#<- has felt nothing but suffering agony at their hands

[snersona]

its unsettling, to mother nothing

[risuola]

HEADACHE — F. READER x SUKUNA RYOMEN ft. Yuji Itadori

Your head has been killing you all day but you tried to play it off as nothing to not worry your boyfriend, but he noticed and didwhat he could to ease your suffering.

cw: fluff, Itadori is 18 and is a vessel for Sukuna, reader is in pain (duh), things like SA and su1cide are mentioned (nothing discriptive though), there is like, one slightly suggestive joke I guess? it's fluff, let me remind you! — 1,7k words

a/n: yet another fluffed out piece of writing for the king, because I love him struggling to keep his authority, alright? there are also so many fics where Sukuna is just purely violent that I feel like him being everything but violent is very much in demand and I love him more gentle 🖤 i also often get headaches like the one described so it was my inspo, kinda.

It hurt. Your head had been killing you since this morning and slowly it was getting to the point where you couldn't even move. It felt like a storm had been raging inside your skull for hours, you couldn't think, couldn't eat, couldn't concentrate on anything all day, and three painkillers didn't help at all. Your vision was blurry, your balance was off, everything seemed too loud, too close, too bright, too intense. You wanted to scream, you cried, and even begged whatever there is in the universe to just take this pain away.

"I can't," you whispered, crying quietly into your pillow as night fell. "I can't, I can't..." You tried not to wake Yuji, you even acted like it hurt less than it really did, just so he wouldn't worry, but now you couldn't hold it anymore. Your hands were shaking, your vision went black, and you wanted to die.

You got up, quietly and carefully, and slowly padded to the bathroom, feeling your way through the walls because your vision wasn't reliable anymore, and you put your head under the ice-cold water. Unpleasant shivers ran down your spine, your breath came short, but you stayed there, begging the university to ease the agony. And it did, for a moment. It all came back when you threw a towel over your head, unable to withstand the cold anymore. There was no point, you were dying, there was no other way.

Defeated, you dried your hair as best you could and went back to bed, where the moment you laid down, Yuji's arm found its place over your middle. He was still asleep, thankfully, and you pushed a pillow over your face and dived into the darkness.

"Is this suicide?", a voice that you only hoped was the creation of your mind reached your ears and you ignored it for the time being. Yuji was sleeping, he didn't move his hand from over your belly, he couldn't... "It's unwise to ignore me."

"Please, I can't do this now..." you whispered and took the pillows away. It was wet with tears, and so was your face when you looked at him. It was Sukuna, but it seemed like he had very little control over Itadori's body. Or maybe he intentionally kept you close to him so that you would die of a heart attack, but the sudden rush of blood that made your heart pump much faster than usual only made you feel worse.

"You can't do what?"

"Why are you here?" you asked, wiping your face.

"I love watching people suffer, and you seem to be just the kind of show I'd enjoy."

"Of course you do..."

"What is the source of your pain?"

"My head hurts. So fucking bad."

"Poor little human," he chuckled, lifting his head and resting it on his hand for a better view. In any other situation you would have pushed him away, tried to distance yourself, but now you had no power to fight back, so you stayed where you were, in the emotionless embrace of a curse that lives inside your boyfriend.

"If you stepped out to enjoy my pain, please go fuck yourself. Not the best timing, curse."

"How rude," he chuckled, "as if you were in a position to speak to me like that. I can slice you to ribbons before that brat even thinks of taking control back. Oh, imagine how devastated he would be to wake up to the bloody mess of his little girlfriend."

"Oh, sure. How creative, threatening me with death, very original. Perhaps you should surprise me and use your little hocus pocus to ease the pain I feel instead of scaring me."

"You want me, the King of Curses, to heal a human?"

"Kindness would be a good look on you."

"Oh, you're so desperate," he laughed and you covered your eyes with your forearm, already tired of his shit. The silence hurt you, not to mention his amused tone.

"Get lost, Sukuna," you muttered. "If you're not going to help, then stay quiet."

"And who are you to order me around?" his long fingers clawed at your chin, forcing your head in his direction, and you lowered your arm to look at him. Red eyes almost glowed in the darkness of the night, but he looked calm. "Hmm? Little human, have you forgotten where your place is?"

"I know where my place is, but you're in my bed now, so the only rules that apply here are mine."

"What a mouth," he chuckled again. "I can make this headache worse, you know."

"By annoying me to death? You're doing great at that."

It really wasn't wise to push Sukuna's buttons like that, your luck was definitely going to run out sooner or later, and even if you thought you wanted to die because of the headache, that wasn't really what you wished for.

"Sukuna, please, don't be a dick, help a human out."

"Oh, but watching you in pain is so much more entertaining."

"Have you ever tried to be nice, or is the concept foreign?"

"Being nice doesn't hold any power."

"Oh, but it does. When people truly respect you, not because they're scared, that's a different kind of power. And you like power, right?"

"I'm the strongest, I don't care what maggots think of me as long as they kneel in fear."

"If those people are maggots, doesn't that make you like a maggot king or something?"

"Oh, you're pushing your luck."

"Sure, whatever," you smack his hand away from your face and put the pillow back over it. If he's not going to be helpful, what was the point of paying attention to him? Just because he wants it doesn't mean he has to get it.

"And now you plan to ignore me?"

With no answer, you just pressed the plush item harder to your face, hoping that the pressure would soothe you even a little, but no luck.

Sukuna achieved his goal of making your heart beat even faster when he suddenly climbed on top of you, pinning you under his body and throwing the pillow away. Both of your hands he pressed to the bed with only one of his own, and you looked at him with a combination of surprise, confusion, and a glimmer of fear. This was not an ideal situation in any universe.

"What now?"

"Oh, don't be so scared, you wanted me to help you, right?"

"I fail to notice where the helping part is..."

"You humans fail to notice a lot of things."

Ryomen continued to touch you, but his touch felt anything but intimate. It burned, it felt targeted when his palm brushed against your knees or your inner thigh. Wherever he pressed, you felt some pain.

"What on earth are you doin-"

"I advise you to shut up before I change my mind."

And so you did, still unsure of what was happening. Why was this man touching your skin when you could have sworn, he wasn't interested in any kind of human physical touch. He was toying with you, enjoying the way your heart was racing in your chest, how you struggled to free your hands from his relentless grasp, and how you tried so hard to stay calm when he knew your mind was racing 180 miles per hour and off the cliff.

"Such a simple human," he mocked, his fingers brushing way too close to your underwear to go unnoticed, and your hips bucked up to create just a little more distance. This had to be another kind of torture and he was having fun making you so pliable. His eyes never left your face and you struggled to maintain eye contact. "What if I opened a mouth on the palm of my hand right now?" he teased, and you didn't get the subtext at first, but once you did, the vision struck you in a way it shouldn't have.

"Christ, you're more perverted than I suspected a curse would be," you muttered, turning your head to the side, creating an opening for him to kiss the tear off your cheek.

"You don't know much about curses, sweetheart," he laughed directly into your ear, brushing it with his lips as he moved his hand higher, sliding it under your blouse to your hip. "There are some mindless curses out there that only focus on sexually abusing their victims." This wasn't happening, this couldn't be happening. But his tone didn’t change, he was amused more than anything. "But I'm not a simple, horny curse, don't be so afraid. I'm the king."

"For a king, you do kinda often need to remind people about it..." you muttered, breathing in and out, focusing on this simple thing to avoid turning into a mess.

"Remember my advice?"

"Yup."

You closed your mouth and a wave of pulsating pain washed over your whole body again, radiating from your head as if a bomb had just exploded here. You closed your eyes tightly, tears once again threatening to flow from under your squeezed eyelashes. It hurt so much that you couldn't think straight, everything was blurry and you had trouble even recognizing the man above you. You wanted to pull your hands out of his hold, to put them on your temples, to do anything to ease the throbbing ache, but he wouldn't let you.

His hand pressed against your forehead. A moment later, the grip on your wrists loosened and the man rolled off you, taking a place beside you and pulling you into his chest. When you opened your eyes, no sign of black marks met your sight.

"Did he help you?" Yuji asked, his voice soft and cooing, but with worry clearly intertwined with his words. "Does it still hurt?"

"Huh?"

"Your head, does it hurt?"

"No... You asked him for it?"

"Yeah... I noticed you were in pain today, but you tried to play it off as nothing. And you didn't sleep and cried and I saw how many pills you took and still hurt," he spoke so softly, kissing your head tenderly and caressing your back with care and affection. "I'm sorry, I guess he had to scare you a little because, you know... ego."

"Thank you, baby," you pressed your lips to his chest, nuzzling into him even more.

"Oh, don't be, you know I'd do anything for you."

Next day you noticed that every bruise you had on your body wasn’t there anymore. Every hurt you earned through your every day clumsiness and trainings disappeared.

So that’s why Sukuna was touching you.

[lovers-rck]

hazel has a massive crush on the reader but doesn't think she's gay and reader has a massive crush on hazel but doesn't think she notices her

thank you for the request! i hope you like it <33

☆

That's it.

When the tap water hit Hazel's face, she knew what she had to do.

The night before she had read an article online about how to get over someone you had to ignore them for three months. Or something like that. The point was, she just needed just three months free of you to finally end this agony called love and be free.

It couldn't be that hard.

Yes, that's what Hazel was going to do. She couldn't go on suffering in silence, pretending to want to fight you at the club just to enjoy the (violent) rubbing of your body against hers. No. Of course not.

Her case was so severe that she had flunked the literature exam for staring at you during the long classes of 10 minutes - literature was her favorite class!

So yes, Hazel knew what she had to do, and the moment she walked through the school bathroom door she knew she made a decision she couldn't regret.

"Hi!"

God. It was you.

"I gotta go" Hazel said, running from your grasp.

"Wait!" the rubber of your sneakers squeaked against the corridor tiles as you tried to keep up with Hazel's hurried pace "We need to study for the class of Mr G"

The class of Mr G. Right.

Last week there had been the class to determine the pairs for the final project in Mr G's class, "Why should be more male presidents than female?", and you and Hazel had come out together. At the time Hazel had thought it was a sign of destiny, now she wanted to die.

"Uhh..." Hazel's legs were moving with great speed, at a pace you had trouble following "Im gonna quit school"

Your body slammed on the brakes "What!?"

Finally, Hazel stopped her walk and turned to look at you. The corridor was empty and silent, the only sound that could be heard was both of you gasping for breath.

"Yeah" Hazel said, looking at anything but you "Sorry".

Ever since she had met you, Hazel knew how you were going to be her downfall. Entire nights had been spent thinking about you, imagining scenarios where the two of you would magically fall in love and spend the rest of your lives together. Then Hazel would wake up, ready to face her harsh reality where you were not a part of it.

You clearly didn't like girls. Hazel knew this and as much as she would have enjoyed knowing that that wasn't true, the reality was that she was never going to be reciprocated by you. According to her intense pursuit (stalking your social media) your previous partners had all been guys, good looking guys and jocks and funny and with bright futures. Everything Hazel was not.

Liking you had become an act of torture that she willingly subjected herself to every day.

"You are not going to quit school hazel" you shook your head quickly "Let's go".

You offered her your hand, and for a second Hazel was about to take it and abandon her whole master plan.

But no.

"Im sorry" she said "I gotta go"

With a quick movement, your hand made contact with Hazel's arm, stopping her. Your touch felt warm against her cold skin, a contrast that made perfect sense.

You dragged Hazel into an empty room and pushed her body in roughly, then closed the door.

"Ouch" she said "The fight club is tomorrow"

"Im sorry" you said, locking the door.

"What are you doing!?" Hazel exclaimed, her body expression showing surprise "I told you i gotta go"

"We need to talk"

The empty room turned out to be the school chemistry lab. Large jars of liquids and colors adorned the shelves, the sunlight streaming behind them causing a reflection to rest on the faces of both of them.

"We have nothing to ta..." Hazel said, still avoiding your gaze.

"Did i do something wrong?" you said abruptly, and Hazel's eyes finally met yours.

She could easily detect the pain that your eyes transmitted, making her feel like the worst person in the world "Of course not" she said, "You never do nothing wrong".

"Then why are you acting like this?" you whispered.

Hazel had caught your attention from the minute you two fought in the club. Her punches were timid and light, and even when you almost broke her nose in one round, she still asked you worriedly if you were hurt.

Her nobility and gentleness got you from the first moment. From that day on, Hazel left you wanting more and more of her, you felt like you could hardly get enough of her presence.

But she was Hazel, and she was never going to love you.

"I don't know" she whispered too "I just can't keep like this,"

"Like this?"

"Yes, like this!" her voice rose, becoming slightly higher pitched "i cannot stand to be with you anymore."

The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. Unconsciously, your hand went to your heart.

"Im sorry?" you said, trying to ignore the sudden stinging in your eyes "You cannot stand be around me anymore? fuck off, Hazel"

Hazel laughed unwillingly, shaking her head "You don't understand".

"Oh, why? " you moved closer to her, feeling the words come out of your mouth fiercely, totally controlled by the pain "You think i'm dumb right now? You cannot be around me anymore because you think i'm too dumb? Is that right?"

Hazel continued to shake her head as her hands rubbed her eyes in frustration.

"What, Hazel?" Their bodies were inches apart, the two of them with two completely different emotions "Oh you are not gonna speak now? C'mon Hazel!"

"Stop"

"Then explain to me what the fuck is happening!?"

"Quit now"

"I do not fucking understand why are you acting like such a bitch Hazel!"

"Because i cannot keep pretending that i'm not in love with you!"

The room was silent. The smell of kerosene danced in the air.

"What?" you murmured

"I'm sorry" she said, playing with her own fingers in an attempt to distract herself "I'm sorry"

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" you felt your heart pounding.

"Because we are friends" Hazel murmured in such a sad tone that you just wanted to hug her and never let go "And I'd rather stay friends than lose you".

"Haze..."

"I know nothing will ever happen between us" she said "I understand if you don't want to be my friend anymore".

Carried by the impulse, your body eliminated the space between you and Hazel's lips met yours.

Her lips matched yours perfectly, dancing in sync as if they had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Hazel's hands found home on your face, holding you so gently that you thought you might faint from such bliss.

After a few seconds and to the regret of both of you, you had to pull apart for air, your lips suffer instantly from the lack of warmth of the other.

"I want to be more than your friend, Haze" you murmured, and you could see a smile form on his face.

Your body guided you towards Hazel's lips again, following a path that you had never traversed but felt so familiar.  

[diejager]

Soooo, i have been thinking~~~ recall the stepdad!konig and dbf!horangi where they got reader pregnant and horangi took the responsibility for it? While i do know that they are tight knit buddy buddies and probably lives sharing reader with each other, what if horangi manages to trap reader into moving in with him and having a shotgun wedding? And because i’m a bit of a slut for angst - What if he becomes more possessive and decides that only he should have reader?. After all, konig already has his wife yet is still so greedy and going mad with jealousy

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, STEPCEST, forced marriage, panic, possessive behaviour, implied kidnapping, marriage tradition, tell me if I missed any.

König drowned in anger, letting his vitriol consume him whole at the sheer audacity his best friend showed. How dare Horangi take and keep you for himself? Had he grown so comfortable that he could discard König like an old and rusted toy? He was a bumbling and raging mess throwing a tantrum in his office, ripping into the paperwork on his desk and throwing things around the room, screaming and physically pained. His heart throbbed at the betrayal, the agony Horangicaused him for taking your hand in marriage when he was left with a whore, unlovable and discardable —though you wouldn’t know, you didn’t know how little he felt for your mother. She was nothing but a stepping stone for him and Horangi to approach you without any suspicion. 

He attended the wedding, a traditional one, it would’ve been so beautiful if he wasn’t burning with envy. You were draped in silken cloths and fabrics, the bright and passionate red of your hanbok, sewn with flowery details and white and golden accents and Horangi’s navy blue, accentuated with golden strands and a impressive imagery at his front. Every part of it screamed traditional with it’s matching bride’s maids in white and lilac dresses, the tea table, the Jeonanyrye (a duck your mother received from Horangi), and the acts of Gyobaerye and Hapgeunrye that had bile rising in König’s throat. 

Truly, it was amazing to see you being wedded, dressed in beautiful garments, face powdered and cheeks flushed, you were angelic to look at, dripping allure and innocence that he wanted to corrupt and devour. He cornered Horangi after the first night, confronting him about his sudden act and decision to marry you. König wanted to know if this was Horangi’sfirst act of separation, to take things within his own hands to keep you to himself, but Horangi had reassured him that it was simply the first step to trap you for themselves. König wouldn’t believe it, his mind running miles and miles, without a single though in his mind that would help his or Horangi’s case. 

He knew he was increasingly more possessive than he used to, like the hold he had on Horangi when he tried making other friends, or the grip on you that he couldn’t let go. It was a monster that grew and grew in his body the longer he left it unattended, a vile creature with an insatiable thirst for things that he made his —his friend, his items, his mask and his little pet. Both he and Horangi were victims to it, their bloods running green and their eyes seeing red whenever another approached you, but König suffered much, much more than Horangi did. He felt like ripping into Horangi for binding you to him, but he’d regret it, killing off the sole being that understood him on a fundamental way.

“She’s ours, König,” Horangi promised, his course pads holding König’s face, the cool ring searing his cheek while he made König look into his dark eyes, “This is just to bind her to us, when her mother is gone, we can take her elsewhere, hmm?”

König blinked owlishly, his mind moving at a snail’s pace in this moment of frenzied fear, his breath caught the back of his throat when the vision of you in a white dress at his wedding with Horangi bringing you to the podium to marry him. It would seal your fate with them; albeit slowly.

“Ja,” König nodded, gazing into Horangi’s mesmerising browns, “Ja, you are right, Mein freund.”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @lucienbarkbark @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @223princess @maylovesyousomuch @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

[ponderingmoonlight]

Toji Fushiguro coming back to life to save (y/n) in Shibuya

Shibuya Arc scenarios that live in my head rent-free pt.ll

Pt. l with Gojo and Geto are here

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x reader

Word Count: 2,5k

Notes: Literally no one asked for this, I had to do this for myself after the latest episode okay. Loots of grief, hurt and language. Enjoy

„Hey, it’s been a while“, you mumble to yourself, mindlessly dropping a bouquet of flowers onto the stone in front of you.

“You’re not coming back, are you?”

It’s been more than 10 years to be exact. Ten years of working as an assassin, ten years of roaming around without an aim.

Ten years since losing him.

Back then, you never admitted to anyone how you felt about him, how his sight alone made your body do crazy things and lightened up your cloudy mood. He was never a man that was easy to love, let alone very emotional. When it comes to women, Toji probably was the worst man walking on this earth.

But oh how much you loved him. How much you adored the little smile he wore on his face when he teased you, how much you longed for his arms that wrapped themselves around you when nobody was watching, how much you miss his hands roaming all over your body while he fucked you brainless each and every night, screaming out his name like a prayer.

Losing him was the most unbearable pain you’ve ever felt, an event that made you forget your belief in love forever. He was never yours, but losing him shattered your fucking heart. Since he’s gone, you never let another man touch you again, living from alcohol, cigarettes and assignments.

And this.

You visited Toji’s grave whenever you felt enough courage to do so without breaking down. Day after day, week after week, year after year. Always with the same empty feeling that occupies your mind, the what ifs that plague your tired heart whenever you think of him.

Beep beep beep.

Who the hell is calling you right now?

“I’m busy doing nothing”, you bark into your phone.

“(y/n), just wanted to let you know that something’s going on in Shibuya. Rumor has it that that Gojo boy was sealed.”

“Impossible”, you breathe out, almost dropping your phone.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest jujutsu sorcerer, the fucker that killed Toji all these years ago, is gone? Your heart bangs against your chest, mind unable to comprehend the words. This is your chance. The chance to seek revenge, to kill everyone he cares for in one place without resistance.

Everyone expect him.

“I don’t know how this will go. My kid, Megumi. If something happens, keep an eye on him for me, will ya?”

You promised. Despite the fact that you pushed Toji’s past away as far as you could, you have to keep an eye on his son when Gojo isn’t around anymore.

“I thought so too, but seems like that’s a fact.”

“Do we know anything else? Some dirty details?”

“Not really, but someone pretty strong has to be there if that person was able to seal that fucker, don’t you think?”

“Yeah”, you mumble.

“I will take a look at this myself.”

Without waiting for a reply, you hang up and start walking.

This is your chance. After all this years of suffering, regretting, anger and agony, you’ll finally get your revenge. You will show them what the strongest jujutsu sorcerer did to you by taking your love away, by destroying your life so violently that there’s no more happiness left. You will give him a taste of his own medicine.

If Gojo Satoru ever sees the light of day again, all of his beloved ones will be dead. You will make sure of that.

-at Shibuya-

“Jujutsu sorcerers and their fucking curtains”, you mutter to yourself while effortlessly walking through the barrier.

How pathetic to think that curses and other jujutsu sorcerers are their only enemies. After all, Toji was almost able to defeat the strongest of them with nothing but his own rough hands.

Almost. How much you hated that word. He was almost able to defeat Gojo, he was almost able to survive that battle, he almost made it home to you.

But he never did. And that’s why you’re here, standing on top of a tall building while scanning the area around you. A few seconds later, loud bangs can be heard from a stress a few miles away. You spring into action immediately, gliding over the buildings with your harness so effortlessly that even a trained eye wouldn’t detect you. In their world, you are invisible, nothing more than a shadow without jujutsu.

And that’s their weakness.

You stop on a house corner, immediately caught by the sight of none other than Megumi Fushiguro in front of you along with another boy and an old fart. Your heart clenches painfully at the way his cold eyes stare at the old man, his facial features taking you back in time. Oh, he looks so much like his father.

So much that you want to go back home and swallow a bottle of vodka to get his face off your mind. But no, you’re on a mission, you have to make sure that kid is alright and kill all of his friends. You’ve got a job to do, get a hold of yourself.

With skilled eyes, you judge how he moves, how he acts, how he fights. Well, he might not be the best fighter you have seen yet, but he sure has some potential. Together with his little friend, he should be able to defeat that old fart. If not, you’ll come back later.

While you swore on keeping an eye open for him, you’re reluctant to meet Megumi and somehow don’t want him to find out that you’re after his friends and sensei. So you tear your gaze away from him, aiming for the skyscraper in front of you where another fight takes place. Whoever this is will be the first victim of your killing streak.

You will make every single one of these bastards pay for what Gojo did. You will make them feel the way you felt after his decease.

Over.

And over.

Again.

It isn’t hard for you to get up Shibuya tower in the matter of seconds, the harsh winds waving through your hair. Your heart pounds, eyes darting around the area.

Three people, two men are fighting while an old lady sits on the ground.

“And who of you belongs to that Gojo fucker?”, you mumble, gripping both of your katana’s tightly.

This is the moment. After Gojo is sealed, this is your opportunity to finally seek revenge, to kill every single one of them. When this fucker returns, he’ll be alone.

Just like you are since he killed Toji.

“What the hell are you doing here? Get lost”, the old woman hisses.

You stare at the broad back of the man who hits the other without mercy. Damn, that speed, that precision. It’s like back then. His fine technique almost makes him look like…

Toji.

Automatically, your feet carry you forward. You swing yourself in the air, feet ready to kick the broad man into his chest.

“Don’t you think this is a little unfair?”, you shout.

His eyes dart towards you.

He grabs your ankle.

All you can do is stare at him, mind going completely blank.

His face. This gorgeous face you adored so much. The little scar that emphasized the corner of his delicious mouth so well. His collarbone that creeps through the sweater he’s wearing. No, there’s no doubt. The man standing in front of you is Toji.

“Get out of the way, woman.”

Toji’s frame slams your body against the ground merciless. You see stars, lungs refusing their service as all you can do is stare in horror at the shell of the man you used to love, glimmer of hope nipped in the bud.

This isn’t his voice. This isn’t his smile.

This just isn’t Toji.

You hate the way your eyes start to water as he grabs your throat and yanks you upwards.

“You are not Toji. How dare you to use his body like that”, you cough out.

Instead of replying, he just smiles at you so heartlessly that you feel like throwing up. No, this simply can’t be Toji. This is the empty shell of the man you’ve lost. Feelings flood your heart uncontrollably. Anger, grief and most of all disappointment haunting and bringing you to your knees. God, how much you wished it was true. For the split of a second, you really thought this was him. Your Toji, the man you haven’t forgot after all these years, the only one you ever sacrificed your heart to.

But he’s gone. And he won’t come back.

“There needs to be a corpse for shapeshifting. Dumb girl, of course this isn’t Toji Zen’in. But you will die through his hands.”

Your body refuses to move. All you can do is watch as he throws the body of the other man down, off the tower, into certain death.

Fuck. Is this really how it ends?

“Y’know, you’re actually not that bad.”

“I hope so, jackass. Otherwise I’ll throw you out.”

“C’mon princess, don’t be like that. Y’know I’m obsessed with you.”

“Oh yeah? Might need to hear that again…”

“I’d rather show you.”

Like in slow-motion, his frame casually walks back and comes to a stand next to the old woman. Every limb of your body screams out in pain, lungs feeling like they’ll rip apart any minute. So this is the force of Toji Fushiguro.

It could be funny, actually. You always thought Toji is the strongest man on this earth, admired him for his sheer strength despite not being a jujutsu sorcerer. But when he was with you, his deadly touch became gentle, caressing you with what felt like…love.

Did he really love you? Who knows. But you did. Oh, how much you loved that man – the man whose back is now faced towards you, muscles tight by the thought of killing you with his bare hands.

Is there anything more ironic than getting killed by Toji Fushiguro?

“I would rather die through his hands than living like this until I’m as old and ugly as you.”

“Grandson.”

“I know, granny.”

He turns around. The shell of the man you thought about every night before drifting off to sleep, the man that is the only one you ever dedicated your heart to. That oh so rough face that felt so gentle against your fingertips. How much you’d give to talk to him one last time, to let him know how you really feel.

With a swift motion, he grabs your throat again, feet hanging in the air as you feel like life is slowly drifting away from you. Before your blurry vision threatens to eat you alive, he slams your already weak body into the floor, blood spurting in every direction.

Nothing but darkness and this foreign far away voice that speaks out of his body.

“That should be enough.”

Your fingers twitch. Is this the end? His footsteps echo through your brain.

“Granny, wh-wh-wh-wh-what do whe do now?”

“It won’t hurt to keep Satoru Gojo out of play. So go down below and kill sorcerers.”

…

“Grandson?”

“Who the hell do you think you’re ordering around, old hag? And how dare you to hurt ma princess?”

That voice…You must be hallucinating. It sounds just like him, just like you remember it. That deep unpromising vibration that made you go crazy more than once.

A shriek, a dull fall, silence. Footsteps that are approaching you again. Heavy, confident steps.

“I thought you can take more than that, princess.”

Hands grab your shoulders gently, lifting your bruised and weak body out of the dirt. You force yourself to open your heavy eyelids, mind still trying to process what is happening.

You stare right into his ocean blue eyes.

“Missed me?”

Your shaky breath rings in your ears, trembling hands searching for hold on his shoulders.  

“Toji?”

Nothing more than a fade whisper in the night, a faint hope resonates.

“You’re still looking hot.”

Tears swell up your eyes before you can catch yourself while you wrap your aching arms around him for dear life. This has to be a dream, some cruel technique, a hallucination. But you don’t give a fuck. At the moment, all you can think about is how he wraps his large arms around your waist and back while holding the back of your head and the way he smells.

God, he smells just like you remember, just like the Toji you knew.

“Please tell me you’re back. Tell me this isn’t just a cruel dream. I don’t want to wake up anymore….”

“Live and in color. It’s been a while”, he comments.

Your eyes dart towards him and his sly grin. The grin you know all too well, the grin you adored more than anything else in the world.

“I missed you every single fucking day. And now…And now you’re standing in front of me. Alive”, you stammer.

“These fuckers thought they could use my powers against you. Ain’t no way  I’d let this happen princess. Even if it means going to hell and back to be with you.”

Your fingers trace over his cheeks, his collarbones, his broad chest.

“It’s me, (y/n)”, he confirms your unspoken question.

“I missed you.”

“Yeah? Missed ya too. And can’t wait to show you how much. But work comes first and I still have a lot of shit to do.”

“I came here to take revenge, to kill all of Gojo’s little puppies for what he did to you”, you hiss through gritted teeth.

“What a good girl you are, I always loved ya for that. Let’s get you out of here first. I’ll be back in a few hours, ‘kay?”

Toji…Loves you? Your hands dig into his firm biceps, eyes piercing right through him for any sign of sarcasm, any sign of manipulation.

But no, it’s clear. The man in front of you is indeed Toji Fushiguro. And he told you that he loves you.

He’s back and he loves you.

“I love you. Fuck, I love you so much! Living without you was hell”, you cry out, completely breaking down in tears while he holds you in his arms.

“I know princess, I know… Will catch up on everything, I promise. Let’s get you outta here. So sorry for hurting you like that.”

He picks you up in his arms while you allow yourself to close your eyes and lean your face against his chest. This might be a manipulation, a dream and nothing more. But you never thought you’d get him back. Fuck, after more than 10 years you’re really back in his arms.

Screw if this isn’t real. For this precious moment, you finally feel home again.

[skyjasper]

The Devil and I

Reader X Azriel

Summary: the time for war has come, yet her powers have not. What will she do when everyone she loves, including her mate, is suffering on the battlefield below.

Warnings: gore, violence, light NSFW, talks of sex.

A/N: ik yall wanted a new AZ one shot soooo here you are :))) this is based off of the song Me and the Devil. If you wanna check out my other works you can do so here:

Masterlist.

Word count: 1.07 K (short IK)

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

The war raged on the battlefield below her, screams of agony wailing through the wind. She was completely powerless as her mate fought. She watched her high lord cast waves of his power, killing multiple as he engaged in combat. She was on her knees, hands digging into the land below her. She heard Azriels roaring scream all the way from her cliff top.

“Please Mother. I beg for some forgiveness, please give me a tool to help fight. We are losing, I can’t stand by. Please Mother, grant me the powers that were stolen from you by my ancestors for promise I will return it.” She whispered into the grass with her head bowed. 

Something tugged on her hands, pulling her fingers into the land. A small scream escaped her before the rest of her was covered with roots and dirt. Her body was pulled deep into the ground, small bugs crawling over her. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t move as something forced its way down her mouth. 

Dirt and dust filled her body, humming as if to say if you want power so bad then have it. Then her body was being forced out of the ground, new things adorned her body. Cufflinks made of root and tree wrapped itself around her arms. Her former clothing, now replaced by a garment made of leaves and flowers, covering the most delicate parts of her.

Vines raked up her legs and around her body, hounding her together. Her hair was now braided down her back with vines and flowers growing out of her hair, the top of her head was now adorned with a crown made of tree twigs and cones. 

She felt the power flowing through her body, thrumming under her skin. A large root grew out of the ground where she stood, lifting her into the air. She felt more than heard the silence on both fronts. When she looked down she was met with a ground looking back at her. She stepped off the cliff, trusting her powers to allow roots to carry her to the ground. As her foot made contact with solid earth the war raged again. 

Yet this time the screams were pointed towards her. The few who attempted to attack her were frozen in place with vines crawling over their feet. The vines and roots slithered up their bodies and down their mouths still opened in a scream. She watched as vines popped out of every crevice, their eyes, ears, noses, even through their pores. She absorbed their power as they were turned into dirt.

She heard Azriels loud grunt from her right. Her head snapped to the sound, eyes zeroing in on the perpetrator causing his pain. She tugged on the gold thread in between them. She walked quickly towards him, slaughtering anyone and everyone in her path. Her eyes were set on her mate and she would stop at nothing to get to him. 

When she did get to him, his attacker was already headless. She turned to her mate, his blue siphons flaring as they made eye contact. She felt his pride and heat flow through the bond. 

“My little huntress.” He whispered as he stalked to her.

The battle around them seemed to disappear as he neared. All she could hear was her heart beating out of her chest. Her hands reached into his hair when he got close enough. He smiled down at her with a predatory smirk, his shadows going crazy around him. 

She smashed her lips to his blood covered lip. Her hands pulled on his hair as his hands met her back side. One of his arms stayed on her butt while the other snuck around her waist, pulling her closer. Rooting swirled over both of their feet as she let out a small moan.

“Show them what you’re made of. Show them exactly how strong you are. Remind them to never underestimate you ever again.” He whispered against her mouth. 

His wings flared as one of her hands grazed their most sensitive spots.

“End this war. Once and for all?” She asked against his lips. With a wicked smirk he nodded.

A matching smirk fell upon her face as she lifted the two of them, slightly above the blood and gore. She turned, her back now flush with the shadowsingers front. She looked upon the masses and with a wicked smile she unleashed her power upon Hybern. 

Multiple thick, stocky roots broke from the ground, obliterating anyone who stood on their ground. Thick ropes of ivy surrounded the other soldiers, squeezing until their body’s burst, blood rained upon the soldiers of Hybern. 

New screams were heard, screams of cheer and victory rang out loud. Her power continued to flow, killing every last soldier. She found the king and wrapped him with a large root, carrying him to the feet of the oldest Archeron sister. Allowing her to exact her revenge.

The blood reached both her Azriel. She felt it pour down her face, over her leaves. She felt Azriels hand tighten around her waist and his lips making contact with her neck. She let her head roll onto Azriels shoulder as he kissed the most sensitive spot on her neck. 

The war was over, they had won. She had obliterated Hybern, all for her mate. She gained power from the mother for her mate. She lowered the pair over to where all the high lords stood. Her head bowed to the powerful beings.

“Do not bow, girl. Stand tall, for you have just won.” Ameren spoke. Her voice was different, clearer now. She was unsure of what all happened in the fight, but she was sure of one thing. That she would no longer be weak. 

The high lords offered her a hand. A voice of sorts. When she called upon the mother to return her power, she did not answer.

Keep it. I have no use for it. Find lands to raise, take care of the earth girl. 

With a nod she shook each of their hands. Then she turned back to her mate, a look of exhaust in her eyes. He nodded with understanding, taking her hand and winnowing them to their tent in the woods.

It was there that he claimed her body, again and again. Their tent was now surrounded by trees and flowers. 

“My huntress.” He whispered into her thighs.

“My hunter.” She responded.

~~~~~~~

A/N:

Here’s a short little one shot :) I absolutely love this one.

Taglist:

@littlelunatica @going-through-shit @annaaaaa88 @i-am-infinite @impossibellesliteraryloves

[malteeze]

[ in my arms, you're an angel ] - megumi fushiguro

genre: angst/ comfort

description: after yet another rough day, megumi comforts you

megumi knew of the unnecessarily harsh words, tense environment, and uncontrollable feeling of incompetence you had to endure each day. not a day goes by that you don’t feel like a hindrance. he finds it increasingly difficult to watch you come home each day with the same droopy and spiritless expression on your face. he just couldn’t seem to understand why anyone would want to torment such a good-natured person. in all honesty, it’s not like you provoke these people or even give them a single valid reason to heap pain and suffering onto your life. despite your undeserving disposition, they treat you poorly without hesitation anyway. as a result, megumi has witnessed your bright and amusing demeanor gradually dissolve with every strenuous day you’ve endured. it’s almost as if a tiny bit of yourself is brutally snatched from you every time you set foot in that dreadful place. it destroys him.

as you arrive home after another taxing day, you slide your shoes off and shut the door behind you silently. every evening, you always try your hardest not to disturb your boyfriend with your arrival; after all, you know he has a demanding job, too. after half-heartedly slipping off your jacket and hanging your belongings, you trudge your way towards the couch, plopping yourself down quietly. 

‘why am i even sitting down,’ you think quietly, ‘there’s still so much i need to do.’ 

allowing these thoughts to interrupt your momentary relaxation, you quickly gather the motivation to head towards the laundry room. your expression lightens as you notice megumi already moving some clothing into the dryer. “hey, baby,” he says softly after noticing your presence, “i knew you planned to do laundry after you came home today, but i wanted you to be able to relax.” your mouth falls open slightly, then you smile, touched by his sudden affectionate favor. you could honestly cry. megumi often tells you that he cannot stand the way you’re treated at your job. you can tell by the way he looks at you every evening you walk in the door; he can never conceal the way his jaw clenches with anger as he imagines the pain you’ve felt. 

“megumi,” you start, “this is too much. thank you.” 

you can't summon a way to describe the overwhelming feeling of gratitude you have towards your boyfriend in the moment. 

he chuckles at your polite display of appreciation. “what are you thanking me for? i should thank you for always coming home and continuing to work hard after a rough day.” 

you beam at his words. he is truly the only person who makes your endless, tiring efforts feel recognized and appreciated. whenever you fall into a seemingly infinite spiral of agony, megumi helps you to regain your vigor effortlessly. 

“you know, megumi,” as you speak, he gazes at you with his full attention, and his eyes hold a gentle enthusiasm, “this week was especially rough… so i just want you to know how much i appreciate this.” 

once the last syllable leaves your mouth, tears begin to trail towards the brim of your eyes. the ever-so-observant boyfriend he is, megumi immediately takes notice of this, and steps closer to you in a gentle manner. “(y/n), you don’t have to hold it in when you’re with me,” his gaze is so intense that you hardly even register the trail of tears sliding down your face. “it’s so hard to watch all your happiness fade away everyday, and it’s even harder knowing that there’s nothing i can do about it while it’s happening.” his large hands slide up and down your arms, then he places them underneath either side of your jaw. “but the very least i can do to help is be present in each moment, so it doesn’t become unbearable. let me help you take some of the weight off your shoulders, i can’t stand to see this side of you.” 

you briefly avert your gaze from his, the burning sympathy in his eyes making it difficult to maintain eye contact with him.

 “talk to me baby,” he says as he moves his hands to your shoulders, sliding his thumbs back and forth to offer you more reassurance. 

when you return your eyes to his, any bit of emotion you were holding back comes pouring down. he pulls you towards his chest with a soft thud, one hand resting on the back of your head, and the other resting on your hip. “i just don’t understand,” you begin, as you lift your arms to wrap around his body. “i don't understand what i ever did to any of those people to deserve to be treated this way,” 

megumi squeezes his eyes shut, slightly furrowing his brows at the pain seeping through each of your words. he’s utterly heartbroken by your display of such raw emotion. “i try my best to be friendly and kind with every single one of them, and i always go out of my way to be helpful even though my job is already so difficult, but they still treat me like i’m worth nothing.” you continue to cry into his chest, being muted by the close proximity. 

“they’re all a bunch of pathetic losers.” 

you can’t help but giggle at the bluntness of your boyfriend’s statement. 

he’s seething with anger upon hearing these things, but your slight laugh quells it a bit. “as much as i want to force all of them to treat you like the angel you are, i know i can’t actually do it.” 

he pulls you back to admire every detail of your face and watch the sadness fade from your eyes. “but, i know i can help you forget about the stress you experience everyday, and i can help you remember that you’re the most amazing thing to ever exist in this world.” 

you smile, genuinely flustered by your boyfriend’s loving description of you. he grabs your hand, and slowly runs his thumb over your knuckles.

“it’s okay, baby. you don’t have to worry about it when you’re with me.”

[pluvialpoet]

delicate edges // chapter 1

summary: beneath disdain, there is admiration. beyond betrayal, there is devotion. underneath loathing, there is adoration. even the coldest- most closed-off hearts- are protected by delicate edges of temptation, forgiveness, and absolution. an exiled heart longs for embrace, but desire threatens ruination. will true love become your savior or your greatest sin?

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader

warnings: graphic depictions of an infected wound (blood, seepage, pain) nerve damage, period-typical misogynism and gender roles

word count: 10,316

series masterlist

Judgments are insufferable. Yet, they are felt by all and tolerated by most. No class, nor title, is immune to shrewd whispers of appearance or character, just as no man nor woman- no lord nor lady- can evade pointed glares or upturned noses in passing. Judgments are inevitable. Even so, very few truly suffer under the weight of such scrutiny.  Few drown beneath crushing waves of snide remarks, and even fewer find themselves trapped in an undertow of impertinent stares with no hope for a way out. Some have next to nothing to their names- no title nor land to boast about, and only the clothes on their backs to show for their wealthiest of possessions- but they have the luxury of obliviousness. To be unaware, even if only for moments at a time, of the fact that they are being ridiculed is a freedom granted to those with far more opulence than the richest men in the realm- for they are truly free from scorn, and the insufferable pain of judgment.

The moss is both soft and cold beneath your toes- a green cloud, of sorts, that cushions each step. Eclipsed by the sounds of drunken laughter and conversation, the gentle hum of strings is faint, but audible enough to follow along as you step in time with the melody. A sweet summer child- no more than six years of age- knows little of judgment. Beyond tales of humiliation and suffering, you have no experience to grasp onto or fear other than fables and hearsay. Despite this, there’s solace in the gardens. Surrounded by petals of dragon’s breath and poppies- amongst the vines of smokeberries and under the branches of a large oak tree- you’ve found refuge from various lords and ladies of the court. You may be a stranger to such casual cruelty, but you’ve learned to dread it all the same.

Whilst others seek to elude the pain of judgment, you’ve grown to fear the act itself. In a way that only a child would, you fear what you do not know- lacking the courage to discover and basking in the ignorance of what is unknown. Rather than confront judgment- before you even really know what it is- you’ve chosen to prolong the inevitable.

It is a choice that was stolen from him, along with the luxury of obliviousness- along with his eye.

Through a blur of tears, Aemond Targaryen winces. Each drop that falls past his lashes irritates the angry gash below, inflaming the marred skin that is still oozing with purulence. Another scab has formed over his wound, but just as the previous few have failed to seal and protect his injury, this one starts to crack and split, too- revealing more suppuration, blood, and white-hot agony. It’s torture. It’s as though his body refuses to heal, rejecting the idea altogether as he’s forced to brave unbearable agony each time his body betrays him. The maesters assure him that he is brave. They commend his vigor and praise his resilience. One even urged whilst redressing his injury that he was a “strong boy”. The innocent implication had stung like venom- like poison tainting his pure blood- and, perhaps, the words of a withering man had caused more damage than a blade in the hands of a child had.

Alas, his wound stretches and pulls whilst severed nerves pulse and tick against his will and he wonders if this inexplicable pain is penance from the seven above- a punishment for not seeking repentance for his actions. He claws at the scrap of leather that rests atop mangled skin, trying to untie the too-tight bindings that keep the patch secured. It was a gift from his mother in the days that followed the incident on Driftmark, and his father offered more words of warning about wearing the covering in the presence of others than he did when it came time to hold his bastard grandson responsible for the injury. Mayhaps, that is where the root of his suffering truly stems from- betrayal.

Nevertheless, Aemond is nearly blinded- completely- by pain. He stumbles past a few servants who keep their heads low and their gazes down, and though he can not see it, he can feel their judgment. Perhaps, it is because he’s a child- or, the fact that he’s disfigured- that the help doesn’t hold him in the same regard they once did. None harbor the desire to care for him. None seek to ease his painfully obvious suffering. Eyes that do not pierce with discernment, are forced away blindly- finding interest and amusement anywhere other than the boy in desperate need of aid. Whilst they refuse to look at him- depriving him of ridicule by finding sudden interest in stone chasms or the flickering flame of a nearby torch whenever he passes- they aren’t as gracious when it comes to holding their tongues. The fools forget that he is visually impaired, not deaf, and allow cruelness to pass in whispers that he is never able to evade- for they seep into the stone and haunt him in solitary, the same way shadows used to.

Aemond sinks his teeth into his tongue, biting down just hard enough to stop his lip from quivering. He won’t allow them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. With all the strength he can muster, he wanders past the gushing servants and into the gardens. Relying on the thick trunk of oak to keep him upright, he braces himself against the wood and yanks at the patch over his eye, over and over again until it unfastens. A brief moment of comfort is eclipsed by the searing pain that follows. He almost howls like a wounded animal- a cry out to anyone willing to listen- but even simple sounds are hard to make when the muscles in his face begin to pulsate involuntarily. It burns and it stings. It’s humiliating and degrading. Beyond anything else, it hurts. 

Soft, panting breaths cause your footing to falter. Another step is left incomplete- another turn is stumbled through- and perhaps if you were performing in the stuffy hall you chose to abandoned, with a partner who would’ve only asked to dance to fulfill a duty, you might’ve been embarrassed about your missteps, but with only the stars for company- soft flickers of light that shine regardless of how many times you make a mistake- you’re greeted with solace, rather than affliction. The sound that comes from the other side of the oak is miserable- guttural and wretched and utterly broken. If you were any further, you wouldn’t have been able to hear it. Lively strings would’ve muted the croaked cries of desperation with a tune much more jovial. Alas, you’re neither devoted to your dance or the music, but tempted by what’s caught your ear, instead.

A child knows little about judgment, and even less about fear. Still malleable, and unshaped by the cruelties of life, you find yourself apprehensive of what you do not know- but not enough to let feelings of worry dampen your curiosity. With a cautious step forward, you peer around the thick trunk. A glimpse of silver shines bright beneath the moonlight, and another step closer reveals that the second son of King Viserys Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower is sobbing beneath the same branches you’ve sought comfort under. 

His name is Aemond. 

You’ve heard many whispers about him traveling through the walls of the Red Keep- and the most recent ones reference his tragedy. Rumors have oft been traded as a form of currency. Regardless of merit, tales of outrageous fantasy are passed amongst friends and foes until one is able to profit off of its value. You pay them no mind. He is nothing more to you than a name- a flicker of argent light lurking about the shadows, and often keeping to himself. In the few years that your father has occupied a seat upon his father’s council, you have never crossed paths with him. When he returned from Driftmark only a few months prior, it was without his eye, and whilst most account that the maimed boy is truly terrifying, you find it difficult to believe such lore when his muffled cries fill your ears and his shoulders shake forcefully. The boy before you is not frightful- he is scared.

“Forgive me, my prince,” Aemond startles when a timid voice interrupts his suffering. Through a blur of tears, he watches as you drop down to a pitiful curtsy- the gesture more a sign of respect than a display of coordination. He quickly brings a palm over his eye, concealing the infected socket from your view, and hisses when his flesh makes contact with the gaping wound. The legion is warm beneath his hand- another reminder of his body’s resistance to heal- and wet with pus and other seepage. He doesn’t remember the slice of the blade that took his eye, nor the pain of steel meeting flesh. It all happened too quickly for him to truly remember. But he has grown familiar with the pain of healing and longs for fresh blood to stain his pale skin- anything other than viscid, yellow discharge. Trembling fingertips graze the back of his leather patch, flipping it over to reveal that it has caused him more harm than good to don the disguise for the evening. A crusty layer of skin, blood, and drainage from his wound has already started to coagulate. Regardless, Aemond attempts to fasten the veil over his wound once more. He would rather torture himself than disobey his father’s wishes. With the way his fingers shake, it’s hard for him to attach the patch, so he opts to hold it in place- and with one hand over what remains of his eye, and the other wiping away his tears, he rises to his full height. 

He has half a mind to order you away- confident, in nothing else beyond the fact that you would have to comply. To flex what little power he still has over a child, who wouldn’t dare defy him, won’t fill the void left within him- nor will being impolite compensate for the empty socket of torment. He will find retribution, elsewhere. Ire tastes sour on his tongue. Wrath burns his throat. Vexation is acidic. Beyond crooked teeth, he forces all that he’s feeling behind the quivering press of his lips, hoping that the foul words he’s attempting to shield you from won’t slip past the gaps where he’s missing teeth that haven’t yet grown back. You are not his foe- but you are not his friend, either.

“I thought I was alone.” Something about the confession stills his breath. It’s odd- something unexplainable and untellable- the sorrow he experiences upon your revelation of honesty. To feel like a stranger amongst servants and guards was one thing, to be ostracized and disregarded by his family was another thing completely, but to feel like he doesn’t belong- like he’s unworthy and unwanted amongst the company of a stranger, who doesn’t know anything about him beyond the fact that he is marred- is foreign. It’s accompanied by the taste of bile. “Though, it appears we both prefer the gardens in favor of the ballroom.” The sentiment you offer is warm- friendly, even- but Aemond has grown accustomed to frigidness. Numb to the heat of amiability, he doesn’t recognize the tenderness of your approach until you ask, “Would you like to dance with me?” The only indication that he’s heard you is the way he clenches his teeth, gritting them against one another whilst the muscle of his jaw tightens. “I’m not very good, and I would benefit greatly from a partner,”

Aemond awaits the sound of laughter. His skin prickles with the anticipation of it. Surely, you’re jesting with him. You do not wish to dance. With only one eye, angry tears streaking scarlet cheeks, and a wound that weeps beneath a thin scrap of leather and the palm of his shaking hand, he is not an ideal dancing partner. Even if he were the best dancer in the seven kingdoms, he would not be an ideal dance partner- not when he is missing pieces of himself, and feeling less than half of a whole. He is maimed. He is disfigured. He is ugly. No amount of talent nor charm will ever change the simple fact that he now knows is true- he is not worthy of anything other than pain and misery, condemned to a life of suffering. Laughter does not puncture the surrounding silence. He waits and waits, and waits, for a devious grin of crooked teeth that gnash with glee- like the same dagger that stole his eye- and howling hysterics, but you merely await his answer, silently and patiently- as if your sentiment had been genuine. Both eyes search violet for an answer, and he cowers away under such a daunting gaze. He is exposed. Forcing his pride, his ego, and stare elsewhere, he shuts his only good eye, forcing himself into complete and total darkness- somewhere safer, and much more welcoming than the warmth of your eyes as they bear into his sole. Socket, and remaining eye.

Only a few years younger than he is, he doubts you intend to take pity on him. You are a child, but so is he. He can not recall feeling the urge to ridicule when he was your age, but he remembers the relentless mockery from his elder brother and his nephews- a wound that has been ripped apart and left without sutures to bleed out until the day he meets his demise- and he’s reminded of the brutality of youth. Perhaps, you are a wolf clothed in lamb skin, proposing viciousness under the guise of innocence. In the nothingness that surrounds you, he wonders what’s more laughable- being asked to dance by a child, or being pitied by one?

When he opens his eye, you still stand before him- though, now you do not attempt to hold his gaze. Aemond is granted a brief relief, that’s shadowed by dread the moment he considers that his physical appearance may have simply been too much for you to bear, thus you’ve opted to avoid his plaguing stare at all costs. His chest tightens. When he opens his mouth, the words are stolen by a throbbing in the empty socket that matches the frenzied beat of his heart in his chest. The center of your forehead pinches with concern, but he does not notice, and when he finally finds his voice, it’s gruff.

“You will find one,” He assures, curtly. Despite his tone, you appear hopeful, and he grimaces whilst he elaborates, “Indoors.” At the mention of finding a participant in the ballroom you’ve deliberately evaded, you gulp- fearful that he might order you back to the very place you’ve tempted to escape. “Perhaps a cupbearer or squire could aid in the technique you lack.” Aemond offers without sentiment.

It is a mask- his cruelness- meant to shield his anguish. At least, you wish to believe it to be. The rumors of a wicked boy are not true. Whispers of a horrifying beast are not, in fact, certain. Though it is hard to deny the angry, inflamed skin beneath his palm, you are not afraid of him. His injury is not something to fear- not when it is responsible for causing him so much pain. You have not seen the extent of his trauma, but it does not frighten you. He may be maimed, but he is suffering a unique torment- one that very few living know the true agony of. He should not be shunned for feeling. With both eyes, or only one, he is still a prince, and you will treat him with the respect and kindness he deserves. Even if he held no title, you would offer the same gentleness- for it is not in your nature to be unkind.

“I have little interest in dancing with a cupbearer or a squire, my prince.” With a timid step towards him, he startles a step back, nearly tripping over a large root before regaining his footing. If possible, his cheeks flush deeper. 

“Then why ask for a partner?” Aemond bites back, keeping his tongue cruel to deflect his embarrassment- and his pain.

“Some day, I will be forced to dance with lords and knights because it is what is expected of me.” He is vulnerable before you, laid bare whilst hiding behind a veil. Though his wound is covered, he is still before you, aching, in a way that is exposed and defenseless. If he wanted to, he could have turned you away or turned away himself. Yet, he stands before you, despite the pain he is in. If you can not offer him aid, you will offer him the truth- no matter how daunting it might be. “They will complain that I’ve stepped on their toes- or make mention of the fact that no matter how hard I try, I’m always a beat behind,” You shudder, at the thought of dishonoring your family and your house over something so trivial, but it is, perhaps, your most unnerving fear. “Until then, I much prefer the company of someone who won’t laugh at me because I misstep, but if you wish to be alone-“

He regards you carefully. For the sake of being sullen, he considers demanding evidence that he won’t laugh at you for the very same reasons you’ve shared, but he is not bitter. He is not rotten to his core. He is not a monster. He is simply grieving the loss of his boyhood and sight. Regardless, his resentment is not meant for you. The sharpness of his tongue is not meant to cause you pain. Unfortunately, for the both of you, you are the only one around to suffer his wrath. Still, his mother raised him to abide by manners and propriety- even whilst he aches with a numbness that is equal parts blazing and frigid. His jaw clenches tightly- muscles shifting to alleviate his pain- and he huffs a sigh.

“I wish to retire to my chambers.” 

“Very well,” A timid smile disguises the humiliation of his rejection, and you bow before him once more. “Good evening, Prince Aemond.”

He does not say anything as he scurries past you, down the same path he came, and when you are left alone in the solidarity of the gardens where you once found peace, you find yourself whispering to the stars. With your hands clasped together, you beg the stars to carry your message to The Seven, and you urge The Seven to end Aemond Targaryen’s suffering.

10 years later 

“The King grows weaker and weaker with each day,” Grand Maester Mellos’ voice wavers as he delivers the devastating news to those seated along the long slab of stone that acts as a table. Few show no emotion, whilst others struggle to contain theirs- a quivering lip, eyes wide in disbelief, fists clenched so tightly that knuckles turn white- and it pains him to further divulge, “It is only a matter of time before…”

The silence that fills the chamber is haunting. Not even the steady sound of breath rivals that of the bone-chilling nothingness that hangs in the air with words left unspoken. Fearful eyes flit back and forth, searching for answers- desperate for direction, and guidance- but never voicing their concern aloud. To speak their dread would make it real, and no one is prepared to confront what has always been inevitable. Demise has finally caught up to their King, who is now too weak to outrun it any further than he already has.

“Is there no hope for his recovery?” Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships, is the first to find his voice- albeit shaken, and unsure. He fidgets with his hands, clasping them together tightly to stop them from shaking, but it’s no use. His nerves are too rampant to quell. 

“I’m afraid not, Lord Lannister“ Mellos huffs a heavy sigh. Somberness paints him ghostly. Grim with the knowledge he possesses- a curse and a burden more than it is esteemed- he delivers an eerie verdict. “He will not live to see the next sun cycle.” It is not a prediction- it is fact. “The gods are gracious, but they do not waste miracles upon men.” A pedestal has been shared between Gods of the Faith and Targaryens for years, with very little distinction between the two. To watch a once mighty man fall- a man so revered by all, he was oft mistaken for a deity- is harrowing. Even in the warmth of sunlight, the grand maester appears grey and cold. Both sullen and stoney. The day he has long dreaded has finally arrived. Regretfully, he advises, “It is time that we begin to prepare for…”

“I will do no such thing.” Outraged by such a suggestion, Lyman Beesbury- Mast of Coin- scoffs aloud. Overwhelmed by the sudden shift in demeanor, it’s difficult to tell if he is enraged, flustered, or deeply woeful. His face blotches red with color, his stare narrows and his brow lowers. The faint scrape of his chair against stone threatens to shriek, but he remains seated- albeit agitated. “He may not be well, but our king is alive.” He makes an argument plagued with denial. A glance around the table, one where no one meets his eye, confirms what he knows deep down to be true. Still, he revolts- challenging both mortality and veracity. “I will not consider the possibility of a reign without him at the helm until he has taken his last breath.”

There’s a finality in his tone that does not go unnoticed by the other members of the small council. Try as he might, Lord Beesbury’s chest heaves with each breath, despite his efforts to calm himself. He’s been shaken to his core, they’ve all been- except for Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, who remains calm and collected whilst the most wrenching threat looms overhead.

“With the utmost respect, Lord Beesbury, the dawn is nearly upon us.” Otto’s voice does not waver. His tone does not depict anything other than neutrality. His volume does not rise.“Time is of the essence,” He warns, “If we do not attempt to prepare for the inevitable, then we run the greater risk of being blindsided by not only the death of our king but the death of our nation.” 

Mayhaps the only thoughts more ominous than the passing of their ruler are figments of the days after. Some see fire, others hear screeching, but all gathered around the table know that regardless of what happens next, there will be blood.

“I know I do not have to warn of the consequences the realm would face if it fell into Rhaenyra’s hands,” Pursed lips deliver the foreboding caveat, dripping with bitter honesty and evidence to back such a bold claim. “With Daemon as consort, exercising both tyrannical and licentious behaviors to a Queen who is not equipped to rule, our nation would crumble.” Insults fly freely against defenseless subjects, provoking those in attendance to consider how much truth is behind what’s been presented as an opinion. Slowly, looks of sorrow harden into something much more determined. One by one, realization dawns on each member of the small council, and Lord Hightower takes the lull in both silence and contemplation to sink his claws of persuasion deeper and deeper into the flesh of his victims- until he grazes bone. “We would be transported back to the days before the conquest when any man could declare himself king and execute a power that has not been earned, I am sure of it.”

There is no proof beyond his word. Present evidence does not suggest the demise of their kingdom following the king’s passing, but Otto has planted a seed of doubt within the heads of his former council members and nurtured it with poetic of doom and ruination. With a chance to fester, no one can think clearly. Though he knows the answer, Lord Larys Strong- Master of Whispers- plays coy. His exterior is grim, matching those seated around him, and proceeds to inquire about matters he’s already privy to. 

“What do you suggest we do, Lord Hightower?” 

In a rare display of contemplation, Otto allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts before he speaks. “When our great King Viserys takes his last breath, I believe that Prince Aegon, his firstborn son, should succeed him.”

“Whilst I agree that a male heir should occupy the throne after the king passes, the king has named Rhaenyra as his heir.” Lord Lannister argues, “If he wished for Aegon to rule, he would have declared so, twenty-three years ago.”

Alicent Hightower sits at the head of the table, the only woman amongst a chamber full of men- only allowed to listen in and contribute on behalf of her ailing husband. Whilst she occupies his seat, a throne within its own right, she knows she is not welcomed. The lords in her company have grown so familiar in with her presence, that they oft forget that she is a woman herself- and they’ve made no attempt to conceal their true feelings about woman and power. Nevertheless, they’re respectful towards her when it counts. Even after years of power, she does not understand the extent of it. Perhaps, it’s because she realized early on in her marriage that it was never hers to begin with. She spares her father a glance and her stomach churns. The desire to be as distant from the conversation taking place as possible fills her, but instead she is captive. Besides her, the vein in Otto’s forehead pulsates. It fills her with a fear reminiscent of her youth, despite being well into womanhood, and she seizes the silence as an opportunity to finally speak. The tip of her tongue wets her lips. She licks the cracks, softening the dry skin before she takes a breath and clasps her hands above the table- hiding bloody nail beds behind her palm.

“My lords,” She commands the attention of her audience with a graciousness that many of them are unaccustomed to. With a polite press of her lips, she proposes, “Is this a matter of upholding orders given lifetimes ago, or protecting our people?” The question visibly divides the room, and she can hardly believe that she’s found the courage within herself to utter her true thoughts aloud. “You have been assembled to guide our king back to the light when he finds himself astray.” She reminds them carefully. “He is lost, and if,” A breath, and then a pause. A sigh, and then hesitation. Many remember when Alicent was just a girl- soft, quiet, naive- and it’s difficult to acknowledge that the same woman commands them now- rough, reserved, aged by duty. Still, they await their Queen. “Perhaps, if he could be suaded to name Aegon as his heir-“

“The realm would be better for it.” Otto interrupts his daughter, supplying his own words and thoughts in place of her own. With a gentle nod, she agrees, bowing her head and surrendering her voice to him once more.

“How do we proceed?” 

“Beyond that, would betrothing his eldest strengthen his claim to the throne?” Tyland interjects, demanding an answer of his own.

“How so?”

“If Aegon were betrothed to a noble house, perhaps even one the King has silently made an enemy of, then it would prove his ability to unite kingdoms divided by difference.” It makes sense. Perhaps, if they had more time, it would be something to consider, but they are pressed.

“If it were Prince Aemond, perhaps, but Prince Aegon is not…” Otto bites back the truth, refraining from speaking ill of the man he’s trying to convince his counterparts to support. “It is a more difficult task in practice than it is in theory.”

“If not for the sake of political advancement, then we should consider a match for the sake of convenience.” Larys offers, his eyes grazing those around the table until they meet your father’s. “You have a daughter, do you not, Lord Piper?

“I do,” The man sitting next to Lord Beesbury confirms suspicion with a nod of acknowledgment. “Though, I do not wish to bargain with her hand.”

Across the table, Otto scoffs. Perhaps, he is unfamiliar with honesty- enough so that he blanches in the presence of sincerity. The years have not been kind to him. Stress has caused him to wither away. Now, he’s not even the shell of the man he once was. In place of loyalty, he is self-seeking. Where he was once obedient, he is now rebellious. Under the guise of being dutiful, he is poisoned by greed. Always wanting more- bigger, better, bolder- he dreams of avarice for his generations to follow. Having taken hold of the reins their king was too frail to grasp, he’s appointed himself holier-than-thou actually is. Perhaps, he’s due for a humbling reminder that he is still a man that serves- not a man who commands men to serve- and who better to deliver it than the Master of Laws?

“You would deny a proposal from a prince of the realm, and deny your child the privilege and security of joining a monarch?” Equal parts anger and offense seep into his tone, drenching each word with resentment and outrage. It is not your father’s intention to slight the Hand, but the spitfire has always been prone to encouraging tempers to flare. Sullen eyes of stormy blue darken with something meant to provoke. Hungry for a fight- or, at least the chance to inflict defeat- he taunts.

“A proposal has not yet been made, Lord Hightower,” With an elegance that Otto is incapable of, your father replies. “And until a legitimate proposal is made, I will not entertain possibilities of figment.” The finality within which he delivers the statement does not go unnoticed by anyone in the room, and for the time being, the topic is put aside.

“Very well,” Otto yields- though, rather dismissively.

“Your Grace, might I suggest urging Aegon to consider any and all proposals for his hand?” Lord Lannister proposes. For a moment, he seems unsure of his own suggestion- brows pinching together as he contemplates a solution to their problem- but then the tension eases, and a look of clarity washes over his features. “If we are truly running out of time, then desperate times call for desperate measures.” He urges, more confident in his speech than he was not a minute prior. “I do not believe that we possess the luxury of scrutiny any longer.”

“How much time do we have, Mellos?” Your father inquires, going straight to the source and cutting out the need for a meddling middleman. Otto’s expression remains stoic, but the master of laws and the hand have been silently butting heads for long enough for your father to recognize even the most subtle shift in his glare. He’s practically seething.

“No more than a few moons, I’m afraid.” Another blow takes the air from the room.

“In seven weeks time, Aegon will find a wife.” Alicent declares, allowing a week for each of her gods to guide her son towards the right match- hoping that it would be enough time to allow him to secure a partnership of his choosing, whilst gifting him what was stolen from her- a choice.

“And what of the others?” Tyland’s brow raises, and Otto’s stare narrows.

“The others?”

“The other princes and the princess,” He elaborates, speaking of the King’s other children that still reside in the castle, and tucked away in Oldtown.“What of them?”

“That is a bridge we shall cross once the waters rise and force us to,” The Hand dismisses, sparring very little thought towards the idea. “Until then, let us not waste our time pondering over it.”

“Of course, Lord Hightower.” Lord Lannister yields.

Silence fills the chamber once more- though, it is somehow less and more daunting than it was before. Something ominous and foreboding lingers.

“If any word of what we have discussed here leaves these chambers…” Otto threatens, but the lords bow their heads respectfully- a silent display of surrender and submission to the man that’s always found a way to manipulate them as if they were puppets brought to life by his touch. “Good.”

The clashing of swords serves as a beacon, coaxing you towards distraction with tiny sparks of light and the promise of forgetting what’s troubling you- even if only briefly. As you inch closer, the wrinkle between your brows softens- and it’s only once the crease has been smoothed over that you realize how truly upset you had been. Perturbance is a fleeting feeling, however. The sun is warm on your skin, and each step closer and closer towards the training yard stains the bottom of your skirts with evidence of your escape. Through rubble and mud, you march on. 

A spectacle has taken place near the center of the yard, drawing a small crowd of onlookers from the outskirts surrounding the field where the art of battle is studied and perfected through practice. Wood splinters against the impact of a weapon, sending shards of the Targaryen sigil into the mire- pieces of a whole that the servant’s children will dig through the murk for once the training grounds are unoccupied. The dance continues. Murmurs and gasps of awe are accompanied by polite applause, and when pointed steel meets flesh, all encouragement ceases in favor of silence and concern. Between a break in the crowd, you spot him, instantly. For only a moment his eye meets yours. It’s by chance that he’s able to find your face amongst the growing swarm of strangers- something familiar in a wave of unknown- and the distraction causes him to lose his footing, allowing his opponent a chance to lunge at him. Aemond dodges the attack, moving swiftly before the point of the blade has a chance to draw blood. His jaw hardens. With renewed vigor, he strikes. Back and forth, back and forth, both men dodge and attack one another until the prince’s weapon grazes armor. Stumbling back, the knight nearly topples over, and before he can steady himself back on his feet, Aemond threatens the tip of his sword against his rival’s throat, earning another round of applause from the meddlesome crowd, as he is deemed the winner.

His opponent- a seasoned knight and valiant protector- wipes the sheen from his brow whilst he struggles to catch his breath. In, and out- in, and out, again- defeat fills his lungs in labored breaths, but loss does not linger. The prince’s victory is not his failure, in the same way that his strengths are not the prince’s weaknesses, but a challenge- meant to provoke. There is a role he plays, a title he dons, and a weight- heavier than that of his blade and armor- that will crucify him if he does not honor the oaths he vowed himself to uphold. Copper spills from the split in his lip, and he welcomes the warm metallic into his mouth with the tip of his tongue. It tastes of progress- for his opponent grows stronger, and stronger, each time they draw their blades. 

Ser Criston Cole sheathes his weapon, and prepares to praise his opposer- though, he doubts it will mean anything to the boy who’s bested him more times than he can count. Still, he is courteous.  He turns to greet the prince, prepared to meet the sharp edges and flared nostrils of a victorious man trying to catch his breath after triumph, but such a sight is nowhere to be found. Where the line of his jaw should be tense, it is laxed. Where a violet fire should blaze, there are only embers of calm. Even the permanent crease between his brows seems smoother, creating the illusion of a boy, not a conqueror. He searches for the cause of the sudden shift in his demeanor. Following the prince’s line of sight, he finds his answer in the form of a maiden. 

“My lady, I believe you are not meant to-“ He approaches with warning, but isn’t allowed the chance to finish.

“Perhaps it is time for a brief respite, Ser?” Aemond suggests, but Criston knows that it is not a suggestion- it is a command. He is the prince, after all. However thinly veiled, he understands what’s being asked of him, and he respectfully bows his head prior to fulfilling the unspoken order.

“Of course, my prince,” His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, savoring another tang of metallic punishment before he presses his lips together firmly- smearing the blood that oozes from the small wound unintentionally whilst he turns to bid you a proper farewell. “My lady,”

“Ser Cole,” You return with a polite smile. He mirrors the gesture, though it lacks any sincerity. Sparing Aemond one last glance, he huffs a breath and takes his leave. Gravel crunches under the weight of his boot, and once the sound becomes distant enough- and the mass of supporters has started to disperse- Aemond turns to face you.

“And where are you supposed to be?” He taunts, mischievously inquiring as to why you’ve found yourself in the training yards during his lessons. The corner of his lip threatens to curl into a grin when a beat of silence passes and you roll your eyes at his questioning. It’s hard to believe that the man before you grew from the boy you met so many moons ago. He has grown considerably since the night your paths crossed in the godswood. Older, taller, wiser- leaner, stronger, more striking - and yet somehow, still the same boy that wept beneath the branches of an oak under the cover of nightfall. His fingers flex around the hilt of his sword as he sheathes the weapon back into its holster, and you swallow thickly when you realize that you still haven’t answered him.

“Lessons with my septa,” You cast your glance downwards, toeing a piece of gravel to avoid his gaze. Nerves twist in the pit of your stomach when a brief glimpse of a moment you’re trying to forget flashes before your eyes- an accusation, a threat, a scowl, and a suffocating certainty- and you quickly shake it away. “But I can recite our histories in my sleep, and I have little interest in learning to be the perfect wife for some lord, so I’ve decided to come watch your lessons, instead.” Whatever vexation taints your tone disappears completely when you offer a coy simper, “Besides, I find them much more captivating than mine.”

There's a wall of weapons that you find yourself gravitating towards. They glow and gleam in the sunlight. Silver, iron, and bronze twinkle and shine, and you can’t help but reach out. Perhaps, you’re able to find beauty in weaponry because you’ve been sheltered from its devastation. Either way, you reckon that you’d sacrifice your virtue to wield anything on display- even a sad, rotted excuse for a wooden sword.

“Is that so?” He muses, watching as your fingertips ghost over the hilt of a throwing knife. You barely graze the handle, yet you trace the carved pattern delicately. He watches with a hint of amusement. The training yard is no place for a lady. It is where war is perfected- battle practiced and strategized- and though it is oft less tragic than combat against actual enemies, it is not exempt from peril. Axes, blades, and spears sharp enough to cause much more than injury are handled daily, by men and boys with little to no experience. Regardless, the training grounds are a place of savagery, and you look out of place amongst the weapons you admire. Aemond imagines that a blade could never appear deadly in your hands. Not when you handle instruments of torture with such care.

“Perhaps,” You agree- though, it’s only halfheartedly. When you turn to meet Aemond’s stare, you finally feel the warmth of the sun upon your skin. It is inside of you, burning, flushing, and festering whenever you are near him. He is enchanting. With long silver hair, sharp angular features, and such cunning dexterity, he is bewitching. Mayhaps, it is not the sun that fills you with warmth. Mayhaps, it is him. “Or, perhaps it is because I Ionged for your company.” You hope that your exaggeration masks your shyness well enough to go undetected. Just to be sure, you flash a playful grin. “At the very least you tolerate mine- which is far more than I can say for others.”

“I should fetch a maester,” He replies, and the suggestion stills your step. Aemond halts alongside you, and you wonder if he’d been injured during his sparring lessons, or if he felt feverish. Worst of all, your heart plummets with worry when you consider that perhaps his eye is crippling him- as it tends to do every once in a moon- and the thought of pain you’ve never felt but witnessed vicariously through him, sends a dull throb straight through your right eye. With lips parted to question, you turn towards him, only to discover that the smallest semblance of a smirk upon his lips. “You seem to be riddled with delusions.”

When you sigh a breath of relief, he offers a thin smile. His teasing always teeters the line between jesting and sincerity, and even after so many years of companionship, you’re still never truly sure where his intentions lie. Though, he’s never once been vicious. Towards you, he’s never been spiteful nor callous. Perhaps there’s always been a gentleness reserved for your friendship. At times Aemond could oft appear distant, reserved, and withdrawn when he found himself in the company of others. Even when you were children, he never truly appeared interested in anything you had to say, but you’ve come to learn that even though he is distant, reserved, and sometimes withdrawn, his silence is not a flaw. Whilst he is a man of few words who prefers to listen rather than be the subject of attention, time has graced you with the knowledge that he is only distant to those who do not truly know him, only reserved in the company of those he has nothing insightful or genuine to offer, and withdrawn from those whom he does not care to consort with. 

By chance, you find yourself in the godswood. It’s reminiscent of a simpler time. Moss is neither soft, nor cold beneath your slipper, and petals of dragon’s breath and poppies remind you of your fleeting youth. It is not the same place it once was, but it is still a safe haven of sorts.

“The only person truly riddled with delusions is my septa,” You huff, agitated and overwhelmed at the mere mention of the woman who’s caused you such distress. 

When your back meets the thick trunk of oak, a strained exhale passes your lips.

“I am meant for more than this.” Breath betrays certainty, a somber huff diluting the sentiment of spoken word as the tips of your fingers retreat into the flesh of your palm. A wrinkle deepens across the expanse of your forehead, a crevice he is simultaneously unacquainted and familiar with, and he recognizes sorrow on the face of another- a strange sight when not his own. He needn’t ask what troubles you. Not when he knows you will reveal your despair to him- even if unprompted. He is silent as he listens. “More than a dutiful wife, more than just barring children,” Spite overpowers propriety. Too overwhelmed to hold your tongue and remember your manners, you speak freely- as you always have in Aemond’s company. With a finality that evaded your tone moments prior, you vow, “I am destined for more.”

His muscles begin to ache from overuse. Tendons have stretched past their limit to grant his lithe figure an advantage against an opponent much more experienced than he. The ache doesn’t register as pain. Not even close. If anything, he welcomes the soreness. It’s a reminder that he must become stronger, faster, and greater, than those that dare to brandish their weapons against his own. The strain of his muscles is uncomfortable- though, not entirely unpleasant. He revels in the feeling for as long as he can before he’s forced to confront the fact that he doesn’t know how to help you. As the only woman- beyond those of his blood- who has ever shown him any sort of amiability, he acknowledges your pain- though he can not make sense of it. He supposes if Helaena, his older sister, were condemned to the same punishment of breeding until she met her demise, he too would feel the same livid rage. But, as a prince who upholds duty and honor above all else, he struggles to bash the place in society you’ve fiercely scorned. Knowing not what to say, he remains silent, until you spare him a glance.

“Hm,” He hums thoughtfully, though it lacks the comfort you’re seeking.

“If I’m condemned to spend the rest of my life with only needlework to look forward to in times of solace, I swear I shall perish.” Your stomach churns at the thought of producing a babe. You would rather prick every single one of your fingertips twice over with an embroidery needle than be forced to care for a child you would always resent- because they would forced you into a role you have no desire to fulfill. “Do you think your creature would end my suffering if I asked nicely?” Aemond presses his lips into a thin line whilst his eye meets yours. Vhagar, his greatest victory was a beast- but you’ve never acknowledged her as anything more than a creature. She was more than flames and chaos. She was a heartbeat- a creature who felt grief, joy, and even weariness. She was more than wings, scales, and acidity. She was a living, breathing, soul- and perhaps Aemond’s only other companion. You’ve always held her in high regard. At the mention of her name, his interest piques. “What is it that you tell her?” You inquire playfully, attempting to banish feelings of fear and unease with a jest. “Dra-kar-es?” 

He tenses. There’s no hint of a smile upon his lips, no traces of amusement nor humor to be found in the aftermath of your childish gag. Both fermented and vexed at the sound of his mother tongue passing your lips, the strong slant of his jaw hardens as his brow drops into something much more irate- something much more perturbed- and any semblance of joy quickly fades once you realize that he does not find humor behind your words, but a taunt. 

“You would rather die than become a man’s wife?” The power of the dragon is not one that he underestimates. He would be a fool to, and he is not a fool. Still, he can’t comprehend what would drive you to such madness. Suggesting that the flames of his dragon would end a suffering you’ve not yet felt is cruel. To bargain with your life over the mere thought of what awaits you on the other side of marriage is lunacy. Try as he might, he can’t make sense of your sudden hysteria, and with a sudden tightness in his throat, he awaits an explanation. 

You ponder his remark, silently. He does not understand. If he thinks you spoiled or manic, he does not insult you by sharing his thoughts aloud. Instead, he waits for you to make sense of the absurdities you speak of- though, you struggle to find the right words to make him aware of your agony. The lack of an answer causes him to grow restless, and he parts his lips to speak, but you’re the first to find your voice.

“I imagine it would feel like dying, each day I’m forced to submit to a man who has not earned my love- a man who does not see me as an equal, but as a womb for his future sons,” It is much too crass of a reply to be given to a prince, but Aemond has been a companion for so long that you oft forget that he is of royal decent. Through the brashness of your words, his gaze softens. “And if I am to fail…” Your lip trembles, failing to reveal the consequences of actions that have not yet been attempted, and you swallow the rest of your fears down with the growing lump in your throat. “Yes, I would rather die than become the wife of someone chosen for me.” 

He says nothing. He does not know what to say. If there are words to quell the unease of your future, they escape him. So, he stays silent. Offering nothing more than a blank stare as you press your lips together tightly. His feet feel heavy- like he has sprouted roots from his toes and embedded himself in the soil below- and when he tries to force his limbs to move, to take a step closer towards you, he is frozen in place. With a quiet sigh, you bring the back of your hand to your eyes, wiping away the tears that you won’t allow yourself to shed, and take a breath. This time, when you meet Aemond’s eye, you attempt to offer him a smile. It’s then, that you notice the red that stains his skin.

“You’re bleeding,” Right below his cheekbone, on his left side, there’s a small scratch. The wound- if it can even be called such a thing compared to the more prominent, scarred gash on his right side- has already started to coagulate. It’s truly no deeper than the cuts and scrapes you used to get whilst playing in the gardens as a child, but the sight of blood upon the face of someone you care deeply about is still alarming, no matter how small. He has already suffered so much- lost, even more. He does not deserve to feel pain, no matter how slight. If you could somehow take it all away, you would. 

Hesitantly, you steal a quick glance behind you before taking a few steps forward- until the tips of your slippers touch the tips of his boots. His eye widens slightly as you hold up a hand, and when he makes no effort to evade your inevitable touch, you rest your palm against the sharp edge of his jaw. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t order you away. Gently, you trace the shallow cut with the tip of your thumb, and Aemond can’t remember the last time that someone treated him with such care- the last time someone handled him with such delicacy. The urge to lean into your touch is overwhelming. To seek the closest thing to comfort, to peace, he’s ever known is like being suaded by temptation. He nearly chases the feeling until the ruffling of leaves above- mistaken for footsteps of potential onlookers in search of gossip to destroy both your reputation, and his- causes him to release a heavy exhale through his nose, and pull away.

“It will heal.” He assures you, though the reminder brings little comfort. If the gods will not end his suffering, you will try your very best to.

In the silence that follows, serenity remains. There should be something daunting about the nothingness that hangs in the air. Doubt should fester, and insecurity should loom, but only peace is present in Aemond’s company. He is the thunder and lightning of a storm, and the dew left behind afterward. He is a wave crashing ashore, and the ripples left behind in its wake. He is the chaos, but with you, he is the calm. Bathed in soft, orange rays of the setting sun he is still the glimpse of silver from your childhood- though, now he is much more than a stranger. He is everything. To you, he is everything. You realize, then, that you would have him in any way- violent hurricane or dew, waves or ripples- as long as he could always be a part of your life, a part of you, you would have him.

“Aemond, I-“ You can’t fathom the words. They’re stuck in your throat and they’re sickeningly sweet with an intimacy that’s unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Your pulse quickens, beating faster and faster as if to catapult the sentiment from the cavern in your chest to your lips, but to no avail does your voice find you. 

Aemond thinks you look terrified- with your mouth hung open, your eyes wide and brows pulled together- he’s concerned for you. He doesn’t want to interrupt, but you appear to be unwell. Sickly doesn’t suit you, and he wonders if you’ve overexerted yourself, somehow. Perhaps your corset is too tight, or perhaps you’ve had too much sun. Regardless, he notices a thin sheen of perspiration glimmering across your forehead and prepares to ask if you’re well, but his inquiry remains unspoken- along with the affection you couldn’t will yourself to express.

“Prince Aemond,” The sound of your father’s voice fills the garden with an authority that diminishes its tranquility- though it doesn’t present any harm or danger. Knowing that you’ve been caught in a rather compromising position, you immediately take a step back from Aemond- though the distance feels further than miles. Your father presses his lips into a thin line that reveals neither displeasure nor ridicule. Refusing shame and embarrassment, you bow your head low in humiliation- instead- and whilst you take the brunt of chagrin, Aemond remains unfazed.

“Lord Piper,” The prince returns, easily enough to convey nonchalance, but his stomach twists with uncertainty that his tongue does not divulge. All at once he’s burdened with realization. He’s forgotten duty and honor in favor of temptation. For a few uninterrupted moments of your company, he has dismissed propriety. It is equivalent to sin, to be caught alone with an unwed maiden, but you have been an acquaintance longer than you’ve been a maiden- or so it seems. He oft forgets that he is no longer a child, and neither are you. Guilt nearly swallows him whole, but his eye does not show remorse nor does his throat bob with repentance. He will suffer penance for his wrongdoings, but you should not be forced to answer for his crimes. A shrill voice silences the declaration that sits atop the tip of his tongue.

“Wretched child!” The round face of your septa blotches red with anger. Whilst you’re no stranger to her temper, her chastisement feels much crueler when it’s shared with company- opposed to in private. “I told you she’s rotten.” The old woman berates, directing the insult towards your father, who towers over her. She’s a petite woman, but her fury is equivalent to that of a large man- and nearly as intimidating. Her frown accentuates the deep lines around her mouth-making her appear years older than she actually is- and you wonder if she’s ever smiled, or if she was born with a frown. You can’t imagine that a smile on her face would be all that inviting, and the thought alone is one you can’t fathom. With a heaving chest, she demands an explanation from your father, “What girl leaves her lessons to sneak away with-“

“Forgive me, my prince.” Your father ignores the woman glaring daggers into the side of his head- rather, the side of his jaw, since her gaze only reaches so high- and addresses the man beside you. Aemond isn’t sure why he’s the one asking for forgiveness. He is not the one who has insulted you. When he looks at your septa, she turns away with a huff, refusing to meet his stare. He almost wishes that she would have finished her thought so that he had reason to reprimand her for such vile insults. Alas, his nostrils flare. “Might I have a word with my daughter?”

“Of course,” The line of his jaw is sharp whilst he grants permission. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wonders what it might feel like to deny what is asked of him, but he refrains from flexing such power. Instead, he turns to you, only meeting your eye for a second before he bows his head politely.“My lady,”

“My prince,” You return the gesture, gripping the skirts of your gown between your fingertips and dropping down into a curtsy. It’s graceful, but the mire that stains the bottom of your dress reminds him of a time when it was not. With a final nod, he bids you farewell, and your chest aches with longing as you watch him leave. Alone, except for the presence of your father and septa, you feel like he’s taken a part of you with his departure. It’s an odd feeling, one that can not be explained. Yet, it lingers.

You miss the silent exchange between your septa and father, but you hear the scoff that leaves the unpleasant woman’s lips, and the sound of her angry footsteps as they depart. In her wake, she leaves a trail of crushed flowers. You look at the crumpled petals and leaves with apprehension- knowing what it feels like to be trampled over by such a neglectful woman- and wish to nurture them back to health. Perhaps, you’ve always felt inclined to heal what is thought to be broken.

Time passes. Following your father’s direction as he leads you through the castle grounds and down river row until you reach the river gate. Away from your septa, away from the small council, your father trades the overbearing horde for the gentle rippling of water as it trickles into the rush. Sailcloth ruffles in the distance, carrying ships to and from shore. Even with the shouting of merchants, ship captains, and the fish market vendors, it’s considerably more tranquil than the stuffy air of the palace.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Your father prompts, and you offer a tight-lipped smile that does little to conceal what you’re truly feeling inside. “What troubles you, darling?” 

“It is my septa,” A heavy sigh follows the confession. Revealing your worries frees a weight that’s settled in your chest. For the first time since the one-sided dispute, you can breathe. Surrendering your banners, you’ve laid your sword at your father’s feet, ready to embrace whatever awaits on the other side of attack- knowing that it will bring you the peace of mind you seek. “Today’s lesson consisted of reminders of duty, and the prospect of shame if I do not bear my husband’s heir within the first year of our marriage.” Too overwhelmed by the memory you wish to forget, you don’t notice your father tense beside you. “She suggests that if such a thing were to happen, then I am likely barren- and it was then that I decided that I would much rather watch the swordsmen than be ridiculed for an act I have neither attempted nor committed.” 

Much to his dread, he understands why you’ve fled. He can not condemn you when he shares the same perspective. As much as it pains him to admit, the day he has long feared has finally arrived. His only daughter- once small and delicate- has become a woman grown. Forced to embrace a truth he wishes to deny, he dons a grim look of reluctance. He thinks about what he desperately wants to convey- pondering words of sentiment and merit, whilst mulling over the importance of fantasy and dreams- and struggles to exude the guidance he had hoped to. In every wrinkle, sunspot, and sunken crevice of his skin, he wishes to express his desire for you to embrace your youth. He wishes to preach about the importance of education and adventure, and happiness whenever and however you see fit, but nothing fills the silence that has settled during the lull in conversation- except for the sounds of water. A butchered version of all he wishes to say remains lodged in his throat. Nearly suffocating from the words he can not find the voice to amplify, his vision starts to blur.

“I am a woman, yes, but that does not condemn me to marriage or motherhood.” Unaware of the inner turmoil your father is silently suffering beside you, you continue to divulge your deepest, darkest secrets to the only man you know will truly understand.

“At least, it shouldn’t.” With a dejected breath, you huff. “I know that when the time comes I will have to make peace with the fact that I will never be more than some man’s property.” For a moment, you hold your head up higher- seemingly accepting the role you’re being forced into- and for just a second, your father catches a glimpse of your mother in the elegance you exude. “I hold no figment of love, no hope nor imagination for such a silly thing, but until I am sworn to wed, I would like to bask in my freedoms whilst I still can.” The confession pains him, especially when he wishes nothing more for you than to experience true happiness and love- if that is something you wish to seek. 

Propriety, duty, and honor be damned.

“Then bask away,” He urges with a severity you do not understand as he reaches for your hand and squeezes it tightly- fearful of letting you slip away. “And do not let anyone attempt to darken your light.” 

You would not heed his warning until it was too late.

a/n: massive thanks to both @em-writes-stuff-sometimes and @becauseicantdecide for easing my doubts about posting this, and for reassuring me that it wasn't absolute rubbish

tagging a few writers I admire: @mypoisonedvine @aemonds-sapphire @prince-aemond-targaryen @aemonds-war-crime @targbarbie @winterstellars @sapphire-writes @oneeyedvisenya @aemonds-fire @aemxnd @princeaemonds @ewanmitchellcrumbs

series taglist: @just-emmaaaa

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[chococolte]

NOT AN ASK BUT WEWEWW UR STUFF IS 👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏 LITERALLY I READ ALL OF UR SAGAU STUFF IN LIKE 10 MINUTSS 😔😔😔😔🤟👍 KEEP DOING WHAT UR DOING FRR I FEEL LIKE A HOMELESS ORPHAN CHILD THAT WAS STARVED OF GOOD SAGAU CONTENT AND I WAS FINALLY GIVEN FOOD WHEN I FOUND YOUR BLOG ☹️☹️😕 ALSO… Ai lop aether in that one good boy scenario thingy soouu lumine vs creator!reader who would aether choose 😝😝😝🤭🤭🤭

word count. 421

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, sagau + cult au shit. g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. THANK YOU....!!!!! ♡♡♡ got me giggling like a schoolgirl blushing kicking my feet twirling my hair hiding my hands behind my back all bashful like xnbcnfnufn ♡♡ anyways, on the topic of aether...

It's a difficult choice for Aether. A heart-wrenching one. He loves his sister— he has known her his entire life. The two grew up together, inseparable, bonded by their shared womb. To be without the other, even for a moment, was agonizing. To be without Lumine indefinitely would be akin to losing half of himself.

You are his God. Aether has known of your existence since he opened his eyes, he has felt your eyes on him far longer than any other. Your hands molded his features, threaded his flesh and sinew together, sculpted his marrow and bone. Created for you, meant for your control. Meant to be yours.

That is Aether's purpose. He has known it for as long as he has breathed. All of it, the suffering he's endured, the pain and the agony; it was all meant to prepare him for you.

The light of your control is addicting. It breathes, enveloping him. He feels you for the first time in his life— he has waited five hundred years for this moment. For the first time, he has felt truly whole. He is finally where he is meant to be, controlled by you. He is finally your vessel, an extension of yourself; he feels the soft brush of your fingers against his own when you command him to move, your intelligible orders whispered at the back of his mind.

To finally feel your being wrap around him fills Aether with rapture. All of his worship, his prayers, his begging, and pleading, have amounted to this single moment.

The mere idea of denying you in any form is horrifying. Aether had long grown used to the tired gnawing in his soul, begging for you to come quickly and fill it whole. Like a hunger long numbed, only when assuaged does that ravenous hunger come growling for more. Aether has felt you, and your presence is a comforting warmth. He can't be without you, not anymore.

If Aether was given an ultimatum between you and his sister, a choice he could not refuse?

He would choose you. Every time, unfettered. To be without Lumine only meant he could no longer confide in her, no longer find comfort in her constant company. He would be empty, but you could fill that hole. To be without you meant death, a pain he could never escape. His reason for breathing, for existing. Without you, he had no purpose, no goal.

He can't go back to how it was before. Without you, he is nothing.

[jadeylovesmarvelxo]

Bleeding Love 🌸

You have Hanahaki disease and time Is running out to confess your feelings for Eddie.

Even in the darkest times hope finds a way.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of blood, hanahaki disease, unrequited love or is it? fluff.

Don't copy, reuse or repost my work.

❤️

The Blossoms are pink, innocent looking but they insight fear in you that you've never felt before.

You've faced monsters in the Upside Down but this is the scariest shit you've ever seen.

Pain grips your stomach and you vomit, the Blossoms are growing more and more each time your sick.

When the disease first took root inside you, the petals were so small, it was easy to forget that it even happened (even if in the back of your mind the worry bloomed each passing hour)

Over the last few weeks the petals had been growing in volume. To the point that you were making excuses not to see your friends, anxiety and stress from what was happening overwhelming you.

Stomach aching you curl up on your bed terrified about the severity of the situation you were in.

Hanahaki disease had took hold on you and every day you suffered more and more, the only way for this to stop was if you confessed your feelings to the one person who you were madly in love with.

Eddie Munson, but that was impossible. He was your friend, he had a girlfriend and you knew he didn't feel the same.

You were doomed literally to unrequited love and there was nothing you can do to stop it.

♥️

Hiding it from the boys at Hellfire ended rapidly. Harriet was at the latest meeting with Eddie and even though you tried to ignore the constant affection she was lavishing on Eddie, you heard all of it.

Each kiss or comment made your heart rip open at the seams, agony wracks your stomach and you can barely concentrate on the game.

You don't notice Eddie watching you concerned.

Eventually the pain is too much to ignore, the pain in your body is vicious and petals force their up your throat, it chokes you and you being to cough.

Dustin who is beside you, immediately begins to panic and the game is forgotten in the panic.

"What's wrong with her?" Harriet screeches and Eddie is by your side in an instant. His presence should be soothing but it has the opposite effect and the petals are soon brought up.

Blood and the petals mix on the table and you stumble into Gareth who catches you before you fall.

"Shit" Lucas eyes are wide and blown and Jeff looks sick to his stomach.

"Fuck... Is that? Are those petals" you nod feeling numb and tears run down your cheeks.

"How long?" Gareth asks and you wipe your eyes, shaking.

"A few weeks, it's getting worse" Eddie looks between you and Gareth his eyebrow raised and panic over his face.

"You know what this is?" he demands to Gareth who nods sadly and squeezes your hand.

"Hanahaki disease, the victim of the disease coughs up flower petals when suffering from one sided love" silence fills the room and you're helped up by Dustin and Lucas.

"Well, there has to be a cure right?" Eddie implores and Gareth swallows, tense. He doesn't want to say what you already know and have to accept.

"Eddie... She has to confess to who she loves and they return her feelings. It can't be friendly feelings it has to be love" Eddie's face turns paler by the minute and his voice is barely a whisper as he asks his next question.

"What's the other option?"

"Wait I've heard of this disease Nance has a book on it the other option it's..." Mike freezes and Eddie looks like he might explode at any minute.

"Don't leave us in fucking suspense Wheeler! What is it?" his voice is higher now and he moves closer to you, concern and worry pouring off him.

"Death" Mike murmurs and Eddie stiffens on the spot and he turns to you his face full of determination.

"Yeah, that's not fucking happening. Who's the guy? Is it Harrington" Eddie demands and you shake your head, your throat is scratchy and you cough again, bits of petals falling out your mouth.

"It's no use Eddie. He doesn't feel the same" you know it in your bones. Eddie's face falls and he shakes his head.

"No, no fucking way. You're not going anywhere you hear me. Who is he? You have to tell him princess" There's a tiny note of hysteria in his voice and you touch his cheek gently.

"I can't force him to love me Eddie" your voice is tender and kind but it doesn't stop Eddie's lip from wobbling and real tears pool in his eyes.

"I can't lose you" he whispers and your heart breaks at his pain. The coughing starts again and the force burns your lungs, has you gasping for breath.

String arms steady you and you rest your head on Gareths shoulder. "I need to go home"

You're exhausted, aching all over and just want to sleep, Mike calls Nancy on his walkie talkie and you hear snippets of their conversation.

"Wait Nancy says that surgery is an option to remove the infection! It removes the feelings too and all memory of the person"

Lose your memories of Eddie? There was no way. You shake your head.

"Not an option" Eddie gapes at you and anger crosses his features.

"I don't care if this douchebag is a Greek god he's not worth your fucking life. You don't deserve to die princess"

Harriet is watching Eddie with a contemplative look on her face and she reaches out to him.

"Can we talk?"

♥️

Eddie is out of his mind with worry. Anger, frustration and panic fills his veins and he kicks a near by trashcan to let some of the feelings out.

"Eddie" Harriet begins and he shakes his head feeling the beginnings of a panic attack take hold.

"I can't lose her, I can't" the fear chokes him and he can't calm down. Harriet softens as she watches him.

"Wow, you really do love her don't you" she gets it now, how he was never really fully invested in her, not while his heart was with you.

It hurts a little but she thinks on some level she's always known. Eddie nods.

"Of course I do. She's my best friend" he replies instantly and she chuckles.

"Sweetie, that's not what I mean. You're in love with her aren't you?" she expects Eddie to deny all the feelings but his shoulders slump and he sighs sadly.

"She's in love with someone else incase you haven't noticed and it's killing her" Harriet ignore this and kisses Eddie on the cheek.

"We had a good run. Do me a favour yeah? Tell her. You never know, that's all I'm saying" he looks skeptical but nods and just like that she walks out of his life.

♥️

Everything smells like Eddie, Old Spice, a hint of smoke and leather. You open your eyes to find you're in his bed and he's beside sitting on the floor beside you, his hand in yours.

"How did I get here?" you barely remember anything that happened and Eddie fills you in.

"I brought you here. Wanted to keep an eye on you sweetheart" it warms your heart and you squeeze his hand.

"Maybe there is hope with this surgery thing? Might be a good idea or at least worth a try? If you get rid of these feelings it's best for you." Eddie gets up and settles on the bed looking hopeful and he continues speaking.

"Still don't you want to at least confess and know for sure that he doesn't feel the same" this quietens you for a moment and you ponder this.

At least you would know either way.

"I... It's you Eddie. It's always been you" for a second Eddie doesn't say anything and you're already cursing yourself for screwing up.

"I know you don't feel the same and it's okay, you have Harriet and... He doesn't let you finish the words as his lips press to yours.

The action stuns you but the feel of Eddie's lips on yours is perfect, you ease into the kiss before pulling away as reality sinks in.

"We can't... Harriet is your girl" he shakes his head and you're confused. What the hell happened in the last couple of hours?

"She told me to tell you how I feel. We're over sweetheart. It would never have worked out because I'm head over heels in love with you"

The reality of his words don't sink in until the pain in your body lessons and begins to fade, the pressure on your lungs eases bit by bit and breathing feels easier and easier.

It only means one thing. Eddie does love you like you love him. The joy is all consuming and instead of agony all you feel now is hope and blooming happiness.

"Eddie" There's tears in your eyes and his stare back at you with utter devotion as he cups your cheeks.

"I wish you would have said sooner princess, the thought of you in all of this pain, god I love you so fucking much. To think I could have lost you...'' emotions overwhelm him and he kisses you again.

Everything feels brighter, your body healing from it's ordeal the last few weeks as Eddie presses kisses onto your lips and between each kiss is three little words.

I love you.

The happiness blooms even stronger now.

🌸

[suchagreatimetobealive]

𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ~°•*'▪︎

Dazai Osamu x Reader

- Tw¡! Extremely toxic relationship, self-destructive behaviour, delirious behaviour, brief mentions of a past toxic relationship with a possessive partner, angst without comfort.

- You know Dazai since his mafia days, but he never indulged you into joining the activity. When finally he left the toxic environment behind, he tried to make the wall between you and him crumble. Sadly, it didn't last long.

- Very rushed, I'm sorry for any spelling/grammar mistakes just felt inspirated, I need sleep tbh.

Dazai Osamu has always been defined as someone sadistic, enjoying the pain shine in his victims's eyes, while he bend them over and shots them from behind, after he just reassured them he would not. Not even shooting them on a vital organ; the shoulder, or the arm, so that they crumble on the ground, bloody, in agonising pain, tight grip against the wound in the desperate attempt to soothe the suffering.

He takes pain so rationally, so detached from any mental attachment from someone that It's natural to think he does feel the pain others feels; just not on an empathic basis. He feeds off of it, delighted by the way his enemies -especially the older men who thinks of him a kid- look at him with fear and terror as soon as they realise he's not a normal 15 years old who needs to screw off.

But the truth is that Dazai Osamu is a masochist. A huge, helpless masochist who has moments that really makes you scared. You are not even sure if you are scared of him, or for him. He has no intention to hurt you, you know it; but at one point, you are afraid of him.

Afraid he could harm you to self-destroy.

The day he begged you, on his knees, hopelessly sniffling and sobbing soundly, so pitifully it brought you to tears as well to tear off his limbs is the day you really started to feel the agony in your chest, the dread pooling in your chest, a sudden nauseating sensation ascending from your abdomen to your throat.

That's the day you realised how serious he's sick in the head. He never acted like that with you before, only implied jokes about the thematic, nothing serious. Or so you always thought.

A copy mechanism Dazai Osamu utilises also is, as mentioned earlier, self-destruction.

He would go as far as hurting you just to make you despise him, watch him with hate; he knows it would break his heart, he feels so frustrated when you look at him with worry, the aggravation in his pupils as he tears up even more, as if it's the worse thing that could have happened to him.

But as soon as that gaze appears even for a fleeting second, he's instantly on you, clinging on your side with his hands locked on your waist, head buried on his chest, loud thumping of his heart, restless as the panic rushes to his veins. Soft, trembling hands caressing your scalp as the fingers dig between your strands sweetly, soothingly as if to make you forget what just happened.

But everything that happen each passing night becomes so much, the overwhelming feeling of everything that each time happens, the weight of his words, you feel like you are losing your sanity staying with someone who already lost it a long while ago.

Because you can't fix him, you know. It's impossible to stay with him, he's so broken that instead of you making him feel better, he is slowly destroying you and also himself in the process.

You can't believe even if he looks you straight in the eyes that this whole relationship isn't hurting him.

You had problems with a possessive partner in the past, and that's been hell, so hard but at the end it went away, at the end you fought him, you broke free. But this?

How can you handle this?

How can you handle Dazai Osamu, if he can't even handle himself? You thought you knew what you were getting yourself into when you agreed to become his partner. Turns out you absolutely didn't. At all.

You can't take it anymore.

Trying to hold him together is making you lose yourself. Each day your anxiety becomes unbearable, your heart always beating so hard against your chest, in fear he could invite you to his apartment the evening. That only means you would witness one of his crisis, or even more than one.

Poor boy wakes up in the middle of the night with a loud gasp, sweat, tears and a raising panic attack as his restless brain registers that it's not real, your chest rising and falling softly, your calm breath seemingly to momentarily also soothe his racing thoughts.

Momentarily.

And that's how another sleepless night at his apartment happens, with you lulling him, keeping his head on your chest, scratching his scalp and giving some kisses here and there, a obsessive chant falling off his lips, same mumbles on loop as he sniffles silently, face wet in tears as whatever thoughts possess his brain.

But you can't break up with him.

This is different; your lover is toxic, but you can't leave him like this. He's suffering. He's suffering so much your heart ache so much every time you see him, but It's just too much.

Everything has become too much, to the point you can't look at him without trembling, panicking, crying and shaking and going into an internal panic.

And he knows, he sees how much this affected you, his selfishness hit again, he's such a cruel creature, isn't he?

Still the ruthless, heartless beast he was back in the mafia. He's hurting you; out of all people, the one who he's hurting is you.

The love of his life, the very reason he's still breathing, the only person who can make him feel safe. But you don't feel safe around him anymore.

You see him as a imminent danger, someone you have to run away from. There are no more goodmorning kisses, there are no more smiles coming your way as he enters the agency, there is nothing.

Not a kiss, not a hug, there's just.. terror.

The way your limbs hugs him like he's made of glass and could break at any touch, the way you curled your fingers around his cheeks with devotion in your eyes now replaced by fear.

Fear hidden behind an anxious smile, lips painfully pulled up in a fake smile every time he encounters your eyes.

And your mental health doesn't get missed by your cowokers; Kunikida often stops by to ask if everything is alright, you are so stiff and It's unusual from someone like you. Ranpo happen checks by as well, giving you subtle glances from the side of the room from time to time and giving you sweets, sometimes dragging you with him to catch some air outside.

He doesn't know if you talked to him, knowing him he already knows anyways. Dazai doesn't even want to focus about what Ranpo knows actually, or he wouldn't even show up in front of the agency door again, he swears.

It would be so shameful.

Atsushi often worries as well, acting similarly to Ranpo, but using more empathy than the older male does, gifting you cute stuff such as peluches, your favorite food, random things he asked to know if you like them or not. Everyone, in their every own way, tries to make you feel better, but nothing can really erase your problem.

And It's so painful, so heart-crashing knowing he is the problem.

And it is also for you, because you love him.

Loved him. At this point, you aren't even sure anymore if you are with him because you want to or because you are just concerned about how he would react if you break up with him.

What if he kills himself?

You would never forgive yourself if he would do that after your decision.

You really don't know what to do, each evening without him sending you on a spiral of desperation, agony and torturous paranoia that just doesn't shake off no matter what you do.

You can't live like this anymore.

"I..." your words struggle to leave your tongue, stuck like a block of ice you can't pull out, blocked between your teeth. It will take time for it to melt, but you don't have all the time of the world.

It's a now or never situation, you don't know when you will get all this courage again in the future. It's not like you hold much of it now anyways, but surely you feel braver than usual.

"...you want to break up with me, right" if it's supposed to be a question, it does not feel like one at all. Your eyes snaps on his, and you flinch.

For the first time in years, you flinch looking in the eyes of someone. Of a man.

The man you loved for years, Dazai Osamu, you don't even recognise him anymore.

You can't find him inside those pupils, the lost gone Osamu you knew didn't left a trace of himself behind.

"...yes" you grit your teeth, cursing yourself under your breath for how weak your voice sounds. Your eyes darts towards the ground, hands gripping each other behind your back, anxiety swallowing you whole, in a cage you can't escape from. That's what his gaze gives you; each time you lock eyes with him, there's no more love, there's no more devotion, no more affection.

You feel, indirectly, forced to stay with him. All because you are afraid.

"Okay" okay? You heard well?

You can't help yourself, your eyes snaps back towards his face; hollow eyes welcoming your surprised one. "...okay?" You speak again, as if to have the reassurance that you heard well.

He gives you a nod, stuff his hands on his coat, and his lips pull upwarbs. His expression is so empty, so void of any single emotion you feel like you are looking up at a corpse, dead with a smile on it's face.

It makes a shiver run down your spine, hands still scrutching themselves nervously behind your back subconsciously.

"You.. will do nothing?" You ask, voice barely a whisper as you don't look away. No matter how lifeless he looks right now, you don't want him to actually die.

But does he even have to keep living? And for what? Watch you find a man (or a woman) who deserves you, someone who deserves your love? His gaze fall on the ground slowly. "...depends on what you mean" his voice is rough, of course he can't hold his tears much longer, the restrain is about to fall off, he can feel his eyes burning so terribly. He would love to do it in your arms right now.

He wants to fall on his knees and scream his lungs out, so much pain not enough to yell out with a single shout.

"..please, don't kill yourself"

"What else?"

"What..?" You stop. You are sure you stopped breathing after his question, a confused frown composing in your worried expression.

"I mean," he speaks slowly "What else is there to be said? I don't have any proper answer to that. I.." his voice falter when he take a look at you "...I won't start again, please calm down.." tone breaking at the end of the sentence, every teardrop spilling from your eyes at the anticipation of yet another breakdown that's about to come feels like a knife stabbing his chest insistently.

What? What is he saying? He won't start anything? How is this somehow even worse than starting? You don't want him to die, you don't want him to kill himself. You just want him to see someone that is capable of helping him, It's impossible no one is able to fix Dazai Osamu. At least a little bit, even if the bare minimum. You don't want to weight the death of one of your best of lovers, the one man you trusted so blindly, who made you feel so loved and cherished. You will never thank him enough for those years, you will never regret them, but you don't want your entire mental health to be thrown away because of his.

Because all humans beings have to be selfish sometimes, to get out of it alive.

But Dazai Osamu feels like he's been too selfish, not asking you himself to break up, waiting you and hoping for something that's never to happen.

For what you know, that's the last time you ever see him again. He completely disappears from sight. The agency has no idea where he ended, if he killed himself somewhere and nobody found his body.

Just know that if Dazai Osamu doesn't want to be found, he will not get found.

Lurking in the shadows is something he does so well, disguising himself and becoming one with the darkness, forgotten by the light, acting as if he never reached it, not knowing what it is like, what it feels like to receive some love.

And that's exactly where Dazai Osamu rests; in the darkness, right where he came from.

Everybody said mafia blood just flows in his veins, and he doesn't even have the strength to deny that to himself anymore. He disappointed you, Odasaku up there must be so deeply disappointed already from how he turned out to be; he tried, he really did, but the mask can't be worn forever.

Dragging a scalpel on someone's throat has never been easier anyway.

[stealingyourbones]

Jason’s body isn’t meant to exist in the mortal plane. His existence is an affront to reality. It started a year or so after being revived. Jason’s body is wracked with pain as his body flickers with unearthly static, his soul rebelling against being in the wrong plane of existence. The first episode lasted only a second or two but it felt like hours. After that night, the episodes of glitching back in and out of reality became more and more frequent. Jason tried his best to prevent any and all confrontations with his family. He didn't want to worry them that he was slowly dying. His spirit forcibly trying to go back to the afterlife when all he wanted to do was stay alive.

The episodes happen every week now and last a minute or more. Each one saps Jason of all of his energy and strength. Jason spends many days just staring, eyes unfocused towards the ceiling, and just wishing for hours on end for the pain to stop.

—

Danny first saw the boy around three years ago. A teenager with a white streak in his hair kneeling on a nonexistent surface and clutching his head. His mouth was open to yell but Danny couldn't hear his scream. The figure flickered in and out of existence like jarbled tv static for only a moment before he vanished.

Danny tried to figure out ways to locate the man but came up with nothing. He put the issue behind him as his new title of Ghost King required almost all of his available free time. For two years he has spotted the screaming man flickering in and out in the Ghost Zone. The man has been appearing more frequently now. He wears different clothes each time, sometimes wearing a strange red helmet, but his position is still the exact same: Curled in a ball, hands clutching his head, and mouth open in a silent scream. Each time he would flicker in and out of existence before vanishing back to where he originally came from. 

Danny didn’t know what to do, he never saw anything like this before and felt helpless. He contacted Frostbite who couldn't find any previous examples of this happening in the Ghost Zone. Contacting Clockwork the man just smiled and told Danny that everything is happening exactly the way it should.

One episode of the screaming man changed everything. He appeared directly next to Danny. The man was without his helmet, he was dripping sweat and his eyes were glazed over in pain. Danny acted on impulse and knelt down to the man to rest a hand on his shoulder to ground him. 

The second Danny touched the man’s shoulder he cried out in agony as he felt the mans pain as if it was his own. God, he’s seen this person for the past three years and did nothing as this man suffered to this extent? Through the pain, Danny promised himself that he would do everything in his power to help this man. Focusing on the man's spirit, He could feel the man’s soul pulling him back towards the mortal realm. Danny latched onto the man's soul and let it carry him to the man's physical form.

—

Jason was fully dissociating from the pure agony his body was consumed with. His skin flickering and distorting and twisting out of place, his vision filled with nauseating swirls of greens and purples. It was always the same colors, why was it always the same damn colors?!

Suddenly, the pain became a background hum. It was still excruciating but Jason had gained a frighteningly high pain tolerance over the last three years. 

Jason felt something on his shoulder and noticed a figure in his house moments before the wave of exhaustion from dealing with the episode hit him like a brick: A man in extremely detailed battle armor with a long flowing cape behind him stood hunched over him, grasping his shoulder in a vice grip. Iridescent white hair flowing in a nonexistent wind and face contorted in agony as he flickered in and out of existence. The man had taken his burden. 

The last thing Jason saw before his eyes closed was a glowing crown of dark energy glowing an eerie green light atop his head. Something about it radiated a sense of safety and protection. 

He didn't know who this figure was but he knew that for the first time in two years, he had hope.

[sleeplessdreamer123]

So, I got an idea from this prompt. Again, can't really enjoy writing on Twitter, so Tumblr it is!

Lucerys' screams were loud enough to reach Dragonstone from King's Landing. The entire family winced as they heard him shout, begging, cursing in both High Valyrian and common tongue for the Maesters and the midwives to "do what they were paid to do and get the babe out of him!!!"

Aemond acted the worst out of all of them, walking around in circles, glancing at the door every second, glaring at anyone who dared to even breath loud enough for him to hear.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. He barged into the birthing room, and while the Measters begged him to leave, saying it wasn't a place for a man of his stature, a glare was enough to silence them.

Lucerys, seeing the man who made him the way he was now, the cause of his recent suffering, redirected all the abuse he was capable of giving to Aemond.

"You, you cursed worm! You...You..-" he screamed as the pain got worse and the midwives begged him to calm down.

"You beast! You absolute, one eyed Hightower cunt! You dare show yourself to me after what you've done!" He shrieked.

Aemond, for the most part, stayed silent, most likely in shock. He knew Lucerys wasn't the sweet angel everyone thought he is, but this was the first time Lucerys has ever called him...any of those insults. He didn't even know he knew words of insult (his mistake, seeing as Daemon was there to teach him). And he did it in front of all those people.

Who seemed to be ignoring said insults as Lucerys began to scream again, grasping the covers as the midwives urged him to start pushing.

The Maesters hurriedly told him that it was normal for anyone on the birthing bed to hurl insults, as the pain they're going through was akin to dying of a heart attack, they would scream anything at anyone. Except they don't usually die, the Maesters quickly say once they saw Aemond's face paling from the mere notion of his consort's death, in fact, with the amount of curses and energy from Lucerys, they believe it would be a rather healthy birth, and that he has nothing to worry about. (Except for the fact that the labor started too early, they were only supposed to be visiting and they were supposed to stay in Driftmark for the birth).

"Aemond....Aemond...." Aemond's eye left the Maesters and landed on Lucerys, who was reaching out for him, tears staining his face. Despite protests, he goes to him, and holds his hand.

That was a mistake.

He never realized how strong his little consort was, until he squeezed his hand so tight, he felt as if the bones would break. He didn't say anything though. He knew that if he did, Lucerys would tighten his already tight grip, just enough to ensure he would never be able to practice with the sword for at least a few weeks.

He kissed his sweaty forehead, whispered in his ears that he was doing good, so good, so well. And how did Lucerys reacted to that? Well...

"Do you think of me as a dog, husband?! I care not that I'm doing well, or good! I want the babe out this instant! This will be the only babe you'll get out of me! You will never sweet talk me into allowing this to happen a second time! If you wish for a second child, why don't you get pregnant instead!"

The Maesters and the midwives wisely ignored their conversation. Well, the older ones did. The younger ones were busy trying not to laugh at what they've heard. Aemond will deal with them later.

He wiped his sweaty face with a cloth given by the midwives, kissed his cheeks, contained his groan of pain every time Lucerys tightens his iron-like grip, and hope to the gods, be it the Seven, the Fourteen Flames, hells, anyone would do, for it to be a speedy birth.

So of course, it took the entire day.

The Maesters did try to remove Aemond from the premises once, and Lucerys was quick to retaliate once his pain-addled mind figured what they were trying to do.

"No, you dare send him away to get comfortable while I writhe in agony?! He shall stay and see just how much he hurts me! See if he wishes for another child after this!"

Aemond wisely didn't remind Lucerys that it was he who wished for a child, that he was the one who "forgot" to drink the moon tea prepared for him. Yes. He was very wise not to mention that, since every time Lucerys felt pain, he would utter curses and insults like a seasoned sailor, directing it to anyone in the room he sets his eyes on, so much so that Aemond began to wonder if he heard them from Daemon or Corlys.

Soon, soon, the midwives informed them of the babe's crowning. Soon, a crying babe was added to the cacophony of noise in the birthing chambers. Aemond waited for his dear consort to release his poor, poor hand.

He could feel the iron grip tightening more than ever.

"I can feel something moving from the inside!"

And thus, the midwives and the Maesters scrambled to prepare for the second child, and once his own crying was heard, everyone in the room finally relaxed.

They cleaned the babes and placed them on Lucerys' chest, and he looked at them with satisfaction.

"Oh, hello." He croaked, his throat dried and tired from the shouting.

They waited for a few more minutes before allowing the family in. It only took a few seconds of awkward staring for Aemond to figure out they heard everything. He will deal with that on a later date as well.

The family were on their best behavior, at least. They greeted the two new additions of the family, Rhaenyra, Daemon and Jacaerys checked on Lucerys, asking what he wished to eat after this, and Alicent silently looking at the two silver haired boys places on his chest.

"I think...I think I called Aemond a cunt." He coarsely whispered.

"You did? Well done."

Alicent's glare at Daemon's answer did not seem to affect him at all, too busy looking at his new grandchildren, who seemed to not mind their presence, at least.

Aegon, however, had to ruin the peace with his half drunken antics.

"So, dear nephew, did that hurt?"

One look from Lucerys gave Aemond all the permission he needed to slap Aegon on the head with his not-crushed hand. The look of approval from both Rhaenyra and Alicent told him he did the right thing.

The look of satisfaction from Lucerys told him he was forgiven.

He hoped that he forgives him if he knew that he planned on getting him pregnant again, maybe in a year or so.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Best and worst of both worlds (part 35)

Tw: not that i know of for now, short chapter its basically just fluff between Yves and you

Part 36

You woke up to hushed whispers. You deduced that it was between your nurse and someone else.

Your arm moving up to rub your eyes silenced them. Soon after, a shadow loomed over you. The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge of your bed.

Only when your bleary eyes opened did he say something.

"Hello, my beloved (name)."

Yves's ethereal countenance appeared before you. His raven black hair received a refreshed blowout, looking healthier, shinier, silkier and bouncier than ever. He was donning an adoring smile while he had his arms stretched out, his nails weren't painted crimson, but it was neutral pink with ivory french tips.

You blinked multiple times before shooting up to give him a big squeeze. You buried your head in his hair, greedily taking in his scent that now smelled of lavender. Not overpoweringly so, but undeniably pleasant and comforting.

"Oh, how I missed you..." He murmured in your neck before giving it a light kiss. His almond nails carded your hair, sending tingles down your spine.

Yves is gentle. So gentle. His touch is nothing like that monster's, it felt... purifying, cleansing and safe. You know that you will never cry out of pain and agony from his love.

But you're shedding tears onto his expensive, cashmere blouse. Sobs were muffled by his shoulder as you pour your gratitude out through your eyes. You're happy that he's back, you missed him too.

Your fingers gripped onto him tightly, causing temporary wrinkles and twists. Yves didn't mind, all he did was hold you tighter and soothingly rubbed your back.

Yves lets a stray tear slip out of his eye and no more. It landed onto your hospital gown and left a small stain that spread for a bit. He's elated to kiss you, to smell you, to hold you again.

You kept shuffling deeper and deeper into him as if you were trying to merge flesh. Yves understands that you're subconsciously trying to hide from the world, his heart skipped a beat when he realized that your brain sees him as a safe haven to do so. That is why, he wasn't bothered in the slightest that you were suffocating him. He can handle it, he needs you not to worry.

However, he had to pull away momentarily when your crying wasn't showing signs of stopping or slowing down. He held your puffy, blubbering face in both of his soft hands. You're now hiccuping and hyperventilating due to overwhelm.

"(Name), that's enough now. I will not be leaving anytime soon." He wiped the tears away from your eyes with his thumb. "You will suffer from a headache if you cry too much."

His tranquility wasn't enough to stop you from bawling, you gripped onto his sleeve tightly. Yves scoots a bit closer and pressed a kiss on your forehead.

He cupped your right eye, blinding it while he left your other one uncovered. You were caught off guard by this strange move, your heart rate slowed and you eventually breathed normally without tears dripping down your chin. There were a few sniffles here and there, but the warmth of his palm onto your eyelid miraculously calmed you down immediately.

He released his hands from your head and went ahead to retrieve a packet of facial tissues from his brand new opulent handbag. It's of course, black in colour. But it has a different structure, gold accents and material.

You looked at him quizzingly, wondering what he just did to hack your brain. All Yves did was smile and praised you.

"Well done, my love." He lovingly dried your face with the tissue. You had no idea what he was praising you for, but you're not complaining because it made you feel fluttery inside.

You noticed the nurse has given you and him privacy, allowing you to be as shameless with him.

You basked in his rapid shower of kisses, enjoying the unconditional attention and affection while he covered you in his rouge lipstick prints. You closed your eyes and smiled as he did all the work, your body slightly rocking back and forth for every kiss he gave.

In the end, Yves had to forcefully restrain himself from giving more. He wouldn't want history repeating itself again. However, his anxieties were quelled when he saw that you were glowing in contentment once he's done.

"M-my apologies, dear. Y-you look..." He tried to contain it, but he laughed gleefully in the end. You looked absolutely adorable with thirty-two pairs of lip prints on you. Yves couldn't even complete his original sentence, he could only pull you into another hug and nuzzle his nose into your hair.

He lets out an extremely hushed, almost inaudible squeal before pressing one last kiss on the crown of your head.

You let yourself jellify in his arms, taking in all the love, affection and attention that you've been owed for the past five days.

"I brought you souvenirs." He mumbled lowly on your head.

You waited for him to present it to you.

"...But I want to hold you for longer. Will you please grant me the pleasure?"

You said yes. To which he replied with another kiss on the temple.

"Thank you, (name)."

Yves slipped his feet out of his black heels before laying on the bed with you, tucking himself under your blanket and trapping you with him. He was careful not to affect your leg cast and bandages.

You snuggle into his chest as he envelopes you in his warmth, creating a bubble of protection. You felt safe, secured and most importantly, at peace.

His unyielding embrace reminded you that there is someone that you could always retreat to in times of need. And that is Yves.

"I love you."

He whispered before resting his chin on the top of your head. He ran his nimble fingers through your hair.

You grinned and relaxed into him, feeling unburdened with the events that happened over the past week.

[xxladyballadxx]

Colliding Memories

Clive Rosfield x *Brainwashed* reader (Angst)

Summary: You were about finish off the vulnerable Clive Rosfield, until your head began to hurt and your memories of him started to appear.

Clive Rosfield gif credits: @obiwaned

(Note: Just a heads up, this has nothing to do with the events from the game.)

“(Y/N)! Snap out of it!” Clive parried your attack, he tried to pin you down to the ground so he could face you properly and talk his way into you. You teleported behind him and blasted him away in the distance using the magic of wind. Clive grunted, his body slammed by the wall. You smirked in return, watching him suffer. “Pathetic…” 

The King of Waloed seemed to enjoy the performance. Until he grew tired of just standing and watching, Barnabas then joins in the fight and gets surprised by Clive’s attack which he manages to evade easily. The two point their swords at each other and sounds of their blade came clashing on like a powerful storm. 

 You heard the dominant of Shiva coming your way and swung your dual blades to Jill’s rapier sword who failed to land a strike on you, “Please, (Y/n), don’t do this!” ignoring her words, you knocked the rapier off her hand and cast wind magic to blow her away. Jill fell unconscious after getting body slammed to the stonewall.  

Joshua sweeps in and fights you after gaining his strength back, “(Y/n), we’re your friends! The only friends you ever had in Rosalith!” he evaded your blows and took a step back, “I have no intention to hurt you but you leave me no choice!” He used the flames of Phoenix, aiming the shots of them towards you. You somersaulted up in the air to avoid the blast. Joshua heads in quickly and thrashes his sword against yours. 

Clive, with all his might, desperately attempted to get to you but Lord Barnabas kept getting in the way, preventing Ifrit’s dominant to save (Y/n) by saying the most utter worthless things to put in your head. 

“Do you think you can save her, Mythos?” says Barnabas, causing Clive’s anger to explode like a ticking bomb, “Your dear, sweet, little dove will never remember you. So amusing watching you say those ridiculous things to dear (Y/n) who no longer have you in her memory.” 

Clive semi-primed into Ifrit and aggressively thrashed his blade towards him. Barnabas dodges and summons his long, dark sword. Pinning the sharp surface against Clive’s Invictus sword. Barnabas plants a smirk across his face, “When this is all over, Mythos, I am going to make (Y/n) (L/n)...” his next words set Clive off, angering him more, “My Queen…the Queen of Waloed…” 

“You…YOU FUCKING DEPRAVING BASTARD!” The anger in Clive rises high, turning more violent and aggressive. Landing his fiery blows on Lord Barnabas as the King dodges them swiftly, “Yes, that’s right, Mythos! Let the rage consume you!” 

“I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!” All the rage began to take over Clive, making him more vulnerable for Barnabas to land strong attacks on him. 

The King bested Clive, watching him drop weakly to the ground. Barnabas motioned his sword to Clive’s face of defeat, pointing the tip of his blade, “Bow before your king, Clive Rosfield.” 

You grabbed the collar of unconscious Joshua’s red shirt, dragging him along as she marches over to Lord Barnabas. You dropped his unmoving body, standing with the King. “(Y/n), my soon to be queen, would you like to do the honours to finish Clive Rosfield in my stead?” 

“As you wish, Lord Barnabas.” You unsheathed one of your dual swords with Barnabas taking a step back as he watches you finish off Ifrit’s dominant. “(Y/n), please!” shouted Clive, crawling back in his weak state “(Y/n)...my love…come back to me…” 

As you were going to pierce him through the heart with your dual sword, you felt your hand on the sword’s hilt shaking for some reason. Your head began to throb, the pain growing heavier. You screamed in agony causing you to drop your dual sword as you backed away, head down with hands to the sides. “Ah! Ugh…” feeling the pain increasing, you shrieked with your eyes closed looking up to the sky of darkness. It felt more like a cry for help. You drop your head looking to the ground while suffering with headaches. 

“(Y/n)? (Y/n)?!” Clive rises up quickly to come and aid you. You pushed him away and sorrowful tears appeared in your eyes. Memories popped up in your head, there were so many of them. Sad, happy memories. Most of them…had Clive Rosfield in it. Remembering the momentous days you spent time with him. The laughs you share together, the happiness and the joy…

You started to remember something that you lost…

“(Y/n)...” Clive called out your name in a calm tone, walking up to you at a slow pace. You slowly held your head up, your eyes focused on him, “C-Clive…” 

Finally, you came back to him, “(Y/n)...” Clive swept you in his strong arms, holding you tight in an embrace, “My dear (Y/n)...I knew you were still in there.” 

You continued to have your arms wrapped around Clive, remembering the last time you embraced him. “Oh my, this is very touching.” you pulled away from your lover for a moment as Barnabas looked at both of you with a smirk, slipping out his sword, “Never thought this day would come where (Y/n) (L/n) regains her old self. Even her memories.” 

“Stay back, my love. I will deal with him.” Clive urges you to step aside, grasping the hilt of his sword and facing towards Barnabas’s direction. “Clive…” you mumbled , saying his name worryingly. You didn’t want to know what would happen next but you just envisioned it anyway. Things are about to get ugly.

“Tell me, Mythos…you think you can protect your precious dove from me?” Barnabas questioned, semi-priming into the dark eikon Odin. His voice goes demonically deep, “Do you truly believe you have all the strength to protect your precious (Y/n)?” 

Clive, once again, half transformed into his Ifrit form. The roars of the flames floating all over him, standing his ground, “I will never let you take her away from me again, Barnabas.”

“Come then, Mythos…” Barnabas raising his sword, the sharp point focusing on Clive Rosfield, “Let’s see if you have the power to defeat me.” 

And so the two raging dominants clashed on, blades clicking together as they fought like wild beasts in the fight. You just stood there, frozen. Watching them battling against each other. 

You thought Clive would win. Barnabas outsmarted him somehow, sweeping him off the ground. “Ugh!” Clive groaned, blood dripping from his mouth. “Clive!” You pulled out your dual sword and rushed to him as quickly as you could. 

“It’s over, Mythos!” Barnabas laughed devilishly, levelling his sword mid-air. Planning to kill the love of your life. “Fuck! Am I going to make it in time?!” you thought after realizing how far you are in the distance from them. 

As you watched Barnabas in panic who was about to end Clive’s life, you sped up rapidly and made it in time to kill the King. Your dual sword pierced through the chest. Barnabas spat out blood when he was stabbed by you, his hand dropping as his dark sword vanished. Transforming back to his human form. You drew your sword back, stepping away from him. A dying Barnabas twisted in your way, facing you, “Well…I never knew you had it in you…” He crept up to you in his weakened condition. “Get back, you fucking psycho!” you yelled in a threatening tone while walking a few steps back, drawing out your sword at his stone-hardened skin. Clive comes to your side, shielding you from Barnabas. 

“You have outdone yourself…(Y/n) (L/n)...” At long last, the King of Waloed is dead. His body dropped, his entire body turning to stone. You let out a sigh, throwing your sword in sorrow. Remembering the horrible things you’ve done.

“(Y/n)..” Clive comforts you, tucking you into his arms, “It’s over now, my love.” 

“You’re finally free from him, (Y/n).” A conscious Joshua finally awakened, healed enough to walk over with a small smile appearing on his face. Even Jill recovered her strength, “Welcome back to the real world, (Y/n).” happy tears forming into her eyes, she was so glad that you were back to your normal self. 

You hugged Joshua and Jill, crashing them into your arms. Being careful not to squeeze them too tight since they’re still slightly injured. “I’m so sorry…” your voice lowered, tears falling down onto your face. 

“It’s okay, (Y/n).” Joshua reassured you. 

“It wasn’t you, (Y/n). We both know that it wasn’t you.” Jill spoke in a comforting manner. 

You returned to Clive as the two of you nuzzled up to each other, “I miss you, my darling. Thought I would never see you again.” Thinking you were never coming back to him. If you didn’t, he would still be in a very dark place. “I’m here, Clive…Never forget that I will always come back to you..” 

Clive moved in closer to kiss you, your eyes shut tight falling into the moment where you circle your arms around him. Jill smiled warmly, seeing the two lovers reunited at last. Joshua chuckled nervously, knowing this was bound to happen. He cleared his throat, gaining the attention from you and Clive, “We should head back to the hideaway and inform the others about what happened here.” 

Jill added, “And let’s not forget to tell them that we have (Y/n) back with us. Our long lost dear friend of ours.” 

Clive nodded, agreeing with them. He held your hand into his, tightly so he never lets go. His blue eyes shining up on you, “Ready to head home with us, my darling?” 

You chuckled, smiling sweetly at your lover, “Let’s get the hell out of this miserable place.” 

✩࿐⋆*

(A/n) - Truly sorry for not writing him for A VERY LONG TIME! I hope you all enjoy reading it! UNTIL NEXT TIME ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ઇଓ

✩࿐⋆*

[evanspresso]

Could u maybe write something where evan has trouble sleeping, like he moves, cries a lot in his sleep and sometimes has really bad nightmares especially after shooting Dahmer and that makes his sleep really bad, and reader comforts him and cuddles whispering to him that’s she’s there whenever these episodes happen?? thank you 🥺

through thick and thin

Y/n knows it’s hard when you’ve been with someone for about a few months- give or take it’s been around five. She lost count because everything went to darkness.

It’s even harder when you start falling in love with someone who is having a hard time and there is nothing you can do but watch as they suffer there, right in front of you.

Y/n didn’t like to complain because what good would that do? She tried her best to be there for him and she tried her best to sooth his nerves and hold him when he cried.

She tried her best. It’s all she could do.

She snuggled under the covers, holding her boyfriend in her arms as she tried to match her breathing pattern with his. She kissed his back gently, fluttering her eyelids closed feeling the exhaustion wash over her body.

God only knew how tired she had been with the busy week she had been having. Job hunting was not her friend.

Y/n’s breath falls into a rhythm as her body started to finally rest into sleep mode. She felt herself drift into the blissfulness of pillows. Clouds and roses of dreams before suddenly jolting awake as she heard him cry out in utter agony.

"No, no, no, no!" he wined in his sleep. His voice raspy from exhaustion.

y/n immediately sat up and peaked over at her sleeping boyfriend who seemed to be having another one of his nightmares. Nights like these were when she cursed the day Evan was offered that role.

"Evan." she shook, "It's just a dream, it's not real please wake up." she cried out.

She friended watching him thrash against the sheets, beads of sweat dripping from his temple causing her to shake him with more force as she. Evan ti panic slightly.

"Hey, hey, look at me. Open your eyes my love." she pleaded, caressing his damp cheek.

She watched as his dark eyes blinked open, tears pooling at the rim's causing her chest to tighten before he pulled her down onto whims he could cling to her.

"It happened again" he whispered.

"I know, baby. It's just a dream though okay? It's not real life." Y/n whispered against his neck, peppering her plump lips against his warm neck.

Evan held her tighter, his heart beating so quick he was scared it would jump right out at his girlfriend. He let himself breath deeply against her as she held him in his arms, the couples breaths filling the air as she helped him calm down his breathing.

In and out. In and out.

"I'm sorry." Evan spilled out a while after the silence and breaths.

Y/n sighed, lifting her head to look at her boyfriend as he sighed out in defeat, his head falling back onto the pillow and making his messy hair fan around his head like a halo.

She gripped his face in her warm hands making him look directly in her eyes as she caressed his cheeks with her thumbs, a shudder rumbling between the two as he rested his hands against her hips, squeeing them in acknowledgment.

"Don't say sorry. You know I don't want to hear you say that. I am your partner and I love you and I am always here for you." she pressed.

"Even during the bad?" he asked bashfully. He knew the answer but he wanted to double check

"Especially during the bad." she said sternly. "You got that?" she nudged her chin.

"Yes." he hummed.

-

Her legs dangled off the countertop as he stood in between her parted legs, and boy, did he fit perfectly there. They smiled at one another as he took a sip of the hot chocolate she had made him.

Extra mini marshmallows because they didn't have the big ones. Y/n even dusted coco powder on top for the full affect making Evan smile happily.

"Best hot chocolate. Ever." he mused as he took a big gulp.

Y/n took a sip from her mug and beamed up at him through her lashes- placing the mug down onto the counter. "Feeling better?" she wanted to know.

Evan sighed, nodding his head slowly before placing his mug down so he could snake his arms around her waist and pull her into him. "Yes." he hummed. "Thank you.

"Always." she said lowly, placing her lips against his Adams apple. he groaned against her lips causing her to smile against his heated skin.

"What would I do without you?" he said aloud as he looked down at her before placing his lips against her softly.

"Not have the worlds best hot chocolate" she pointed.