspiciously innocent manner, if it mattered to you whether he breathed or not. Then another fifty-six second since you last saw the rise and fall of Wooyoung's chest.

You sat on the couch besides him, side eyeing his now red and struggling face whilst pretending to be paying attention to the TV where Single's Inferno played loudly.

"Wooyoung," you started exasperatedly, eyes still on the TV. "Why are you doing that?"

He shrugs, his hair falling onto his face within the process. "Doing what?" He says nonchalantly.

You turn to him now, body facing him as you watch the vein on his neck starts to protrude. "Why are you not breathing?"

"Oh so now you care?" He huffs, finally taking in a breath and scoots to the other side of the couch.

"What?" You murmur, confuse as to what he meant. "What are you talking about?"

Wooyoung faces the other way. "It took you a whole minute to notice that I wasn't breathing."

"Huh?"

"It's like you don't even love me anymore," he says off-handedly. "Do you want to break up with me or something?"

"That's not—" you paused, assessing him with a confused look. "—Wooyoung, what are you talking about?"

Wooyoung only huffs dramatically, crossing his arms as his body faces the opposite of yours.

"Okay then," you murmur, turning back to the screen. And as you think that you've finally found peace once more; and that you could now actually enjoy the show.

Wooyoung asks: "would you still love me if I was a fly?"

this is my first ever written fic on this blog feeling silly and nervous and silly and nervous hehe

p. ateez: @italiekim @realjonko @aestheticsluut @rielleluvs @youngestdelacour @alanniys @dogsongy @mingiholic @sankatchu @stopeatread @miriamxsworld

[justtwotired]

Whispers of the night - Lloyd Garmadon x F!reader

Part 1 - previous - next

——————

Tag list:

@bodieohbo

——————

Your POV

It has been three days since the threat came in. I told my friends already, and they were going into protection mode, even though half of them would run if a mouse got within ten feet of them.

We normally had two bodyguards around the house at all times and now one of them was assigned to me, to protect me wherever I went.

He is pretty chill though, he just hangs around in the teachers area and I have a scare button on me, so if something happens, he will be with me in a minute.

When I’m in the park with friends, he is just hanging around, hidden in plain sight probably. My dad had decided to not make it obvious where my guard was and how our schedule worked, it’s easy to plan around that.

But currently, I was in school, talking with my friends at my locker, mostly mocking Charlie and Flora who had been all lovey dovey the night before at a hang out.

“We weren’t like that!” Flora laughed as me and James where fake flirting with each other and I raised my eyebrows at her. “Oh, you are right, you where more like this,”

I grabbed James by the collar and let myself fall back against the lockers, his face close to mine. I laid a hand on his upper arm and the other dramatically on my forehead.

“Oh Charlie, you are so amazing and hot,” I said with closed eyes making my friends laugh as Charlie sarcastically let out a ‘haha’ before telling me to stop.

James grinned and immediately went along, putting one hand on my waist and the other cupping my cheek.

“Oh Flora, you look so good, I can just kiss you all night,” he said and we both laughed as the couple tried to shush us in embarrassment as the others laughed with us.

“Charlie, Lets get out of here and leave these losers, I only need you in my life,” I mocked again. Of course it wasn’t this bad at all, we just loved over exaggerating.

“Yes of course, everything for you my love.” He said trough laughs. I threw my head back against the locker, letting out a small yelp of pain making the others laugh even harder.

“Charlie, lets-” I tried to talk but laughed, making me start over. “Let’s run away and leave everyone behind, we only need each other,” I said dramatically, putting one hand on his cheek and James immediately saw where I was going with it.

“Oh yes, you are everything to me,” he said trough giggles. I then put my thumb on his lips and we both leaned in, pressing our lips against my thumb and Charlie then pulled James away.

“Okay, that’s enough, that’s enough.” He said and we laughed at his red face. I cleaned my thumb with my sleeve and then leaned against James for support to keep myself standing.

He was my best friend since before we even started school. Our parents where friends and we where the very start of our friend group.

Millie joined us in kindergarten and in middleschool we met Luna and at the end of middle school, the twins where the new kids and we also adopted them in our group.

Charlie joined at the start of high school and last year he started dating Flora who we immediately accepted.

When the bell rang, we bid each other goodbye and broke up in a group of two, heading to our classes.

Lloyd POV

I had not received anything from Y/n since our hang out. Of course, I could’ve reached out too but the mission I had that I was called in for when we where hanging out, had been long and tiring.

It had kept me busy as we also still needed to handle things after the happenings. When it was done I had slept for about ten hours before being woken by Kai.

“Lloyd, I’m sorry, but everyone else is busy and I really need to go now to meet up with Skylor because I forgot our date and I have no one to cover my self defence classes.” I had groggily sat up and sighed.

“Yeah, fine, go. I’ll cover for you,” I yawned.

I already regretted going, because when I turned a certain corner, I saw Y/n leaned back against the locker, flirting with a guy before pulling him in and kissing him right on the lips.

I had walked on with clenched teeth and taught the first self defence class of the day. I had hoped to have Y/n in my class that day but was actually relieved when I found out I did not.

I walked home moping, kicking rocks on my way and muttering cuss words as I went.

As I entered the monastery and headed to the kitchen, I was met with Kai and Cole who where arguing about who could get the last piece of cake.

“Jeez, what happened to you? Where you floored by a student?” Kai joked and I looked up in a small haze. “What? Oh, no its nothing, I’m fine.” I said, walking past them to grab something from the fridge.

“If you say so, kid, but if you need advise, we’re right here.” Cole said and I gave him a smile before it fell and I headed for my room.

As I drank my soda, I decided that maybe I should train to get my mind of her, when my phone rang.

Incoming call from ‘my personal trouble maker’

I was about to hang up but stopped myself. No, I was being a dick. I ignored her already a few days ago, and now because I saw her kiss someone I was going to stop talking to her?

That was unfair, just because I liked her, didn’t mean she had to like me back and couldn’t date or kiss other people.

I took the call and pressed the phone against my ear.

“Hey,” I said and she chuckled on the other side. “Lloyd! Jeez, took you long enough, listen, I have so many things to tell you!” She said and it sounded like she was jumping up and down?

“Hm, is that so?” I asked a bit bored and she stopped her giggling. “Are you alright?” She suddenly asked worried and I cursed myself mentally.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m a bit tired, but do tell me,” I apologised and I could just feel her grin from the other side of the line.

Your POV

“Alright, so first of, sorry for not texting a lot has happened, I was threatened with a note or something? Well they where threatening my father with kidnapping me, but that was just a bit vague, though it brought lots of worry to my parents.” I started of, pretty excited to tell him the story.

“But anyway, now I have a bodyguard who follows me to the places I go which is cool I guess. Police are still figuring out what’s going on and all that sort of stuff.” I said and I could hear him splutter on the other side of the line.

“I’m sorry what? You where threatened with a note?” He asked in disbelief, worry in his voice. “Yeah, but it’ll be fine, the police will track them down in no time,” I reassured, even though that was never said by anyone, I just didn’t want him to worry.

“Wait but a bodyguard follows you around?” He asked and I chuckled. “Yeah, pretty cool, huh?” I asked and I heard silence on the other end.

“Wait but- you didn’t have a bodyguard with you today?” He said and I furrowed my brows. “Excuse me?” I asked and he stuttered on the other end.

“That’s sounds weird, sorry. I saw you at school, I covered Kai’s classes again.” He quickly explained. “They will stop next month, did you know that?” He said as if trying to change the topic.

“Why didn’t you come and say hi?” I asked, a bit disappointed at a missed chance to see him. I heard an unexpected huff on the other end of the line, making my brows furrow.

“You seemed busy,” he said rather bitterly and I was silent for a moment in confusion. “With what? What’s wrong?” I asked and it was now his turn to be silent.

“I saw you kissing someone, I thought I’d let you be,” he finally said and I cracked my brains. I kissed someoene today? Who did I kiss? What happened- ohh, James!

“Oh come on, that was just James, we where joking to piss of the couple of our group by fake flirting, my thumb was between that kiss,” I said with a laugh and I could hear him swallow on the other end.

“Really?” He asked a bit sceptical and I was about to answer before stopping. “Lloyd Garmadon, are you jealous!” I called him out and he stuttered on the other end.

“Oh piss of,” he said and I could basically hear his smirk. This boy is going to be the death of me.

I shook my head with a sigh. “If you’re so jealous, you can take me on a date if that’ll make you feel better,” I said and he chuckled on the other end.

“Are you asking me for a date?” He said and I grinned. “Actually, I’m asking me for a date so you don’t have to.” I said and he laughed.

“Alright then, I can see you tomorrow at the same restaurant we went to Monday?” He asked and a giddy smile spread across my face. “Yes! Yes I can’t wait,” I said, embarrassing myself with my over excitement.

“See you then,” he said and I quickly bid him goodbye.

When we hung up, I let myself fall onto the bed and kicked my feet in the air out of happiness. I had a date- of course I had had those before, but I had never developed such a huge crush on someone in such a short time.

I think I could call this the first time I ever had such a big crush.

I quickly called my girls and they did waste time in coming over.

“Damn, your security isn’t joking, we had to do a weapon check at your front door.” Luna said and I chuckled. “Yeah, dad is worried for everyone now, but it’s just basic procedure, it’s not like you are suspect or anything.

“Hmm, does you bodyguard know that? If looks could kill, I swear,” Flora asked and I shrugged. “Both our guards are high on edge since the threats started,” I said and Luna interrupted me.

“Hold one, threats? As in plural?” She asked worried. “Oh I forgot to tell you? Yeah another one arrived, but it didn’t have anything about me in it, so yeah,” I said and they bombarded me with questions… which I couldn’t answer.

“Hey, they barely tell me anything, it’s real unfair, you know?” I said and it was silent for a moment, but Amelia decided to wash away the bad news.

“Well, fuck that! Girl you have a date! Come, we need to find you some decent looking clothes,” she said and I scoffed at her. “You make it sound like I am not wearing decent clothes.” I said and she looked me up and down before shrugging.

“Hey! What is that supposed to mean? Millie!” She walked towards my closet ignoring me and Luna and Flora laughed at us.

I was trying in an outfit and they where judging if it was alright to wear while we made sma talk.

“But, didn’t you just met Lloyd?” Luna asked as she made a gesture to me to turn around, which I did.

“Well, it’s already been over two months, and like- the whole time we hang out it’s just constant flirting, it’s about time we go on a real date,” I said, looking in the mirror I was facing to check out the outfit.

“Jeez, it’s already been two months?” Amelia asked, dismissing the outfit and looking for a new one in my closet with the help of Flora.

“We should really go skating again soon, I mean it is October, then it’ll be more dangerous because everything is wet!” Luna said excitedly. She was one of those people always looking for danger and trouble.

“Here, try this,” Amelia shoved some clothes into my hands before her and Flora sat back down. “Honestly, I started skating around December and that was just scary, I only got better over the summer, now my progress will be gone again,” Flora complained.

We went on like that until we finally found a good outfit for me to wear to my date.

The next day, I was driven by my bodyguard who would be waiting for me in the car.

“Awe come on, Malcolm, you’re not giving me anything to work with,” I slumbered in the back seat as I was trying to pry information from my bodyguard.

“N/n, you know your father gave me orders not to tell you anything,” he chuckled and I threw my hands in the air. “Still! It’s unfair how I’m kept in the dark while I’m also being threatened,” I said and he shrugged.

“I understand that you might feel that way, but I was given orders, which I have to follow,” he said and I grumbled some cuss words.

“Language,” he said and I gave him a look. “Hey, your my bodyguard, not my babysitter,” I said making him grin slightly.

He had been working for my family since before I was born, I’ve known him all my life, he is basically like some sort of uncle.

He stopped in front of the restaurant and looked at me trough the rearview mirror. “Did you you need me to open your door aswel, madam?” I asked with a chique accent.

“I can do that myself, thank you very much,” I laughed, making him smile. “No funny business in there, alright?” He said and I gave him a look. “Don’t you be like that,” I said and stepped out of the car.

Lloyd was waiting for me at the entrance and gave me a smile when I came walking up.

“Don’t you look stunning,” he winked and I chuckled and rolled my eyes slightly. “You look great yourself, who helped you?” I interrogated and he rose his eyebrows in a cocky manner.

“Who says I haven’t decided on clothes myself?” He asked and I gave him a look. “Yeah, no I wouldn’t believe it either. Nya helped me,” he confessed and I smiled.

“Doesn’t surprise me one bit,” I said, before we headed inside of the restaurant. We where sat down at a table and given menu’s.

I didn’t even have to look at it, having already decided I would have the same as last time. He looked, before deciding to go with the carbonara.

When the waiter stopped by, we ordered and he took out menu’s again.

“You where driven here, I saw?” Lloyd said and I shrugged. “I wasn’t allowed to go by myself, but Malcolm will leave us alone, he’s just here for his guarding duties,” I said.

“I wasn’t worried,” Lloyd winked and I gave him a light kick under the table making him smirk.

The conversation carried on, we had a beautiful spot at the window and suddenly the conversation changed to space.

I was fascinated by some of his knowledge and happily talked along, being a huge astronomy fan.

“Don’t you find it weird that every moon as a name except ours?” Lloyd asked and I gave him an offended look, catching him of guard.

“Excuse me- her name is Yue and she is a kind, gentle, loving, lady!” I said and he gave me a weird look before a grin spread across his face.

“Was that an avatar reference?” He asked and I nodded with a huge smile at finding out he knew the show.

The remaining of the date went amazing, it wasn’t your normal date where you have awkward silences and weird questions, no it was fun and genuine.

We fought over who would pay the bill and had a good compromise.

“Alright, how about this. I pay now and you can pay for the next date,” Lloyd suggested and I smirked. “Ohh, is there going to be a next date?” I leaned on my hands, looking into his.

“Well, only if you want of course!” He quickly said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly and I chuckled. “Of course, yes sounds fun, I’ll be taking you to the most luxurious restaurant in town,” I said and he gave me a look.

“Or just a noodle house, whatever you prefer,” I waved my hand and he chuckled before waving over our waiter so he could pay.

After he had paid, we put on our coats and headed outside.

“Thanks for tonight, I had a lot of fun,” I smiled at him, tilting my head slightly to the side. “I had fun to, thank you to making me ask you out,” he said making me laugh.

“I’ll see you another time then?” I asked and he nodded. “Definitely!” He assured.

I hesitated for a moment before standing on my toes and kissing his cheek. His mouth fell slightly agape and his cheeks dusted pink. Mine did aswel and I took a small step back.

“Hey! What did I say? No funny business!” We looked at my bodyguard who had opened the car window.

“Fuck off Malcolm!” I yelled and he grinned as I shook my head. “I’ll catch ya later!” I said and darted towards the car.

When I closed the door and then the window, I glared at the man next to me. “Was that necessary?” I interrogated and he smirked. “Definitely, I told you no funny business,” he said and I grumbled as we drove off.

I was half asleep as we made our way home and woke up with a start when the car came to a sudden stop.

“What is that idiot doing?” Malcolm questioned and I sat up straight to watch.

There was a man on the road. He had a black coat and was wearing a hat, I couldn’t see his face and he walked over to the car.

Not wasting a second, Malcolm locked the doors from the outside and I saw his hand itch to his belt where he held a gun.

The stranger was at the front of the car and laid something on the hood of the car before running off. Neither of us saw what he had laid down and Malcolm unbuckled his belt.

“Stay in the car and I if say you have to exit you do so immediately,” he told me and jumped out of the car to see what the strange man had left.

He looked at it and his eyes narrowed. He dug in his pocket and took out a pair of plastic gloves which he put on.

He picked it up and- it was a note? Again?

He entered the car again and didn’t say anything, I looked at him but he didn’t look back at me.

“What does it say?” I asked, my voice shaking. “It’s another threat- god damnit I should’ve gotten out of the car,” he sighed and I shook my head.

“No, we don’t know what that guy had on him,” I disagreed and tried peaking at the note. With a sigh, Malcolm held it up to me.

Bold are you?

This is your last warning, if you don’t cut it out, you’ll never see your precious daughter again. And don’t think we are bluffing. I have eyes on her as I write this, and that bodyguard outside in the car isn’t going to do much.

My heart started beating faster. They had watched me as I was on my date with Lloyd…

When we got home, Malcolm immediately headed for my dad and I was ushered upstairs, being told to stay in my room and lock my window.

This was so stupid!

[plant-acts]

A prompt for your theatre AU: shenanigans in costume storage.

I might have gone a little overboard with the "few sentences" and wrote 1,259 words...oopsies...

ANYWAY!

Here is what happens when 8 theater boys are left unattended in costume storage.

Ao3

--

The theater was quiet, too quiet for Time’s liking. An annoying mix of the air conditioner and his keyboard had been the only sounds for the past half an hour.

Usually, there was always some sort of commotion in the building, whether it be power tools, footsteps running to and from class, or people making weird accents for a laugh. It was never silent, especially with his current students.

The last time it was this quiet, he found the tech boys trying to turn the booth into a bedroom, and the time before that was because they broke a set wall and were trying to fix it without him knowing. So, to say that he was more than a little worried was an understatement.

At least he didn’t seem to be alone. Malon must have also felt that something was off because less than a minute later, she was knocking on his office door. Her red hair peaked in as she asked exactly what he knew she would. “Dear, have you seen the boys?”

He leaned back from his computer and shook his head, “Not since I sent them all to the costume closet to grab some old clothes we can tear up for the show.” Thinking back on it, that had been almost thirty minutes ago. What had they gotten themselves into this time?

His wife froze. “Link.” She stared at him as though he just told her their house had just burned down. “Tell me you did not send actors into the costume closet.”

Uh oh, she used his first name. Time was in trouble. He wilted under her gaze, suddenly very interested in the fake plant on his desk. “What’s the issue with that?”

She threw her hands in the air, pacing in and out of the room as she fumbled over her words, “What-what’s the issue with that?! Actors cannot be trusted in the costume closet! I-you know what, follow me.”

Before Time could even come up with a response, she grabbed his arm and marched towards the back of the theater.

She was probably being dramatic, yeah. I mean, how badly could the boys have messed it up? They are all responsible college kids. If they can be trusted to live without parental supervision, then they can be trusted not to destroy the costume department.

—

Time takes everything back. This was the most irresponsible group of people he had ever met. How they all have lived this long was a miracle.

Before him laid the remnants of hours of organizing. Clothes had been pulled from their racks and scattered across the floor, while accessories were hanging from every surface imaginable. In the middle of it stood the culprits…all dressed ridiculously.

“I could fight God in this!” Warriors called, wearing a blinding amount of knight armor. The helmet was too big and fell over his eyes, causing him to bump into everything and everyone within a five-foot radius.

A blur of blue jumped out from a pile of boxes in front of him. “Argh! Fight me then, matey!” Wind yelled while swinging a foam sword wildly. He committed to the pirate bit by dawning an eyepatch and a red bandana. “Or are ye too scared of my might!?”

Warriors stumbled back, knocking Hyrule, who had fairy wings hanging off one shoulder, to the ground. He rubbed his face in annoyance. “Guys, we are going to be in so much trouble if we don’t clean soon.”

Legend helped him up, struggling slightly because of the obnoxiously large ballgown he decided to wear. “Oh, lighten up ‘Rule, they won’t even- HEY! Don’t step on my damn dress, bitch!” He yanked the fabric out from under Twilight’s foot.

“Sorry, sorry, but I agree with Hyrule. My parents are going to be pissed if they see this. Especially Malon. She spent forever putting this room together.” Although he spoke for tidying up, Twi did not hesitate to take the cowboy hat handed to him by Wind and continue to search for a sheriff’s star in the mess.

The sound of clothes falling interrupted whatever response was coming. “Hey, Lege’!” A pink wig sat on Wild’s head as he stumbled out of the rack with a shit-eating grin covering his half-scarred face. “We match now!”

Surprisingly quick in a dress, Legend lunged at him. “Take that off!” He yelled as they dissolved into a tangle of fabric on the floor.

Sky glanced up from where he sat messing with a bird puppet and looked around. Someone was missing. “Has anyone seen Four?”

The room fell quiet as they looked between each other.

“I just saw him by the suits!” Wind called, somehow sitting on top of a shelf and using a telescope to watch the chaos.

From across the closet, Warriors spoke up, “What? But I just saw him over here with the hats?”

Twilight shook his head. “No way! He was with us near the fantasy stuff.”

A voice from under a pile of clothes startled everyone. “All of you are wrong! I’m down here!” Four struggled a bit before pulling his face out of the mess. “One of you- Wild, dumped the cheer uniform box on me!”

Wild laughed without a hint of sympathy. “Oopsies!”

Seconds stretched into minutes as Time and Malon watched with equal parts horror and fascination at the scene in front of them. He put his arm around the other and pulled her close. “Should I be the one to ruin their fun, or would you like the honors?”

She smiled up at him with a glint in her eyes and gently patted his cheek. “Let them have their fun for now. Lord knows they need it with how long I am going to make them stay here to clean it up.”

He chuckled while planting a kiss on her head. “You’re evil, you know that?”

“Maybe a little,” she shrugged, leaning against him as she watched the boys wrestle for a crown. “But don’t get too comfortable, you’re helping too.”

Time froze, “What!? Why?”

“You let them in, so you’re helping.” The smile on his wife’s face told him he probably wasn’t getting out of this.

“In my defense, I didn’t know this would happen.”

“And in my defense, I don’t care.” Malon turned, standing in front of him with her hands on her hips. “Theater is a family remember, if one of us goes down, we all do. And if eight boys trash the costume closet, then we all have to help clean it.”

All Time could do was sigh and laugh through the future pain. “I hate that you’re right.”

“I know you do.” She smiled and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

From inside the room, there was an eerie silence, followed by whispers. Looking over, it seemed the boys had finally noticed their arrival. No one said anything for a long moment.

Finally, Twilight spoke up. “Hey mom, dad.” He shifted nervously. “I promise this isn’t as bad as it looks.”

“Don’t lie, it’s worse!” Four yelled, still trapped under the cheer uniforms.

Wind jumped off of his perch and ran to a box sitting in the middle of the room. “We got the costumes you needed, Time!” He held it over his head with a proud smile.

The closet looked destroyed, his students looked like they were the stars of a kid’s birthday party, and his wife looked two seconds away from kicking everyone out of college.

Time could genuinely say he loved his job.

[idolatrybarbie]

lover, be sweet masterlist

pairing: marcus pike x fem!reader

word count & rating: 1.8k | explicit - minor free zone!

summary: cuddles. guilt. the sensual caressing of plucked poultry. they don't make Pepto-Bismol for shame, do they?

warnings: references to and discussion of sex - hence the explicit rating, depression, loneliness, guilt & shame, angst, dissociation, citizen kane (1941) dir. orson welles, a few lighthearted moments but don't get your hopes up people, reader is described as slightly shorter than/the same height as marcus, very dramatic metaphors, very lightly edited, bea regresses to using writing as therapy again.

notes: hi - i am sad. this is a fic about me being sad. if you read it you might be able to figure out why i'm sad. i don't love creating from a place of sadness anymore but i am sick of talking about it to people that care about me and my girlfriend marcus pike is, like, right there. so this is me being sad. i am going to try to not write a fic like this again (sad for the fact that i am sad.) we'll see how successful that mission is. we out here.

It’s you who brings up the ‘M’ word. Well, two words: moving in. They come out of your mouth haphazardly one night. A long night of dinner and drinks with wonderful sex after.

It’s been six months. The question, what if me staying over was more…permanent? Marcus is silent for about thirty seconds before he simply kisses you, asking if he needs to start bringing boxes home from work. This is what makes you recoil emotionally, shaking your head as you say you’ve had too much wine. You fall asleep in his arms with your heart pounding and cold.

How are you supposed to tell Marcus that the last time you lived with someone you knew, it ended disastrously? Not just a shit roommate—lives ruined, emotional wounds that never quite healed. A friendship of almost a decade down the drain because the one person you trusted in the world couldn’t grow out of the role they’d locked themselves in. How do you tell him that your family only started treating you right when you moved hours away, that you need an allotted amount of time alone lest you turn into the worst person alive?

You’re over here three out of five nights of his work week. Marcus is the one person in the world you seem to never be able to get enough of. And yet you can’t help that lingering instinct, a stutter in your gut that births a brood of unwanted doubts and insecurities. You live alone. You like it like that. Liked it like that, maybe.

You’d like to move your dishes into the cabinet downstairs—the chipped set of Corelle that Marcus has eaten off of all but once, telling you the plates reminded him of the ones his mother had in Chile. You’d like to wake up with fresh underwear after showers with the man you love only a drawer pull away; his sheets to become your sheets, and yours his. Bender doesn’t like your couch as much as Marcus’ and you’ve been meaning to sell it anyway. 

There is a life that could be lived here. A future within these red walls. But you won’t risk it. You will not make that mistake again. Some things are not meant to be shared, and maybe this is one of them. Better to be in solitude half the time with him than isolated all the time without.

But all this stays in the background. Marcus doesn’t bring it up again, doesn’t push. Part of you assumes that he’s forgotten—he drank a lot of wine that night too. Or perhaps he assumes your life has had enough change for a little while. The new job and all that comes with it.

After months of unemployment and steadily weaning yourself off of babysitting other people’s pets, you’ve found one. It’s not much—the pay or the pleasure in doing it—but it is something. You wake up at seven o’clock to be ready for eight and out of the house by quarter past. The drive to D.C. is busy, an increasingly miserable twenty-seven minute commute that everyone on the road slogs through together.

Marcus is happy for you. He’s happy you leave the house for some other reason than to visit him, and he likes to hear about your work day. The people are fine, nice even, and you tell him that. Neither he nor they can stave off the low mood that takes hold of you with every coming cold season, but you try not to focus on that.

Marcus is aware, but he doesn’t bring it up beyond a simple question of how you’re feeling sometimes. He gets warmer as the world outside does the opposite, softening beyond what you thought possible. Your boyfriend is a sourdough starter, not that you’re complaining. The sex you have is sweet and slow. Lovemaking might be the only appropriate turn of phrase. He can’t seem to stop saying it—the ‘L’ word—every time he’s inside of you.

Your dreams are an odd combination of the Palace of Versailles and Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane. A spotlight, a projector. The many versions of yourself, all of whom Marcus loves. The many versions of yourself, most of which you do not.

Mirrors. Lots of them. You’re grateful now when the shower steam makes the glass in Marcus’ bathroom sweat, sparing you from looking into another one. Being so walled off feels like lying to him. You can’t help it. Maybe it’s the intimacy of telling Marcus that’s getting to you. Might it be easier to stand at a pulpit and do a speech on how you feel? Direct. Factual even if the words aren’t confident.

Some Thursday night, three weeks after the ‘M’ word, you pull your car into the driveway beside your house…and sit. Headlights on, engine idle. Right now is the perfect time to freeze and stare out at the dust settled over the dashboard. You only move when knuckles rap on your window. Marcus, of course. His breath is as warm as his soul, fogging up the dirty glass.

You turn the car off, pulling the key from the ignition. He opens the door for you when you make a move to grab your bag.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is already laced with concern.

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah. Just…thinking.”

Marcus glances at the empty driver’s seat. “In the car…with the engine running?”

“Got home a few minutes ago,” you say. You don’t know how long it’s been.

Marcus senses your fragile footing, redirecting the conversation. “Do you want to come over tonight?”

“I don’t know,” you say. The words are highlighted by a puff of white past your lips. “Been a long day.”

“I’m making roast chicken,” Marcus says, trying to entice you. “We can lay on the couch. I’ll give you a foot massage.” When he sees you aren’t biting, he adds, “We can watch Pacific Rim. Again.”

You smile as the slightest bit of fire sparks in your chest. “You’ve got a deal.”

Marcus waits at the front door as you collect Bender from your living room. Then he leads the way across the street, unlocking his own door and letting you in first. The cat in your arms leaps gracefully away, ready to find a new spot to nuzzle into.

After a hot shower alone, you feel more like a person. No length of time spent under the water is going to get rid of the guilt masquerading as hunger pains, though. Marcus is already working on dinner when you make your way downstairs. His waist apron hangs over his hips, crimson to match everything else; a thoughtless purchase on your part except for the mental image of him wearing it with that adorably taut face he makes when focusing.

Seeing that exact expression now as Marcus rubs margarine over the plucked, pink body of a whole chicken makes you laugh a little. He looks up at you, hearing the noise, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“You like what you see?” Marcus waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“The sensual caressing of dead poultry?”

He makes a face. “When you put it like that…”

“I speak the truth, the whole truth—”

“And nothing but the truth. You forget that you’re dating a man of the law, y’know.”

“How could I forget?” you ask, coming up behind him. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you peer over the side of Marcus’ arm to watch him season the chicken with various spices on the counter. “You’re always here to protect me.”

“I’m glad you know that,” he says. “And I really mean always.”

Marcus can’t see the look of curious confusion that crosses your face. “Of course,” you mumble into his shoulder.

The chicken is placed on a baking pan lined with tinfoil before it disappears into the oven. Marcus washes his hands thoroughly, tossing everything into a sink of hot and soapy water before he finally embraces you. His hugs are a godsend. You melt into his arms and let yourself be held. Then, another twist of your organs. The feeling plagues you like heartburn, showing up at the worst of times. They don’t make Pepto-Bismol for shame, do they?

Marcus must feel you tense up, because he asks, “Alright. What’s wrong?”

Pulling back from the hug, he stares at you—the heat of a thousand carefully probing suns.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say. Clearly he doesn’t buy it, taking in the way your eyes are starting to water like the Potomac.

“Well that’s just not true. Honey, please just… I want to help you.”

“I can’t move in with you,” you whisper. The first tear falls when you blink, a warm trail falling slowly down your cheek.

Marcus tilts his head. “What?”

“I can’t move in with you,” you repeat a little louder. “I’m not—I can’t.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “If you’re not ready—”

“It’s not about being ready,” you say, pulling yourself from his grasp. “It’s about…I don’t know. I love you. And that’s huge, and the last time I lived with someone I loved it ruined my life. I can’t do that with this. With us. I won’t.”

Marcus gently calls your name as you turn away from him, hands steady against the granite countertop. You can’t look at him. You’ve told the man you love that you can’t take the next step of further knitting your lives together. Of starting anew as a pair. There is no timeline to feed him. No amount of months given will tide him over because there's no expiry date on this feeling of yours. It simply is; there was a time before it existed, but you’re almost certain there will be no after.

That crawling specter of loneliness hasn’t haunted you for six whole months, and you would like to keep it that way. Even if the knowledge that you’re missing minute details about Marcus in your time across the street kills you the slightest bit; even if you want to show him that you’re all in on this, what your boyfriend doesn’t know is that you are a nuclear reactor. The disaster happened a long time ago, but the ground is still poisoned. The air is teeming with radiation even if he’s been slowly sipping the water.

You say, “I don’t know when I’m going to be ready.” Not now, if ever. Breaking your own goddamn heart.

“That’s okay,” Marcus says. “There’s no rush on it. You could take a million years. I’m still going to be here.” He takes you back into his arms, cradling your head against his body.

This doesn’t fix anything—doesn’t fix you, but you don’t want Marcus to do that anyway. For now, this works. Right now this is okay.

[cameronprincess]

The One With The Camera.

Warnings: Cursing

August 2019

"Hey Mom!” Gabriella answered her phone, setting her camera down and leaning against a mural she was photographing. She always had the brightest smile on her face whenever one of her parents called.

"Hey baby.” Her mom said with a smile on her face sitting on the patio of her childhood home in Laguna Beach.

Gabriella currently works as UCLA's photographer for the campus, ranging from highlighting the art that students have made and displayed around school to creating posters for upcoming events on campus.

Her and her mom continued talking until her roommate, Ashlyn sent her a text urging her to come back to their shared apartment.

Gabriella got to their apartment as Ashlyn basically dragged her in and sat her on the couch.

"Ouch could you pull my damn arm any harder!" Gabriella exclaimed once she sat down.

Ashlyn disregarded her statement as she was pacing back and forth around the apartment while having the biggest Cheshire cat smile.

Ashlyn ran a podcast on campus called The Ashlyn Show almost a direct hit to her favorite show as a kid 'The Amanda Show’ even if the creator of the show was a complete creep.

She talks about topics ranging from the Sephora kids she's been seeing on TikTok to environmental issues. Gabriella also films and edits every video she does.

"Okay so you know how I've been sending countless emails and messages to the radio staff to have musical guests on my podcast right every week, just to bring in more viewers?" She started.

Gabriella shook her head yes as she picked at the skin around her grown out acrylic nails.

"So obviously I've been getting some pretty shitty soundcloud producers and rappers." Gabriella’s lips pursed into a thin line as she raised an eyebrow. "Don't look at me like that."

"Well look no further than here, 5 Seconds of Summer are coming on the podcast in less than 15 minutes!" Ashlyn exclaimed, shaking Gabriella’s hands and jumping up and down with her.

"Oh my god shut up! I love their newest single 'Teeth' so much. Not to mention I've had the biggest celebrity crush on their lead singer ever since I was 12 and saw him doing covers on Youtube."

"I'm telling you this would be a great opportunity for both of us, you can plug your video and editing skills and I could woo Ashton with my impressive conversion skills." Ashlyn suggested while dramatically flipping her long red hair over her left shoulder.

"Hey, you guys have matching hair colors. I guess it's a sign." Gabriella joked with her.

"Oh my goodness you're right!!" Ashlyn said, taking the joke seriously. Gabriella just chuckled at her friend.

Gabriella's eyes soon widened as she racked over her appearance. An old graphic tee, some biker shorts and her beat up black converse. "I didn't even straighten my hair today. I look disgusting." She pointed to the messy strands of blonde hair falling out of her bun that she spent too much time this morning that she'd rather not mention.

Ashlyn scoffed as she grabbed her studio keys and clutch wallet from the bowl at the door. “Oh please you look gorgeous as always."

She sighed and collected her video camera, lenses, and tripod before following Ashlyn across campus and into her studio that she rents in the radio station.

"They should be here within the next 5 minutes. I'm gonna go pee before I piss myself mid interview. You can set up your camera and video stuff over there." Ashlyn pointed in the middle of the room

"Well if you did that Ashton would be surprised! I don't think it would be a good surprise nonetheless a surprise." Gabriella yelled as Ashlyn flipped her off from behind.

Gabriella laughed as she set up her video camera and tripod and scrolled on her phone on instagram stories to wait for Ashlyn to return from the bathroom.

She stopped at the @5SOS instagram story as it was a picture of Luke walking across their campus with the caption of 'Tune into our interview on 'The Ashlyn Show' podcast 2pm EST/ 11am PST'

Ashlyn returned less than 2 minutes later and started turning on her LED lights around the small space and turned on all the mics to make sure they worked correctly. She turned on their song 'Teeth' as the boys came in. Gabriella got up and turned her livestream onto the waiting room page and set the timer for 3 minutes.

They all shook her hand and sat down while introducing themselves. Gabriella looked everywhere except in Luke's direction. He looked so good in his yellow satin shirt and black jeans, his signature boots on his feet. Such a simple outfit but on his tall frame it had her weak in the knees.

"Hi guys! It's me, Ashlyn and welcome back to The Ashlyn Show. Obviously you guys know Gabby," Ashlyn dramatically held her left hand out towards the girl who peeped her head in the camera frame and waved. "Hey guys."

"Andddd that was Teeth by 5 Seconds of Summer, their latest single! Thank you guys so much for taking the time out of your busy day to come chat!" Ashlyn spoke to the video camera Gabriella had set up to livestream.

"Thank you so much for having us, we hope people enjoy us fucking around for about 2 hours." Micheal joked after 2 minutes of awkward silence. Gabriella made a mental note to herself bleep most of the cuss words they use when she goes to edit.

The interview was going great. They had amazing chemistry with Ashlyn as she kept up with their jokes and chaotic energy, Gabriella even joined in on some of the jokes with them.

Ashton made a joke about the two having matching hair as Ashlyn blushed redder than a tomato. Gabriella even started laughing along with them which she felt Luke’s eyes on her whenever she did.

Within 10 minutes of the interview starting, they already had close to 100,000 people watching them, the most viewers they've seen all year. Close to the end of the interview, Luke subtly found Gabriella’s Instagram account through the podcast account.

After the interview they guys had to leave to go do more press interviews. Luke was bummed out because he really wanted to talk to Gabriella.

Back in the car Luke finally had the guts to follow Bianca's instagram thanks to Calum basically grabbing his phone and doing it for him. It took everything in him to not follow her professional one as well, he thought that'd be a little stalker vibes, he did scroll through it though.

—————

Gabriella stood in the kitchen as she watched her instant microwave noodles spin when she felt her phone buzz in the waistband of her Victoria's Secret pink pajama shorts. She pulled it out and saw an Instagram notification she never thought it a million years would she see.

@lukehemmings started following @gabriellaaacampbell

"Ash! Ashlyn! Oh my god you have to see this." Gabriella turned to the girl laying across the couch watching The First 48.

"What?" She said with a mouth full of hot cheeto’s.

She flipped the phone to as her eyes widened in shock. "No way!! He followed you? How'd he get your instagram??"

"Im pretty sure it's on the bio of the podcast instagram." She quickly replied. "Do I follow him back??"

"What kind of question is that! Yes of course!”Ashlyn said while lightly smacking her arm.

"Okay you really need to not do that." Bianca said rubbing her arm slightly.

@gabriellaaacampbell followed @lukehemmings

She put her phone face down on the kitchen counter and stirred her noodles and added pepper until 10 minutes later her phone buzzed twice. Gabriella’s eyes widened in suprise and shock.

@lukehemmings sent you a DM.

" Did you just get a message from THE Luke Hemmings?" Ashlyn said looking over her shoulder.

"I guess so yeah." She said unsurely.

Gabriella’s hand shook in excitement and nerves as she opened the message.

'I know your probably wondering how I got your instagram aren't you😂' The message read

'Well I mean I'm not not wondering. I'm yet flattered and scared at the same time' She replied back.

'Well I got it from the podcast account. I didn't expect you to follow back so fast.'

'How could I not?! A really famous guy from my favorite band followed me, the 12 year old in me is screaming'

They stayed texting back and forth for another 4 hours until she stopped responding at close to midnight because she passed out from exhaustion from editing.

——————

Gabriella was currently at their upstairs neighbor's apartment babysitting their 7 year old, Ethan. She was on her 3rd energy drink of the day, babysitting a 7 year old can be a lot of work especially when she was up late editing their interview and doing some lab report essay for her Physics class that was due two days ago but her teacher is still accepting it.

She kept checking her phone to see if Luke responded to her messages but nothing. She assumed he was busy, I mean he was a rockstar.

Until then she got a DM while Ethan was napping.

'I know this is gonna sound so crazy but I'm in Southern California for another week, wanna possibly get a coffee together?' The message read. She had to read it five times until she came up with a response.

'Yeah that sounds awesome! I know this place about 10 minutes from me.'

'Pick you up around 3 tomorrow?'

'Absolutely!'

'Sounds like a plan then:)'

[scorchieart]

Falling Ahead - Part 3

I think Clavis is finally old enough to dig some threatening holes. A good arm and leg workout, one could argue.

Ages: Yves (7), Clavis (10)

previous part ☆ Masterlist ☆ next part

“Clavis!”

“Say it.”

“Clavis!”

“Just say it, Yves.”

“CLAVIS!”

“Say. It. And this will all go away.”

Yves squeezed his eyes shut as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. The heels of his newly polished dress shoes scuffed against the topsoil, making him reflexively buckle his knees and tighten his grip on Clavis’s hands as he gradually sank farther over the edge of the gaping pit behind him.

“This… this isn’t funny,” Yves choked. “Please… father just bought me this outfit—”

“Oopsie!” Clavis released one of Yves’s arms and dramatically fanned his face with his newly freed hand. “It’s so hot out, and your big brother is all sweaty from digging. Do make this quick. And speak clearly, my prince.”

Yves clung to Clavis’s remaining hand like a kitten to a catnip-filled pillowcase, his nails puncturing small red divots into Clavis’s skin. “Alright! Alright!” he bawled. “Jin was wrong! It’s way more important to workout your limbs than your core!”

Clavis stilled his fanning. “And?”

“A-and Leon beating you at sword training today was just a fluke!”

“And?”

“And?” Yves’s right foot slipped on a patch of loose dirt, dangling helplessly over the void. “—And! And you’re a much, much smarter, cooler, handsomer, nicer, braver, amazinger, funner, friendlier, stronger big brother than Prince Chevalier could ever be!”

Clavis beamed. “There, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?” he cooed, pulling Yves away from the hole. As soon as both his feet were safely on ground, Yves ripped his arms out from Clavis’s hold and hugged a nearby tree, panting heavily.

“You’re… you’re horrible,” Yves coughed once he could speak again.

“Of course, that’s just the adrenaline talking,” Clavis said, brushing imaginary dirt off his sleeves. “But I know deep down you’re simply bursting at the seams ready to thank me for my amazing scheme.”

“Thank you?” Yves shrilled.

“You’re very welcome.”

“No! I meant, how could you think I would thank you for almost dropping me down a bottomless pit?”

“Aha! But you didn’t fall down, did you?” Clavis sniggered. “And it’s not bottomless, silly. I climbed out of it only a little while ago, and on my honor as the third prince, I tell you there lies a bottom at the bottom.”

Yves flinched as Clavis approached the tree and produced a wound of rope from a crater within. Keeping his grip firmly on a branch, he watched Clavis tie one end around the trunk and the other around a stray rock then toss the rock end into the pit. Most of the rope disappeared down the hole before a soft clunk sound emerged.

“Tada! Impressive, right?” Clavis said gleefully.

Still holding onto the tree, Yves inched his way in the direction of the castle. “I’m telling Sariel.”

“What’s he going to do? Make me do lines? I’m skipping out on a set right now,” Clavis sneered. “Come here, I want to show you something important.” He sat cross legged at the edge of the hole and patted the ground next to him. “I promise it’s not a prank.”

Yves watched him bemused, looked once back at the castle, transferred his grip to the rope, and slowly moved toward his brother. 

“What do you think?” Clavis asked once Yves sat beside him.

“It’s deep,” said Yves, still holding firmly onto the rope.

“Isn’t it?” said Clavis. “Deep enough to trap a grownup, you think?”

Yves paused, a sickening sensation building in his stomach. “I guess...”

“Like Sariel? Or that fuddy-duddy tutor who keeps making me reread my lines? Or how about the king?”

“Clavis!” Yves cried, frantically looking around in case anyone heard. “I’m going back.”

“It’s too late, my darling brother. You’ve seen and heard too much. You’re my accomplice now.”

“No, no, no! I didn’t agree to this. Clavis, let me go and I promise I won’t tell anyone, please!”

“I can’t do that, Yves. Not one minute ago you threatened to tattle on Sariel.” 

Yves’s face turned ashen, renewed tears building in his waterline and threatening to burst. “But you’re doing something bad.”

Clavis pulled his sleeve over his hand and gently wiped at Yves’s eyes. “Then what will you do? Will you try and stop me, little prince?”

Yves’s hands clenched around the rope so tightly he felt splinters digging into splinters. The air grew thicker with each second, each breath harder to take in than the last, as Clavis loomed over him with his loony smile. Clavis was taller, faster, and smarter. How could a little prince stop him?

A bigger prince could, like Chevalier and his endless superlatives. A braver prince could, like Leon and his non-accidental fighting skills. A stronger prince could, like Jin and his superior toned…

Yves straightened his shoulders, leaned back, and kicked Clavis squarely in the chest and into the pit. The older prince landed on his bottom at the bottom of the bottom with a rough clunk.

“Clavis!” Yves called, rushing to the edge of the hole. “Clavis! Are you alright?”

“Haha! I think I broke my tailbone,” Clavis replied weakly.

“I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry,” cried Yves.

“Don’t be, my plan worked! You passed the test, I’m so proud!” Clavis called, his voice a mix of mirth and pain. “I knew you could do it, Yves. You’re the biggest, bravest, strongest prince of us all!”

“Clavis, you’re hurt so bad you’re talking crazy. Don’t move, I’ll get help!”

“Mmkay!”

It could have been shock from the situation. Or fear from the impending repercussions. Or glee from hearing Clavis’s hysterical outburst. Whatever it was, Yves was not paying attention. And when Yves doesn’t pay attention, he tends to trip on anything. And there just so happened to be a precariously placed rope inches from his ankle. And a dangerously wide trap hole inches from the rope.

[autumnalwalker]

Find The Word Tag

Thank you for the tag, @winterandwords.

My words to find were out, shout, about, & mouth.

Passing the (no pressure) tag to @magic-is-something-we-create, @rickie-the-storyteller, @toribookworm22, @writernopal, and the usual open tag for anyone else reading this who wants to play.

Your words shall be sight, alright, upright, & outright.

These are all from Chapter 23 of Empty Names. Shout comes from a bit earlier in the chapter, while Out, Mouth, and About wound up all being present in one continuous excerpt. And then I out of self-indulgence I went ahead and included a couple paragraphs at the end of that excerpt because I like this scene.

Shout:

A minute later, Ashan dispels his conjuration and creates a new one, a floating oval tall enough and reflective enough to serve as a full length mirror.  Initially, all is as it was with his first test conjuration but then the second sight filters show Ashan’s eyes flash a deep indigo, causing the seal and counterseal to pulse in response.  He takes a step toward the conjured mirror, staggers, touches a hand to his head, takes another step, and then presses a palm to the conjured mirror.

In the mundane, unfiltered view camera feeds not much happens.  In the filtered feeds, the conjuration’s aura shifts from white to indigo and the pulsing of the sigils on Ashan’s skin increases in intensity.  On another screen an alert notifies Lacuna of a sudden drop in temperature within the test chamber.

And then Ashan steps through the mirror.

The temperature readings plummet further, the pulse on Ashan’s skin becomes a solid glow, and a hazy blurred shape extrudes out of the side of the mirror Ashan entered from.  The haze starts to take form.  Ashan begins to sway on his feet and clutch his head.

Ashan falls.

The conjuration and haze disappear.

The second sight filters cease to detect anything outside the mundane visible spectrum.

The temperature stays low.

Lacuna shouts a string of well-practiced nonsense syllables into the microphone and begins running toward the test chamber before she can even see the counterseal evaporate off of Ashan’s back.  She slows down briefly only to snatch the white robe from where it had been left folded over an open cabinet full of drone parts.  It feels silkier than she expected, almost slick to the touch.  She slams her palm against the over-dramatic big red button that opens and closes the test chamber door.  Her heart skips a beat at the sight of Ashan still on the blank white floor.

“Are you okay I’m so sorry what happened are you alright please be awake how do you feel I’m sorry oh goddess what did I do let’s get you out of here please be alright I’m sorry.”

The words pour out into a stream of mist as Lacuna throws the wizard robe over Ashan’s shivering form.  The words change cadence without pause when he starts to push himself back up to his knees.  The words finally cut off when he pulls back from her attempt to help him to his feet.

It is only after Ashan has pulled the dress-like robe over his head and worked his arms through its voluminous sleeves that he calms enough to take her hand.

Out, Mouth, About:

A quick gesture and Ashan conjures another simple rectangular barrier in front of him.  He tilts his head, hums curiously, and then rotates his wrist, causing the conjuration to spin in place like a revolving glass door.  A wave of his hand slides the first conjuration away and a quick circle traced with the other hand creates a transparent floating shield.  Ashan nods to himself, hums once more and allows the conjurations to flicker out.

Lacuna opens her mouth to ask if he’s feeling any adverse effects from the counterseal but catches herself when he raises his hands to his face to stare through a box created by thumbs and forefingers.  A new conjured square appears in front of him.  He makes a series of quick yet precise gestures and the conjuration morphs to follow the motions; widening, stretching long, tilting upwards into a steep ramp, coiling into a spiral, and then splitting into segments that snap into flat stairsteps.  Ashan glides up the conjured staircase, drawing railings into existence as with trailing fingertips as he ascends.

At the top of the stairs, with his head nearly touching the test chamber’s ceiling, his wand slides out from his sleeve and into his hand.  When he raises the wand, Lacuna’s first thought is of a conductor about to begin a concert, but it is a painter’s brushstrokes that the motion falls into.  New conjurations begin appearing throughout the test chamber, simple at first - circles, wires, domes - and then building in complexity - spider webs, chains, trellises - until he gives a nod of satisfaction and steps off the edge of the staircase, lands upright upon a floating tightrope, and slides down it to the far end of the test chamber.

What follows next Lacuna can only call a dance as Ashan moves around, between, and over his conjurations.  Most are the usual transparent glass-like distortion in the air, but others outright glow with a blue-white light.  Some persist throughout the dance, some move and change shape, and others flicker out to make way for new ones to be drawn.

Lacuna shivers and checks the temperature readings.  Steadily declining, but less rapidly than she would have expected based on prior observations of Ashan’s twisting of thermodynamics to fuel his magic.

Ashan raises his wand straight above his head and his conjurations gather towards him, falling into a single mote of light at the wand’s tip.  He touches his wand to the ground and slowly raises it, turning as he does.  Within seconds he has conjured a great coiling glass serpent around him, smaller than the one that he used to lift the ferry boat on that first mission but still larger and more detailed than any single conjuration Lacuna has seen him create since then.

She lets out an involuntary gasp of wonder at the beauty of it.

Ashan blinks at the sound of her voice and the serpent briefly flickers from lost focus.

“Forgive me.  I seem to have gotten carried away in the moment,” Ashan says through heavy breathing.  “As I said, I was in need of distraction, and there was a feeling of exercising for the first time without a great weight slowing me down.”

“Can I touch it?” Lacuna says without thinking or taking her eyes off the serpentine conjuration.

[triforceangel13]

A Service to the King Ch. 22 (A SidLink Omegaverse story)

Chapter 22: Reunion

Link sat in front of his fire place as he ate a bowl of soup. The baby inside him really craved things like this and now that he recognzied it as a craving he wasn't going to say no to the little one within him right now.

Despite the volcano in the distance looking angrier by the second a storm had blown in and was pummeling the ground with water.

Thankfully they were up hill so Link wasn't too worried. And with the powers he had he wasn't worried about leaks.

He was a little concerned for Epona so he had to make adjustments on her stable so she wold be comfortable through the storm. It wasn't like he could have her in the home with him.

But being alone in his house all he could think about was what he had done. He wasn't sure if they got the ping notification on the other pad. He didn't know if they were gong to come to him.

He was still upset about what he saw but the old couple...he wondred if he had over reacted and had seen things wrong.

From his view point it looked like Sidon was moving in for something intimate when he should have either been with Link or with the meeting with his father about what would be happening.

Instead he had seen him pinning Zelda's arms about her head, inches from her face.

With a grimace he set his bowl down and tugged his blanket around him a little tighter, burying his face into his knees as he pulled them up.

He had to stop thinking about it. He could try to be happy for them. She was a princess after all. Link was just...nothing.

He was a former guard. He didn't have any royalty to offer and it wouldn't be as dramatic if it were Zelda taking the reigns.

But the pup inside of him said otherwise.

Link let out a sigh, squeezing his legs and letting out a groan of annoyance and frustration. Why was love so hard?

Before Sidon when his memory was wiped he just was an easy going guy who fought evil. Now things were so complicated and messed up.

Even the fights with Ganon and Ganondorf seemed eaiser. He knew how to do that. He didn't know how to do relationships.

“Hope we can figure this out,” Link said, rubbing his stomach a bit as he looked down at it in the dim light. “For your sake.”

He let out a small sigh. The baby was too small for anything right now so he doubted that they had heard it. But that was one thing he knew for sure. He would keep going for his little pup.

He yawned softly, shifting closer to the small makeshift nest he had made on the floor and rest his head down.

A small nap wouldn't hurt either. He had been so tired lately from everything going on.

He couldn't help but think about the last time he was there thoguh with Sidon's shade. Right when they really let it all out in the open how they felt.

His eyes glaned to the ring on his finger and he let out a sigh, pulling them all off and setting them aside. He would not be tempted again.

With his back to the rings he curled up, hand around his stomach as he drifted off into a light sleep.

*

Zelda let out a frustrated sigh as they walked up the hill, hands held out in front of her and her magic barrier doing little to nothing against the water pelting her face.

“Almost there,” She said to Sidon who walked castually next to her, not seeming to mind the storm that was raging around them.

“You said that minutes ago,” he teased with a sigh.

“Well I'm not exactly and expert on where the house is he built when theres a huge storm,” she retorted at him and let the barrier fall, accepting that she'd just get soaked at this point.

Sidon glanced up and relaxed seeing a lone home on the hill, the light from a fire flickering in one of the windows.

“There it is,” Sidon said and his eyes then traveled to what was behind it. An eerie red glow which had him stopping.

Zelda halted and looked at him

“What's the matter?” she asked, following his gaze and then her eyes widened. “You don't think that....”

“That Ganon is coming?” Sidon asked. “And that was why Link summoned us?”

Zelda swallowed. “It can't be. Link killed Ganondorf and I sealed Ganon away for eternity. There's no way that he could have come back.”

Her eyes flashed purple as she charged up the hill and relaxed....only slightly.

“It's Death Mountain,” she said. Even through the rain and clouds she could still see the glowing from the volcano. “It looks like it's gong to erupt.”

“What?” Sidon exclaimed and rushed up the hill to see it. He swallowed, shaking his head. His Domain. He had to get everyone out! “We have to go back to the Domain,” Sidon said. “We have to make sure that everyone is out and safe. They could be enhiliated.”

“Sidon, the storm is getting worse. It'll take us days at this rate. Let's rest at Link's and then make a plan of action,” she said.

Sidon let out a frustrated growl but then looked to the house. He was conflicted. His people and his kingdom or his mate...

But Zelda ws right. The storm was getting worse and he was sure that he had heard thunder overhead which made it dangerous for him.

“Fine,” he sighed and he went towards the door.

A loud sound was heard and the sound of broken wood cause Sidon to flinch as a large chestnut horse came running at him.

He stumbled back, falling onto the ground as the horse stood in front of the front door. She let out a huff and glared at them.

“What in the name of Hylia?” Sidon declared and looked at Link's horse.

Was she preventing them from going inside?

“Epona, it's okay. It's me,” Zelda said, holding her hand out to the horse but then quickly let out a yelp as she yanked her hand back when Epona tried to bite her. “She's being protective.”

Sidon flinched again at the sound of the thunder.

“We have to get inside great steed. Please,” Sidon urged but Epona would not budge from her spot, letting herself get drenched.

The door then opened and a hair tosseled Link stepped onto the porch, grabbing Epona's halted with his hand.

“Hey, hey,” he said to her, petting her nose. “Shhh. It's okay.”

She let out a soft knicker and leaned her head into his hand, though didn't take her eyes off of the other two.

“Let's get you all inside,” Link said, looing to the stable. “Guess you broke out huh.”

With a wave of his hand Link had the door widen to accomdate Epona as well as Sidon's height. The group stepped inside and closed the door tightly behind them.

“I'll uh...get some towels and blankets,” Link said.

Sidon felt his heart hammering as Link went to grab them. He looked so tired and pale. His scent oil must be wavering off in the necklace. He'd have to adjust that.

Or at least not be away from his side for too long at least.

*

Once they were fully drya and comfortable, sitting around the fire with some soup Link finally looked to the two of them.

Epona had parked herself right between them, refusing to let anyone near Link right now until he physically moved her himself or beckonerd her.

He let out a sigh, nudging Epona to move over so he could at least see the two of them.

They were sitting apart, both watching him under the blankets.

This was awkward but what more could he do? This wasn't easy.

“Link, what's happening on Death Mountain? Is everyone okay?” Zelda finally asked. Link looked to the window and sighed.

“I was told that it was at risk of eruption when I returned to the Domain looking for you,” Link said, eyes finally landing on Sidon. “Everyone evacuated already. They are staying in the underground caverns for safety.”

Sidon visibly relaxed. His people were safe. He hoped his home would be but at least that could be replaced. His people could not.

The silence fell over them again and Link hugged his blanket soon letting out a sigh.

“Explain,” Link started meaning about what he had seen. Sidon knew this had to be coming. And it was only right that Link knew what was going on.

But it didn't make it any easier to say it.

“Link, what you saw was Zelda and I having a fight,” Sidon explained. “I was still coming down from my rut and all I wanted was to find my mate...who is with child.”

Link's hand went instinctlvy to his stomach.

“Yes, I know Link. I was on my way to find you to talk to you when Zelda approached me,” Sidon explained.

“I regret my actions,” Zelda explained this time. “I had been worried about you after eveything you had gone through and I had slapped him. Harming an alpha near rut was a bad idea. He meant to harm me if you hadn't shown up.”

“And that is what you saw,” Sidon said, his hand slowly reaching out for Link. Epona's ears went back and she took a step but Link held his hand up to her.

“You swear on Hylia that this is true?” Link asked.

“I swear,” Sidon said.

“Link, I'd rather turn into a dragon again than to harm you like that,” Zelda said. Link let out a soft sigh and finally relaxed after all this time.

“Thank you,” Link said, leannig his head back and his eyes shut.

“Link?” Sidon asked, scrambling to his feet to get to him. Epona stepped in the way and Sidon let out a heavy sigh.

“Great beast, would you please allow me through so that I may see him?” he asked.

“It's okay Sidon. She's just protective of him,” Zelda explained. “It'll be a little bit before she calms down enough for us.”

Sidon sighed and sat back down, looking at Link.

“What happened to him?” Sidon asked.

“He's tired,” Zelda said. “He just needs rest.”

Link snored softly and rest in the makeshift nest.

He had his alpha, he had his pup, his horse, and his best friend. He would be alright.

Sidon watched him a moment and relaxed, laying down in the spot he had taken up in.

“We should all get rest,” Sidon urged.

“You're right,” Zelda said. “We all had a long days.”

Leaving the fire going they both curled up and fell asleep along with Link, Epona watching over them as the a great protector.

I’m open for written commissions want to support? my patreon (triforceangel) my a03 (triforceangel) as another place to read my fics

[creataav]

below is an alternate ending of a fic that I've been writing about secretlife!ldshadowlady ! I've been really enjoying it, and while this might not be the actual ending (or might it be??? we'll never know), i wanted to put it up to show it but also so that people get what the vibes of the fic itself are. I feel like I've been using a very particular, very metaphor - heavy writing style for this and I like it a lot! Enjoy! (also on ao3)

You say the whole world’s ending

Buddy, it already did.

You’re not gonna slow it, heaven knows you’ve tried.

Lizzie sighs into The Void, into the inky blackness that’s beginning to press down on her bones. Forcing her hair to float across her eyes. She lets it for a moment. There’s hardly anything left for her to see, and she could do with something bright and colorful in this vast expanse of darkness. Eventually, though, it itches at her cheeks and tickles her nose, and she gives up. She pushes it out of her face and stares upwards into the stars, one last time. She leans back, spreading her arms wide, palms up, the tips of her fingers dragging down towards the abyss. Like a fallen angel in Limbo, waiting for her fate. But her fate never comes. There is no death knell, no dramatic crack of lightning that scatters her belongings to the windless void. There is just silence and Lizzie’s breath, and the slightest clink of her axe against the empty glass bottles that held her invisibility potions. It sounds hollower than it would have in the Overworld, she knows that as a fact, somehow. Everything sounds hollower here. It all gets swallowed by the black. At some point Lizzie knows that she’s no longer falling, just trapped in a stasis at the edge of The Void, hovering infinitely. She can just barely see the edge of the island Scott (she’s convinced it was Scott, she desperately wants her death to go towards some kind of narrative… something) knocked her off of.

A few sessions go by. No one pays her a visit. Apparently they’ve no reason to venture into the End. They’ll all have red tasks, now, all hinging on murder and violence. They won’t be given trivial things like “find the stronghold,” or “kill the Ender Dragon.” They’ll’ve descended into Keeper-mandated bloodlust. Lizzie wishes she could watch. 

Eventually, she hears a voice. It startles her, to hear someone else, something beyond the distant, meaningless vwoops of the endermen and the ambient noises of her own existence. She freezes, a hand going to her axe instinctively. The voice fades away for a moment. And then something… someone? Drops from the island above her. 

She stares up at it, eyes wide in confusion and in fear, muscles tensing even further like a deer in headlights. Or a cat caught messing with something it shouldn’t be. Or a faery, realizing too late it was lured and trapped in honey. 

Scar’s scarred face comes into her view, his arms spread in proper skydiving formation, his dark maroon cape flying out behind him. He yells something, but the words get swallowed by The Void. Lizzie rights herself, the most energy she’s spent while in The Void since the initial five minutes of screaming. She pats down her hair as best she can, tightens her space buns and adjusts the little, now dead, bits of holly she plucked from her berry bushes and stuck in them ages ago, straightens her axe. And then she waits for Scar to come within earshot. There’s no point in further destroying her voice to try and carry out whatever conversation he wants to have. They have all the time in the world. 

Scar hurtles toward her impressively quickly. Did she fall this fast? She could have sworn it took her weeks to fall. Scar takes less than an hour. Maybe the gods really do pick favorites. 

“I thought you might be down here,” Scar says once he knows she can hear him. 

Lizzie raises an eyebrow at him. “Were you looking for me?” Maybe they do remember her. 

Scar nods, but something dark flickers across his usually-peppy face. It lingers in his bloodstained irises. “I-“ He breathes out, hard. Pushes his hair back from his forehead. “We’re the only ones left. Everyone else- it was a bloodbath - Lizzie, they’re all dead.”

Lizzie wishes she could feel any kind of shock. She just takes the news with a calm, if a little cold, acceptance. “So you won.”

“That’s the thing. Everyone’s task was to win-“

“-how dramatic-“

“-yeah, Keeper’s got some flair- and so at the end of… everything… I walked up and hit ‘succeed’ and then it just gave me another book. Same task. ‘Win Secret Life.’”

“Right. And you think this has something to do with me.”

“I’m out of options.”

Lizzie frowns, biting her lip. “But I’m dead.”

Scar blinks. “I don’t think your body got the memo.”

“Well, yes, but at this point I must be dead. You must be, too, I suppose, if we’re both actually having this conversation.” She looks back over Scar. He seems remarkably alive. His usual perkiness is a little dimmed, sure, but who can blame him? He’s just witnessed the death of everyone else in this horrible game, that’ll do something to a man. “Why are you here, anyway? I can only assume it’s not for pleasure.”

“To be honest, I thought you might have some answers.”

“I’ve been faffing around at the bottom of The Void for weeks, what information would I be able to give to you?”

“Again, I ran out of options. Not even Grian talks to me anymore.”

“I imagine not, you did say everyone died.”

“Well, yeah, but I could swear he talked to me after I-“ He swallows. “After, uh, after Pearl died.”

A pang of pity shoots through Lizzie’s chest. She doesn’t have the heart to shoo it away. “I’m sorry, Scar. I don’t have any answers for you.”

“Maybe…” He trails off. His eyes flick around The Void, searching. They land on the sword at his side, and Lizzie’s fingertips drift toward the handle of her axe. “If one of us dies, the other one would win… right? That’s how these gods-damned games work.”

“Games? Plural?” Lizzie asks, twitchy. She remembers, of course. She remembers the other death game, and the empires, and everything else. But if she can derail Scar’s train of thought, maybe he’d stop looking at her so murder-y and start thinking up alternate solutions. 

“Yes, plural- I’m sorry, don’t really have time to explain, I just- It was always down to the last man standing, right? Even in the one with pairs,” One with pairs? Maybe she doesn’t remember everything. Scar keeps mumbling under his breath. His hand is gripping his sword fully now, Lizzie’s is tight around her axe. She’s mirroring him, even if he doesn’t fully realize what he’s about to do, the scope of the task he’s about to complete. 

“Scar, listen to me-“ She starts, but he isn’t listening, he’s trying to pace in The Void. His sword slides an inch out of its sheath with a screech, and Lizzie’s axe is in her hands before she can open her mouth to warn him further. He looks at her with red-glazed eyes. “You don’t want this, Scar.”

“It’ll be over either way, won’t it? That’s what I want.”

“You don’t want this, Scar!” Lizzie gestures wildly at the nothingness around her with her free hand. “This isn’t winning. Not even the Keeper will know who wins if we die here. This isn’t a victory.” 

“I don’t need to win. I just want to get out.” He lunges at her, sword sweeping dangerously close to her neck as she ducks out of the way, spinning slightly from the momentum having nothing to slow her in the nothingness. Strings of her hair float around her, now cropped close to her chin as Scar pulls back his sword again.

“I’m sorry, Scar.” She takes her axe in both hands and rushes at him, pulling it upwards above her head and kicking her legs out to add to the impact of it as it slams into scar. It cuts a gash through his cape, skin, and muscle, to the point where Lizzie can see where she’s chipped the bone that sits in the center of his sternum. He gasps, and the blood flows from him in a cloud. Lizzie has to rear back so she doesn’t get a faceful of it. Scar opens his mouth, but his eyes are already glazing over. His face isn’t angry. It’s open. It’s waiting. Lizzie senses a sizzle in the air, and his body is vaporized with a loud CRACK of lightning. His sword drifts out past him. So does a sunflower. Lizzie removes its head and places it gently against her ear. It’s just her and The Void, now. And whoever is left watching them. A voice whispers through her ears. Her shoulders roll back, eyes closing on their own. 

You’ve completed your quest The world is restored. He killed all the rest And you reaped his reward. You’re our last man standing You’re no longer red; you’re purple It’s time to start planning Come join our winner’s circle.

She keeps her eyes shut as she feels the air heat up around her. Her hair floats up and off of her shoulders, flying loose from her space buns and tickling her forehead. The hairs on her arms stand up, and Lizzie feels her shoulders relax. Whatever happens now is over. She’s won. She did it.

As the death knell chimes, her eyes stay shut. She’s seen all she needs to. This world was done. 

The lightning incinerates her, just as it did to Scar. In the end, all they are is just weapons, sunflowers, and berries, floating on the edge of nothing. 

[agerefandomrambles]

Title: Buggy Boys

Word count: 1094

Little! Spider + Ant

Cg! Missy + Harper

Warnings: classification, crying

Plot: heartbreak high classification au fic

Spider, Missy, Ant, Harper, Amerie, Darren, Quinni and Cash are all sat in the amphitheatre.

Quinni, Darren and Cash are sitting criss cross apple sauce on the floor, chatting quietly. Missy, Harper and Amerie are standing by the entrance, talk loudly amongst themselves. Spider and Ant are sitting on the seats along the wall. Neither one is talking, instead staring ahead as they churn thoughts in their head.

They are the last of the year 12's waiting, and despite the cahtter, the room is somehow overwhelmingly silent.

It's the beginning of year 12 and the whole class is getting their classifications. There's 4 potential classifications: caregiver, little, flip and neutral.

Neutral is the most common, with 47% of the population falling into the neutral category. Neutrals can have tendencies of any of the other classes but they ultimately fall under none of the above. They function as normal all of the time.

Littles and caregivers both make up 19% of the population, coming together to form 38% of the population. Littles sometimes fall into a younger headspace where they rely more heavily on others. Caregivers are built to support and care for the littles.

Finally, flips make up 15% of the population. A flip can both regress or care for those that are regressed. Some flips lean one way or another but they can be both.

The test is quick and easy. The teens get asked some simple questions and then get their blood taken.

Within minutes, they have the results back. They group together silently, pushing aside past grievances and arguments to come together.

Quinni opens hers first, a wide grin on her face. Then, she opens the letter and in big bright letters, an orange NEUTRAL appears. She leafs through the letter, finding a pamphlet explaining her class and details on how to register with the government. "It's like opening a letter" she exclaims gleefully.

Cash and Darren open each other's, both sighing in relief when they get the same NEUTRAL as Quinni. "Thank God. I am so not built to be a caregiver" Darren sighs dramatically, clutching at their chest for added flair.

Amerie opens hers next, the whole group sitting in shock when the words FLIP stare back at them.

"Hey it's ok babe, we'll help you" Harper consoles, pulling Amerie into a hug.

"Yeah, it's no big deal" Darren chimes in.

"You get the best of both worlds?" Cash adds hesitantly.

"Yeah ok... I'm ok. Why don't you go Harps?" Amerie says after a long moment of silence. She wipes at her eyes and visibly pulls herself together.

Harper tears her envelop open, Missy lightly punching her in the arm when a bright red CAREGIVER is written in bold.

"And to noones suprise, our group mum is actually a mommy" Missy jokes, quickly getting a punch from Ant, Harper and Spider.

"OK then, let's see yours then" Spider teases, pulling her in close as they carefully open her envelope together. They skim through the envelop, but right in the middle is CAREGIVER

The group chat happily about the results and spider and Ant send each other a look. "Last two?" Spider says, though he phrases it like a question.

Ant just looks up at him, blinking with wide eyes. Ant hasn't spoken since the test, choosing instead to sit at the back of the group.

"I bet I can guess what his is going to be" Harper jokes. She gets up from her spot and sits in front of Ant, gently grabbing his attention by placing a hand on his shoulder. "Hey kiddo. Can I open your envelope? It's imporant"

Ant just nods, still not talking. Missy smiles at him and picks up the letter. She carefully opens it and places it on the table, displaying a light blue LITTLE for everyone to see.

Ant just whimpers at seeing the words and launches himself into Harper. Harper catches him with a grunt, steadying the both of them with the other hand.

"You're all good kiddo, I got you" she murmers, running her hands through his hair while he sobs into her chest.

"Awe it's alright Ant, I'll be your little buddy" Amerie jokes, sitting down besides Harper.

Cash and Darren join the two, not knowing how to help and instead offering silent support with their presence.

Quinni sits from across the table and silently hands Ant a pair of noise cancelling headphones and a fidget cube. Harper helps him put them on and he calms down almost instantly, content to sit in Harper's lap and play with the fidget cube.

"Spider, you haven't done yours y-" Missy trails off mid sentence. Everyone looks up from a now very happy Ant to see a very distraught Spider spitting off to the side.

He's clutching his open letter in his hand, the light blue of the LITTLE still clearly visible. He makes eye contact with Missy, his whole body still.

"Hey Spidey, you ok?" She asks cautiously, standing up and carefully walking over to him, watching for a reaction.

"I'm a little" He says, almost in a whisper.

"I know. Looks like we've got two little buggy boys" she chuckles over her joke to herself, before slowly sitting next to him. She gives a quick nod of her head to tell the rest of the group to leave them alone for a bit.

The two sit in silence for a long while, Spider processing this new information and Missy silently offering the support he needs.

"I don't have any gear" Spider says quietly, not making eye contact.

"That's OK, you can apply for a grant with the government to get some if you want it" Missy replies gently.

"I um... I don't know how to be little" Spider mutters, finally lifting his head to look at Missy with pleading eyes.

"Oh, well that I can help with. Can I touch you?" Missy chuckles, scooting closer. Spider just nods and leans into her.

Missy waits until he's comfortable before nodding at the rest of the gang to come over now.

Ant is the first to toddle over. He plops down in front of Spider and waits (as patiently as a 5 year old can wait) for Spuder to look up.

When spider looks up, Ant grabs his hand, says " We're buggy boys :)" before racing off. Spider lets Ant drag him along but he sends a glare Missys way.

Missy and Harper both laugh before trailing behind the two littles, chatting while they play pirates and fairies and superheros and mermaids.

[m3gahet]

You're more than welcome to write a little something for the itty bitty titty club 😉😂

I didn’t know if you were looking for shippy or not but it’s definitely more of a platonic drabble (I’m sorry!) I hope I did Ceelie justice as she navigates Pretty Blondes drama :p she deserves an award.

“I didn’t think you could look angrier. It’s actually impressive.” St Cecilia mused as Robin paced before her on the balcony, furiously muttering to herself as she tossed her cig just to light another. “Christ.” 

“I’m fine.” The shorter blonde insisted for the- 

fourth or fifth time? She’d lost count. 

“You clearly aren’t.” St Cecilia sighed before approaching her. She placed her hands firmly on the other’s shoulders holding her in place. She knew the only reason it was effective was because Robin didn’t put up a fight to stop her but she simply took the win. “What happened?” Robin’s near black eyes narrowed and St Cecilia watched as multiple emotions seemed to flash within them in a moment. She felt Robin’s shoulders relax as the other sighed before tossing the still lit cigarette over the railing. “What if that starts a fire?” She joked.

“Ah let it burn for all I care.” Robin muttered. St. Cecilia cocked her head and gave the other a look that seemed to convey what she intended. Robin rolled her eyes before her head fell back slightly. “Okay I’d care. I’m just stressed.” 

“What’s stressing you out?” She asked with genuine interest that made Robin feel weird. The manager didn’t speak but her lips pulled into a grimace as her cheeks reddened and refused to meet the other’s bright eyes. “Oh!...Who’s stressing you out?” She amended. 

“I can’t tell you. You’ll take his side.” 

“What did Skwisgaar do?” 

“Damn it.” St. Cecilia allowed her hands to fall from the other’s shoulders and turned to lean against the railing, Robin mirrored her. “I- he’s being dramatic-” A myriad of emotions flash in those dark eyes again. “-Okay maybe I was a dick about it but he’s fucking stonewalling me when I try to bring it up and that’s just fucking like him-” She fell into a rythm of nods and sounds of acknowledgement despite still not having the faintest clue what the other was passionately ranting about. The reaction did sound like Skwisgaar to be fair. He had a nasty habit of just shutting down when complex conflict came up.

(Translation: Anything that couldn’t be solved in five minutes or less) 

It was hard to follow along to Robin’s words without the full context and all she managed to put together was Robin hit a nerve and Skwisgaar was giving her the silent treatment. She watched as the other buried her face in her arms and rested against the stone. She opened her mouth to speak when Robin lifted her head.

“I weirdly feel better?” She admits, her face no longer red with anger or embarrassment. “I have to get back to work but I’ll try to actually apologize later..” Robin stood up straighter before turning on her heel and heading back inside. “Thanks for your help!” She called from down the hall. St Cecilia smiled to herself though she didn’t really understand what ‘help’ she had provided the other. She still found herself dangerously curious to the full details of the ordeal though. She pulled her phone from her jean pocket and quickly pulled up Skwisgaar’s contact. 

“What’s going on with you and Robin? :o “ 

She did feel the slightest sting of guilt but her attention was immediately taken as three dots danced on her screen. 

“Meet me in my room.”   

[leiawritesstories]

A Rose As Red As Blood

well, once again, i didn't write what i said i was going to write. *sigh* but here's.....this thing, pulled from the depths of my WIPs. and YES your model/designer au is coming i PROMISE

A loosely Beauty and the Beast-inspired AU :)

Word count: ~3.4k

Warnings: some language, illness, bad parenting, grouchiness

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Evening was just beginning to darken the blush of sunset when Kasida galloped up the dirt path leading to the Galathynius home, her reins hanging loose around her bridle. The mare stopped mere inches from Aelin, whinnying and panting like she was desperate.

Aelin dropped the basket of vegetables she'd been harvesting from her little garden and grabbed the mare's reins, smoothing a hand down her neck and speaking soothingly into her ear. "Shh, my girl, it's all right, you're home." She stroked Kasida's sweat-dampened coat. "What's wrong, Kas? Spooked in the--Da?"

She'd just realized that Rhoe, who'd headed out early that morning to go to the market three towns over, was not with Kasida.

"Da?" Looping Kasida's reins around the hitching post, Aelin all but sprinted into the stable, praying to whatever gods existed that her father would be there, putting away the saddlebags with a grin on his face and a joke on his lips. You worry too much, my Fireheart, he'd tease. "Da? Are you there?"

Out in the yard, Kasida whickered, scuffing her hooves against the dirt-and-gravel front path.

Rhoe was not in the stable.

A furrow wrinkled Aelin's forehead, concern creasing her thoughts. She strode back over to Kasida, stroking the horse's sides in a gesture of comfort. "Shh, it'll be alright. We'll go find him, I promise." The horse huffed as if in agreement. "I know, I know. We need to go now."

"Talking to the horse again?" interrupted a male voice--far too loud for a conversation at dusk.

Bracing herself, Aelin turned slowly around to find Chaol Westfall leaning against her front gate, a stupid grin curling across his face and his ever-present quiver of arrows peeking over his shoulder. "I don't recall inviting you here, Westfall."

"No need," Chaol declared. "Miss Galathynius, chérie, I simply happened to be walking past and saw you conversing with your horse." He laughed. "And I thought, how adorable, she thinks the horse can understand her."

"How wonderful," Aelin grumbled, hurrying up the front steps into her house. "Goodni--"

"Why don't you come to the tavern with me tonight, darling?" Chaol appeared at her side, propping one arm against the doorframe and smirking down at her. "I've been hoping to have the most beautiful woman in town on my arm."

"I'd rather die," Aelin muttered.

"Quoi?" He placed his free hand dramatically against his heart. "Surely you tease, ma belle?"

She rolled her eyes. "Get off my porch, Westfall. Then take your disgusting thoughts about marrying me and shove them up your flat little ass."

And she slammed the front door in his face.

Chaol remained on the porch for another two minutes before storming off in a huff, grumbling about ungrateful women and his inestimable glory under his breath.

Aelin grabbed a couple of hunting knives, strapping one to her thigh and sliding another into her belt, threw some food into a small bag, laced up her boots and pulled her thick cloak around her shoulders, and hurried back out the door, locking up behind her. She checked Kasida's saddle, tightened up the straps, fastened her saddlebag in place, and swung herself up. "Alright, Kas, let's go find Da." Kasida whinnied and launched into a half-canter at the bares touch of Aelin's heels, only pausing for Aelin to fasten the gate before galloping off into the falling night.

~

Within an hour, they had reached the Oakwald Forest, its vast expanse of greenery dimmed to a gray, charcoal, navy, and black blur by the night. Aelin patted Kasida's neck, encouraging her. "It's alright, my girl, just a bit dark." She rooted around in the saddlebag, grinning when she found the striker. "Here, let's have a little light, yes?" Catching a stray dry branch, she lit it aflame, casting a circle of firelight around herself and the horse. "Let's go, my girl. Da's waiting, I know he is."

Kasida trotted into the forest, guided by whatever instincts had led her on her mad dash back home to Aelin. Eventually, they came to a fork in the path, partially obscured by a great old tree that had fallen across the road, its trunk splintered by what looked like the marks of a lightning strike. Aelin nudged Kasida leftwards, onto the fork that wasn't blocked.

It wasn't quite another two hours before they reached a wrought-iron gate that hung loosely on its hinges, creaking faintly as the curling breeze nudged it further open. And just in time, too--Aelin's torch had burned to a bare stub and she snuffed it with a breath, tossing the blackened end into a patch of slushy snow.

Odd--she could have sworn it was barely autumn, and yet here, there were patches of snow scattered across the ground. The Oakwald opened up beyond the gate, giving way to...a palace? A castle?

Even more odd.

She'd never been aware there was any kind of castle in the forest.

Still, the once-landscaped gardens wound towards a dark stone building, and a building meant shelter, if nothing else. And she needed shelter. So Aelin dismounted, wrapped the reins around her hand, and led Kasida into the castle grounds, her boots crunching gently against the fine layer of snow crusted atop the cobbled paths. Distantly, some part of her brain noticed how well-kept the grounds must once have been, with lush greenery and smoothly raked paths extending all across the property. But it had clearly long since fallen into disrepair, probably abandoned by whoever the last owner had been.

Eventually, Aelin came to the castle proper, finding it just as empty as the grounds had been. She led Kasida to the stable and unsaddled her, settling the mare in a stall with plenty of water and, surprisingly, a bucket of fairly fresh oats. She didn't allow herself to wonder how in all hell there was fresh feed in an abandoned castle.

That train of thought could only lead to runaway imaginings.

A little more cautiously, Aelin headed up the castle's front stairs, her saddlebag gripped tightly in her hands. She nudged the great oaken door with her foot, jumping slightly when it opened a fraction. Quickly recovering her wits, she pushed the door open enough to get herself inside, then closed the door behind herself and stood for a moment in the silent, dark entrance hall.

At least the place was warm.

Torchlight flickered some distance down the corridor to the left, so she headed that way, hoping to hell and back she wasn't walking into the lair of some criminal. You stop that! she chastised herself, swatting her cheeks. Find Da and go home. That's why we are here.

Someone or something must have been guiding her path, because before long, she found herself at the foot of some prison-like stairs. The stone steps spiralled steadily upwards into the tower, the stairwell's damp darkness broken every several steps by a wall sconce. The torchlight flickered and wavered, unsteady, only enhancing Aelin's sense that this was a prison. And if it was a prison, that was likely where her father was.

And she would do anything to get him out.

Torch firmly in hand, Aelin started up the steps, climbing with single-minded determination. Her focus helped the stairs go by faster, and it was only a few moments before she reached the top and found herself, as she suspected, in a hallway lined with iron-grate cell doors. Raising her torch, she crept down the hall, scanning each cell for her father. Most were empty--strange, but not so strange for a castle in such a remote, almost forgotten, part of the woods.

Then she heard it. A muted, broken moan.

Her father's voice.

"Da!" She darted towards the sound, finding her father in a cell towards the end of the corridor. "Da, it's me!"

"Fireheart?" Rhoe croaked, gripping the bars of his cell door.

"It's me," Aelin repeated, shifting her torch to one hand and pressing the other atop her father's hands. "I'm here to get you out, Da."

Terror flashed across Rhoe's face. "No, you--he'll--Fireheart, no." He clutched her hand, earnestness and deep fear warring in his face. "I can't let you risk yourself for me."

"Like hell you can't." Aelin set the torch in a nearby sconce, freeing her to look for lockpicks. "Why are you here, Da?"

He shuddered. "He said I trespassed. Stole."

"Da..." Her brows furrowed. "Who? Said what?" Tugging a couple of pins from her hair, she inserted them into the cell lock and poked around, figuring out how the lock mechanism worked.

"The...the prince," Rhoe whispered. "He found me in his garden, found the rose, threw a godsdamned fit."

"The rose?" The lock clicked, and she tamped down her pride.

Rhoe's hands shook. "I only wanted to bring you back something pretty, my Fireheart, I thought the castle was abandoned and I could just spend the night in some kind of shelter, I never meant to harm anything."

"Da." Aelin yanked the cell door open, only wincing a little at the grating screech of the metal, and grabbed Rhoe's arms, tugging him to face her. "There's a prince?"

Rhoe nodded shakily. "He--he was--"

He was right behind them, a kerosene lantern in one raised hand and a near-feral snarl on his face. "Who the hell are you?"

~

Ten Years Ago

Prince Rowan Whitethorn was supremely uncomfortable.

The jacket was too tight, the pants were far too tight, and the stupidly massive wig his valet had placed atop his head made him look ridiculous, like a small child trying to play at being his father. He was barely fourteen--indeed, this whole elaborate costume ball was supposedly to celebrate his birthday--and yet his father insisted on the most pomp and ceremony possible for every event.

He didn't have the words or the heart to say he didn't want it.

"Son!" Prince Pyotr Whitethorn entered the room, regally imposing in his own ornate suit and towering wig. "Ah, lovely. You are ready!" Without waiting for an answer--because the Prince of Doranelle did not ask questions--he took hold of Rowan's arm and led him out towards the ballroom.

"Father." Rowan managed to pull free partway down the long hall. "I..."

"What, boy?" Pyotr looked crossly at his son. "We haven't the time for your nonsense."

Rowan gulped. "Might--might I see Mother before I go to the ball?"

"We do not--"

"It would be wise to allow the boy a visit." Gav, who had been Pyotr's valet for many years, interrupted. "To soothe his temper, as it were." Gav had long been skilled at the art of placating Pyotr, knowing precisely how to phrase his suggestions so Rowan's father would see reason.

"Very well," Pyotr relented. "I will be there momentarily, son."

Rowan bowed quickly and hurried off towards his mother's room, slowing down as he approached her door. He knocked twice--their secret knock--and entered, going silent as he walked over to his mother's bed.

Princess Enna Whitethorn laid pale and silent in her bed, her pine eyes fluttering weakly as her son came to her. "My son," she whispered, her voice a frail thread of breath.

"Mama," Rowan croaked, folding her wasted hands into his.

Enna managed a flicker of a smile. "I love you, my Rowan," she rasped. "To whatever end."

"Mama, please, don't go," he whispered back, heart cracking in two when she squeezed his hands.

His mother's face was placid, restful. "If only I could stay," she murmured, thumb brushing weakly over the back of his palm. "Now tell me, little hawk."

He gulped. "To--to whatever end."

Enna's lips twitched upwards, the only bit of joy she could express.

Then Pyotr's hand laid itself onto Rowan's shoulder, his father's commanding presence brooking no refusal, and Rowan was directed away from his mother's bedside, keeping his eyes--her eyes--trained onto her until the dark mahogany doors closed before his face.

"Stand tall, son." Pyotr murmured, his way of trying to encourage Rowan before they entered the ballroom. Despite his attempt, though, he couldn't quite mask the harsh undertone.

Rowan sniffed once, straightened his spine, and schooled his features into the same unfeeling neutrality he so often saw his father wear. "I'm ready."

~

Too many hours into the ball, Rowan lounged in his decidedly uncomfortable throne, wondering idly if his father had consumed enough liquor to let him escape unnoticed. He was on the verge of standing up to weave through the throng of dancers and slip out a side door when the entire room went dark.

A frigid gust swept through the expansive ballroom, extinguishing every flame and light in its path. Seconds later, thunder cracked through the grand hall, bringing a ripple of gasps and shrieks from the gathered people. Directly in front of the dais--directly in front of Rowan and his father--a writhing cloud of light took form, expanding and morphing into a female shape, a woman's form.

His...mother's form?

"Enna?" Pyotr inquired, frowning at the figure. "What on earth--"

"Silence." That was not Enna Whitethorn's voice. That was not the voice of the woman who comforted Rowan every time he sought out her gentle, loving warmth.

"Enna, what in the name--"

"I said, silence." The woman who was and was not Enna lifted a hand, cutting off Rowan's father's words. He opened and closed his mouth, trying in vain to force words out, until he was propelled back down into his throne. "You know why I am here, Pyotr."

Pyotr's face blanched and he gripped the arms of the throne, drilling the ferocity of his glare into the woman's face.

She wasn't intimidated in the slightest. "What is the price, Prince?"

No answer.

"You will respond to me." She flicked her fingers. "What is the price, Prince? What is the cost of this, your reign?"

"Th--that which I love the most," Pyotr rasped, the words escaping him against his will.

She nodded. "Indeed. Look before you, Prince Pyotr Whitethorn, and see the cost."

He swallowed harshly. "If the price is paid, go."

A soft, menacing laugh. "Foolish words, Prince. For how could you love anything more than your own self?" When he tried to respond, she silenced him once again and turned outward, towards the gathered crowd. "Hear me well, my people. See what befalls those who would care only for themselves." Threads of her light wrapped around Pyotr, coiling up his arms, his legs, his body. "See how the selfish one is repaid."

Rowan could do nothing but watch, stunned, as those threads dragged his father into the enchantress's--for that was what she was, his mother, an enchantress--light.

And then she turned to him. "Little hawk."

"M--mother?" he whispered.

Sorrow flickered briefly across her face. "I am sorry, my little hawk, but the price must be paid." Once again, threads of gold spiraled out, this time towards him.

This time, though, the threads wove around his head and heart, not to kill but only to curse.

"Until the prince learns the meaning of true love, let the loveless winter blight the land." Enna's voice was a thousand voices at once, layers of sound echoing through the great vaulted ballroom. "Until love is the meaning and foundation of this place, let the land reflect the heart and mind of the father." Those threads burned, and Rowan groaned, feeling the curse sink into the fabric of his being.

Gently, Enna brushed her hand across her son's cheek. "Fear not, my son," she murmured, now speaking only to him. "For you are my son, and I taught you to love." Her touch was a cooling balm after the burn of the curse. "Now tell me, Rowan. Promise me."

He forced back his tears. "To whatever end."

"To whatever end."

With that, Enna Whitethorn exploded into shards of glowing gold, the sparks shooting through the ballroom and re-igniting all the lights.

And Rowan collapsed backwards into his throne, shaking, a barrier of ice forming around his heart.

~

That ice--his mother's curse--protected him for years, keeping his heart sealed off and inaccessible. It was a blessing when the court abandoned him and his castle, when the land forgot the Whitethorn name and lands and stories. It was a blessing when, every so often, a lost traveler stumbled across the wintry territory and Rowan had to growl and menace the lost traveler away from his castle.

It was a curse, though, when he couldn't shed a single tear at his mother's grave.

It was a curse when he found himself growing into a moody, temperamental recluse with a bad habit of snapping at the handful of faithful staff who remained to care for the castle and the prince.

But Rowan had never been so aware that he was cursed as he was when he came face to face with a gorgeous woman in his prison tower, a woman protectively shielding the middle-aged man Rowan had caught trying to steal a rose from his mother's garden. She'd clearly picked the lock of the cell he'd thrown the man into, was clearly in the process of breaking him out.

And his soul screamed at him that this was the woman to break his curse.

He shoved his soul aside. "Who the hell are you?"

"None of your godsdamned business," the woman snapped, sparks kindling in the gold flecks of her eyes.

Rowan nearly growled. "You're trying to break out a prisoner I rightly claimed; it very much is my business."

"Rightly claimed?" she echoed, indignant. "My father was seeking shelter for the night, not trying to kill you."

"Seeking to steal from my lands, too." Enna's roses were incredibly precious to Rowan. It might have been a bit much to throw the man into a cell for marveling at the roses' beauty enough to try and pluck one, though.

The woman raised her chin in defiance. "My father was trying to bring me something I asked for. If it's a prisoner you want, take me. I'm the reason he tried to clip one of your roses."

"Aelin, no," the man whispered, trying to maneuver his daughter away from the cell.

She turned to face him, sorrow and determination in those beautiful eyes. "I'm sorry, Da." Then she pushed him aside, swung herself into the cell, and slammed the door shut before he could stop her. "Go, Da. I love you."

The man gulped, looked to Rowan's menacing stance, and took off down the stairs, running as fast as his legs would take him. Minutes later, the outer doors slammed shut.

Rowan glanced out the window to his left, watching the man gallop away on his horse. Then he turned back to the woman, striding right up to the cell door to glare down at her. At Aelin. Gods, but the name suited her--and struck something in his curse-frozen heart.

She glared right back, unflinching. "Are you just going to stand and scowl, or do you have better things to do, prince?" She spat his title like a curse.

"You took his place." Rowan was not expecting his voice to soften like that--like there was something human in him after all.

"Some of us possess human qualities," she scoffed.

Just like that, the curse shot ice through his veins. His expression shuttered. "You are not to leave this castle unless and until I release you," he recited. He'd had this little speech down for a few years at least. "The staff will bring your food. Do not even think about escaping--the castle knows me and I know it."

Aelin rolled her eyes. "Anything else?"

He had no words. So he just took his lantern and stalked away, ignoring the faint little voice inside of him that had, despite his efforts, returned to yell at him not to leave her there like that. That voice sounded suspiciously like hope.

And if there was one thing Rowan Whitethorn had learned from a decade under the curse, it was that hope had no place in his heart.

~~~

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