#and yet my suffering is insurmountable

[ash-and-starlight]

making a comic moodboard

[ot3]

So badly I wish you guys could see the ace attorney fanfictions that exist in my head

[novaursa]

The Searing Flame

- Summary: Rook's Rest broke you and Aegon both. But it didn't separate you. And Stranger, it appears, has other plans for you.

- Paring: reader (twin!wife)/Aegon II

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N and is bonded with dragon Starfyre. Reader's and Aegon's children are mentioned. If you want to read all parts in chronological order, check out my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+ (just comfort)

- Word count: 4 078

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The smell of herbs and poultices fills the chamber, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood that lingers in the air. You can hear the crackle of the hearth, its warmth reaching only the foot of the grand bed where you and your brother-husband, King Aegon II, lie side by side. The once-magnificent room is now a haven of convalescence, the drapery muted and the furniture pushed aside to make room for the needs of the infirm.

Your body aches with a dull, persistent pain that pulses with every breath you take. The effort of sitting upright in the bed is monumental, and the bowl of broth before you seems an insurmountable challenge. The spoon trembles in your hand, the mere act of lifting it exhausting. You glance at Aegon, who watches you with furrowed brows and tense lips, his gaze burning with worry that he cannot hide.

"She struggles with every bite, Orwyle," Aegon states, his voice rough with the lingering pain of his own injuries. His piercing eyes lock onto the Grand Maester, who stands nearby with a face of forced calm. "You must do something about it."

Orwyle shifts uncomfortably, the weight of the king's command heavy upon him. "Your Grace, I have done all that is within my power," he responds cautiously. "The potions and elixirs I've administered should ease her pain, and the fact that the internal bleeding appears to have stopped is a promising sign. But… it is difficult to determine the full extent of the damage. Her body is still fragile, and the healing process is slow."

Aegon huffs, the sound more pained than frustrated, as he fights to push himself up on the bed. His burns throb, and his broken hip sends sharp stabs of agony through his side, yet he ignores it with grim determination. He refuses to let his own suffering deter him from helping you. He inches closer, his face etched with the effort of movement.

"That is not enough," Aegon growls, the intensity in his voice betraying the depths of his fear. He grits his teeth, the motion tugging at the scarred skin of his face. "She needs more than promises and half-answers, Orwyle."

The Grand Maester bows his head, his lips pressed thin. "I understand, Your Grace. I will continue to monitor her condition closely. If there is any change, I will be the first to act. But for now, the best I can advise is rest and sustenance, as much as she can tolerate."

Aegon’s gaze flickers back to you, his eyes softening despite the pain that etches deep lines into his features. He reaches out, his hand trembling as it hovers near yours. The sight of your struggle to eat tears at him, and he can’t bear the thought of you suffering more than you already have.

“Here,” he says, his voice gentler now, laced with the tenderness that he shows only to you. He braces himself as he takes the spoon from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours. The contact is brief, but it sends a warmth through him that no fire could match. With great care, he dips the spoon into the broth and lifts it to your lips.

You try to take the spoonful, but your stomach rebels, a wave of nausea washing over you. You force yourself to swallow, the taste turning to ash in your mouth. Aegon notices the grimace you try to hide and his expression darkens with concern.

“Easy, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice soothing despite the tightness in his throat. “Small sips. I’ll help you.”

You meet his gaze, seeing the pain and determination reflected there, and you nod weakly. You know he suffers as much as you do, perhaps more, for he carries not only his own pain but the weight of his love for you. His hand trembles slightly as he brings another spoonful to your lips, and this time you manage to keep it down.

He stays close, ignoring his own agony, focusing entirely on you. Each movement costs him, but he hides it as best he can, his only thought to ease your suffering. He coaxes you to take another sip, and then another, until the bowl is nearly empty. The strain is evident in his features, but the small victories — each spoonful you manage to swallow — give him strength.

Orwyle watches in silence, his face betraying a flicker of admiration for the king’s devotion. He knows better than to offer more words; they would be hollow compared to the actions unfolding before him. The love between the two of you is a force that no wound, no scar, can diminish.

Finally, when you can take no more, Aegon sets the bowl aside, his breath ragged from the exertion. He settles back onto the pillows beside you, his hand still lingering near yours as if he cannot bear to be apart from you. He closes his eyes, his chest rising and falling with the effort of merely breathing, but a faint smile tugs at his lips.

“We will get through this, Y/N,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “I will not lose you. Not to wounds, not to fate.”

His words are a promise, one he intends to keep no matter the cost. And as you both lie there, battered and broken but together, you feel a flicker of hope kindle in your heart. The road to recovery will be long, and the scars will never fully fade, but with Aegon by your side, you believe you might survive the storm.

The corridors of the Red Keep are dim, the flickering light from torches casting long shadows along the stone walls as Grand Maester Orwyle makes his way to the private chambers of Dowager Queen Alicent. His heart is heavy with the weight of the news he must deliver, and his footsteps are slow, as though he wishes to delay the inevitable conversation.

When he reaches the door, he pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts before rapping softly on the wood. A moment later, the door swings open, and Alicent, her face lined with worry and exhaustion, beckons him inside.

“What news, Orwyle?” Alicent asks immediately, her voice strained with the tension of too many sleepless nights and too many fears unspoken. She gestures for him to sit, but he remains standing, his expression grave.

“Your Grace,” he begins, bowing his head slightly, “I bring some news from the King and Queen’s chamber. Queen Y/N managed to eat today, with great effort.”

Alicent’s breath catches, and her eyes shine with unshed tears. The relief that floods her is palpable, her shoulders sagging slightly as if a great weight has been lifted from them. She clasps her hands together, pressing them to her chest as a sob escapes her lips.

“Thank the gods,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Thank the gods… I feared the worst…”

Orwyle allows her a moment to savor the relief, though his expression does not soften. The moment is bittersweet, and he knows it will not last long. Alicent’s joy is short-lived, for the maester’s next words are as heavy as iron.

“Your Grace… I must also speak of something more… delicate.” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I believe it would be wise to consider… separating the King and Queen into separate chambers.”

Alicent’s head snaps up, her eyes widening in shock and disbelief. The mere suggestion seems absurd, even cruel, and she stares at Orwyle as though he’s gone mad.

“Separate them?” she repeats, her voice rising in incredulity. “You would have them suffer the torment of being apart? Even for a moment? They are all that each other has—how can you suggest such a thing?”

Orwyle’s face remains impassive, but there is a deep sadness in his eyes as he continues. “Your Grace, I do not suggest this lightly. I know how much they depend on one another, how their bond has sustained them through these trials. But… it is precisely because of that bond that I suggest this course of action.”

Alicent’s hand grips the armrest of her chair, her knuckles white with the force of her anger. The thought of her daughter and son being parted is abhorrent to her. She shakes her head vehemently.

“No, Orwyle. I will not allow it. To separate them now, when they are both so gravely injured… It would be a death sentence for them both. They will suffer more from being apart than from any physical wound.”

The Grand Maester bows his head, knowing what he must say next will only cause her further anguish. “Your Grace, I fear… Queen Y/N’s condition may be more dire than we hoped. While the internal bleeding appears to have stopped, her body is still fragile. She struggles with every breath, every movement, and I cannot be certain that she will recover.”

Alicent’s breath hitches, and she stares at Orwyle with dawning horror. The implication of his words sinks in like a stone dropping into a dark pool, sending ripples of dread through her. “You… you think she will die,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Orwyle does not answer immediately, but the silence speaks volumes. Alicent’s eyes fill with tears, but they are no longer tears of relief. They are tears of rage, of sorrow, and of fear for her children.

“You want to separate them,” she chokes out, her voice shaking with emotion, “so that Aegon doesn’t wake up to find his sister dead beside him.”

The accusation hangs in the air, sharp and cutting. Orwyle winces, but he does not deny it. “Your Grace… it would be an act of mercy,” he says quietly. “If the worst were to happen… it might spare the King the pain of that moment. And it would allow the Queen to… to pass peacefully, without causing her brother-husband further torment.”

Alicent rises from her seat, her tears forgotten as fury takes hold. “Mercy?” she spits the word as though it is poison. “You would take my daughter from her husband, from her twin, and put her in some cold, lonely room to die alone? You would have her pass without the comfort of his presence, without the warmth of his hand in hers?”

Her voice rises, her grief fueling her anger. “I will not allow it! She will not die alone, cast aside like some… some useless thing! She is the Queen, and she is Aegon’s other half! He would never forgive himself if he were not with her in her final moments—if those moments come at all!”

Orwyle bows his head, accepting her wrath without protest. He knows she is right in her own way, that separating the twins could do as much harm as good. But he also knows the toll that the Queen’s death would take on the King if it were to happen in such a manner.

“Your Grace,” he says softly, “I only wish to spare them both as much pain as possible. But I will not act without your consent.”

Alicent’s chest heaves with the effort of containing her emotions. She closes her eyes, struggling to find some measure of composure. When she speaks again, her voice is steadier, though the pain in it is unmistakable.

“You will do no such thing, Orwyle. They will stay together, as they have always been. If my daughter… if she is to die, then let her die with her husband beside her. And if Aegon is to lose her, then let him be there, holding her, as he deserves.”

Orwyle inclines his head in a gesture of respect. “As you wish, Your Grace. I will see to it that their care continues as it has been.”

Alicent nods, her eyes still filled with unshed tears. “Leave me,” she says quietly, and the Grand Maester obeys, bowing once more before retreating from the room.

When he is gone, Alicent sinks back into her chair, the strength drained from her limbs. She buries her face in her hands, and at last, the tears she has been holding back flow freely. The thought of losing her daughter, of watching her son suffer such a devastating blow, is more than she can bear.

But she will not let them be parted. Not now. Not ever.

In the dim, flickering light of the chamber, the Dowager Queen weeps, her heart breaking for the children she has always tried so hard to protect, knowing that in this, there is no protection she can offer.

The chamber is steeped in a comforting silence, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. The warmth it offers is gentle, a stark contrast to the coldness that lingers in your bones. The ache in your body has dulled slightly, allowing you to lie beside Aegon without the overwhelming need to close your eyes against the pain. His presence beside you, the steady rise and fall of his chest, brings a sense of peace that you haven’t felt in what seems like an eternity.

Aegon is quiet as well, though you can feel the tension in him, the way his body lies rigid against the soft pillows. You turn your head to look at him, your eyes heavy with exhaustion. He meets your gaze, and you see the flicker of something in his eyes — a sorrow, a fear that he hasn’t voiced yet. He studies your face with an intensity that makes your breath catch, and you notice the way his brow furrows slightly, as though he is searching for something.

His gaze lingers on your cheeks, and a small, sad smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "Your cheeks… they've regained some color," he murmurs, his voice hushed as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile peace between you. "But… you still look like a ghost, Y/N. A beautiful ghost… but a ghost all the same."

You try to smile, but the effort is too much, and you settle for a soft sigh. "It’s been a hard few weeks," you say gently, your voice a whisper, nearly lost in the crackle of the fire.

Aegon nods, his eyes drifting down to where your hand rests on the coverlet. His fingers move slowly, aching as they intertwine with yours. For a moment, he simply holds your hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. The warmth of his touch spreads through you, but it’s the sadness in his eyes that draws your attention, the way his jaw tightens as though he’s holding something back.

Then, without warning, his composure cracks. A choked sob escapes his lips, and his shoulders tremble as the tears start to fall. He tries to hide it, turning his face into the pillow, but you feel the tremor in his grip, the way his breathing becomes uneven.

"Aegon," you whisper, squeezing his hand, trying to offer what little comfort you can. "What’s wrong?"

He shakes his head, but the sobs keep coming, his pain spilling out in a way that he can no longer control. His voice, when he finally speaks, is thick with grief and fear. "I… I’m terrified, Y/N," he admits, his words broken by the weight of his emotions. "I’m terrified that I may never be able to… to make love to you again."

The admission hangs in the air between you, raw and vulnerable. You feel a pang in your heart, not for yourself, but for him, for the fear that drives his tears. You know that your bodies have been broken, that the road to recovery is uncertain, and that the intimacy you once shared might never be the same. But to hear it from him, to know how deeply it troubles him, cuts deeper than any physical wound.

You reach up with your free hand, your fingers trembling as they brush against his cheek, wiping away the tears that have gathered there. "Aegon," you say softly, "that isn’t what’s important. What matters is that we’re here, together. As long as we have each other… that’s all that truly matters."

He shakes his head again, his tears flowing more freely now. "But it is important, Y/N," he insists, his voice breaking. "It’s important to me. I… I want to hold you the way I used to, to love you the way I always have. I’m terrified that… that I won’t be able to do that anymore, that we’ll lose that part of us."

You feel his anguish as though it’s your own, and your heart aches for him. His fear is more than just about physical intimacy; it’s about the connection that you’ve shared since birth, the bond that has always been a source of strength for both of you. You know that in his mind, the loss of that connection is tied to the loss of something even greater — the fear that the bond between you might weaken, that the love you share might fade in the face of your suffering.

You tighten your grip on his hand, your resolve hardening. "Aegon, listen to me," you say, your voice steady despite the exhaustion that pulls at you. "We have faced dragons, battles, and betrayals together. We’ve been through hell, and yet, here we are. That connection we share, it’s not something that can be broken by this, by anything. We’re more than just our bodies. Our love is stronger than that."

He looks at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and hope. "But what if… what if I’m not strong enough? What if…"

"Then we’ll find our way together," you interrupt, your voice firm. "It doesn’t matter how. We’ll heal, Aegon. Maybe not in the way we were before, but we’ll heal. And we’ll find new ways to love each other, new ways to be close. We will not lose each other."

Aegon’s sobs quiet, though the tears still streak down his cheeks. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, the closeness offering a comfort that words cannot. "I don’t want to lose you," he whispers, his voice barely audible, trembling with the depth of his emotions.

"You won’t," you promise, your voice soft but filled with conviction. "We’ll get through this, Aegon."

He nods, though the fear still lingers in his eyes. But there is a glimmer of something else now, something that wasn’t there before — a fragile hope, a belief that maybe, just maybe, you’ll find a way to survive this, too.

The aftermath of Rook's Rest still haunts you after many weeks, lingering in the air like the scent of charred flesh. The pain has not lessened, not truly, but you have grown accustomed to it, learned to live with the ache in your bones, the memories that sear through your mind as vividly as dragonfire. Aegon remains bedridden, his hip shattered, but his burns are healing, the flesh knitting together in agonizing slowness. You, too, bear your scars—though less visible, they are no less severe. The Seven have seen fit to keep you alive, and for that, you are grateful. You tell yourself that over and over again, especially on the nights when the pain becomes too much to bear.

Despite the grim prognosis given by the maesters, you manage to rise each day, your limbs heavy as if laden with chains, yet you rise all the same. Aegon watches you with those familiar violet eyes, a mixture of awe and frustration in his gaze as you shuffle to his side, determined to care for him as much as he has for you. He hates to see you struggle, hates the reminder of how close he came to losing you, but there is nothing to be done about it. You are still here, and so is he, and that is enough.

“Y/N,” Aegon murmurs as you approach, his voice low and rough, as if the words themselves cause him pain. He tries to sit up, grimacing as the movement sends a jolt of agony through his hip. You are quick to place a gentle hand on his chest, urging him to stay still.

“Let me,” you say softly, reaching for the bandages that need changing. The scent of salves and ointments fills the room, mingling with the ever-present smell of smoke that seems to cling to your skin no matter how many times you bathe.

Aegon huffs out a breath, frustrated but compliant. “You shouldn’t be doing this,” he grumbles, though there is no true heat in his words. “You need rest as much as I do.”

“I need to be useful,” you reply, unwrapping the old bandages with careful fingers. “And there is no one else I trust with this.”

Aegon falls silent, watching you with a mixture of concern and affection. The truth is, he needs this too—the closeness, the reassurance that you are both still here, still fighting. The loss of your sons weighs heavily on both of you, their absence a gaping wound that refuses to heal. And then there are the dragons—Sunfyre and Starfyre, once magnificent and untouchable, now grounded by wounds that mirror your own.

“How is she?” Aegon asks quietly as you tend to him. “Starfyre?”

You pause, your hand lingering on his shoulder. “She heals, slowly. As we all do.”

Aegon’s eyes flicker with something akin to hope. “Perhaps, when this is all over…”

You nod, understanding what he cannot bring himself to say. When this is all over, when the blood has stopped spilling and the war is won—if such a thing is even possible—perhaps then you will find a way to live again, to reclaim some semblance of the life you once knew. But for now, that future remains distant, an unreachable dream.

A knock at the door draws your attention, and you glance over your shoulder to see Alicent standing in the doorway, her expression weary yet relieved as she takes in the sight of her children together. She enters the room with careful steps, as if afraid of disturbing the fragile peace that has settled over you both.

“My Queen,�� Alicent greets you, her voice soft. “How do you fare today?”

“I manage,” you reply, offering her a small smile. “As does Aegon.”

Alicent’s gaze shifts to her son, her eyes softening with maternal concern. “You look better today,” she notes, her tone hopeful.

Aegon snorts, though it’s more self-deprecating than anything. “I look less like a corpse, you mean.”

“Hush,” you chide gently, though you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “Mother is only trying to help.”

Alicent’s lips press together in a thin line as she surveys the two of you, her heartache palpable. “I wish there were more I could do,” she says quietly. “For both of you.”

“You are here,” you reply, reaching out to take her hand in yours. “That is enough.”

Alicent squeezes your hand, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I pray to the Seven every day, for yourstrength, for your healing.”

You nod, though your thoughts drift to darker places. The prayers of the faithful have done little to save your children, your dragons. The thought claws at your insides, a bitter resentment that you can never quite quell.

“Do you think she will ever pay for what she’s done?” you ask suddenly, your voice barely above a whisper. “For the deaths of our sons, for breaking our bodies and our dragons?”

Aegon stiffens beneath your touch, his jaw clenching as the old rage flares anew. Alicent’s eyes widen slightly, but she does not shy away from your question.

“Rhaenyra will answer for her crimes,” Aegon says, his voice hard as steel. “She will burn for what she has taken from us.”

The words hang heavy in the air, a promise, a vow that neither of you can afford to break. Alicent bows her head, as if in prayer, and you feel the weight of your shared grief pressing down on you once more.

But in that moment, with Aegon’s hand resting over yours and Alicent standing beside you, you also feel a flicker of something else—a determination, a resolve to see this through to the bitter end. You will survive this, together, and one day, Rhaenyra will pay for the blood she has spilled. The Seven have kept you alive for a reason, and you intend to see it fulfilled.

[randomdragonfires]

Moon Song | One Shot

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He killed Lucerys, but Aemond sees the ghost of his nephew wherever he goes - especially in his sweet wife's eyes.

WARNINGS | 18+; Smut; ANGST; Delusions; Incest; Dark Themes; Kinslaying; DD;DNE!

WORD COUNT | 6.6k

A/N | Originally written as a birthday gift for @humanpurposes. Nothing says happy birthday like a dark fic about madness and murder I guess? :)

RAIN-SOAKED AND WEARY, AEMOND TRUDGES THROUGH the murky streets of King's Landing, his cold and damp riding leathers offering no respite. Each step echoes with the haunting images of Vhagar's reckless attack on Luke, the small, agonizing details etched into his mind like a deep carving. The city, shrouded in an eerie mist, seems to mourn his nephew in silent empathy.

A scared face. The cracking of jaws. The sight of Arrax’s wing flapping aimlessly down into the sea. Luke, falling free through the skies…

The Red Keep looms ahead, its imposing towers piercing the darkened sky. Aemond ascends the ancient stone steps in silence, his solitude a curtain shrouding the tempest raging within him. The guards watch him cautiously, sensing the palpable storm that accompanies the one-eyed Prince’s return. As he passes, the torches on the wall flicker, casting grotesque shadows that dance along the corridor walls.

Entering the shared chambers, Aemond's presence goes unnoticed at first. His wife awaits him, her gaze filled with a mixture of concern and anticipation as she sits at the edge of the bed, finding his gaze and immediately making note of his distress. He can feel her scrutiny, her eyes seeking answers he isn't ready to give. With how disappointed she may be, he is not sure that he’ll ever want her to know. But he knows she must, and that he’d rather it come from him than anyone else.

Words remain unspoken as Aemond, drenched and disheveled, closes the distance between them. She hasn’t moved, holding onto him by the waist as he encloses his cold hands onto the back of her head, finding some semblance of comfort in the warmth of her hair. His wife's face softened, ready to welcome him, oblivious to his guilt and agony. In the silence that hung thick in the air, he braced himself for the storm about to engulf their world.

“You’re cold, Aemond. Let me find you something warm to wear,” she says. He doesn’t let her leave him; he will not let her leave him, ever. In heavy times like these, he’s always quite liked having her to hold - and right now, it seems like she understands it just as well as she always does. She is a part of him, made to be by his side.

She’s my twin. She is mine. Her place is by my side, and nobody else’s!

He remembers the words. It was the night he had come to, after his eye had been slashed out. The marriage pact had been brokered in the aftermath, a compensation for the losses suffered. His nephew's tantrum and those venomous words had sown the seeds of a bitter possession, one that manifested in the subtle manipulative gestures that followed.

He had reveled in taunting Luke, relishing in the knowledge that he had triumphed over his nephew in more ways than one. Aemond had married his niece, a Princess of Targaryen blood, a strategic move with which he had alleviated the stain of bastardy off of her. He’d spend years taunting Luke over his wins, and he’d finally taken his life too. And now, his wife was about to cast him aside for it. 

As he confessed to his wife, his eye, haunted by the accident, bore into hers, seeking understanding, pleading for empathy. The air grew dense, the chasm between them widening like an insurmountable abyss, a reflection of the irreversible consequences that now consumed them. 

I need you to believe me.

In the flicker of candlelight, hope clung to Aemond like a shadow, a desperate desire for his wife to see beyond the tragedy. Yet, her features twisted in disbelief, mirroring the horror within him. He had not expected any less, but to see it happen is like a dagger twisting in his heart.

He’s losing her. He cannot lose her. As she tries to draw away, he lets desperation take over him. He would be damned if he let her slip away over something that he did not mean to happen. 

His grip on her tightens to the point of choking, her eyes widening as she realizes that she is trapped. Not just in his hold, but in this marriage with a man that would stop at nothing, and is not even above killing family to survive. How long before he kills me too, she probably thinks. 

He longs to assure her that he wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head, but she is angry. She does not want to hear from him, so he will settle for her forced presence for now. Surely she’ll see. He cannot bear for her to look scared and fearful - she looks too much like her twin when she does. The last thing Aemond needs is to be reminded of him. 

Her sobs soak through his already damp clothes. She tries to push him away, but he is like a never-ending nightmare - the more she tries, the tighter his hold becomes, refusing to give her the solitude she craves. He wants to, he is simply scared - what if she never chooses to welcome him again?

Why?

His touch, once a source of comfort, now repulses her, but he remains oblivious to her inner turmoil. In the midst of her agony, he lowers her gently onto the bed, attempting to offer solace through caresses and kisses, unaware that his touch has become a reminder, a brand of her brother's murderer. She refuses to believe that it was an accident, and he is further pained at the dark realization that he may not be above killing her if she tries to betray and leave him over this. After all, if he cannot have her, no one else will.

"Stay with me, wife. Stay with me, and you will be kept alive and safe.” Try to leave me, and you will not live to see the next sunrise. 

The unspoken threat hangs in the air, a chilling promise that holds its own through his silence and her sobs. She closes her eyes, her unease palpable, a fear of the man she shares her bed and heart with. Aemond, too, watches her drift away, inch by agonizing inch, knowing he will have to learn to endure. He’ll have to, if her place is by Aemond’s side - and the day he married her, he’d solidified that.

What he won’t quite get used to is realizing how much like Luke she looks in fear, and how her eyes make it seem as though he is boring into his nephew’s instead. The resemblance unnerves him as he is taken back to the skies of Storm’s End in his mind once again - Luke had looked just as fearful for his life in his last moments. She is a reminder of what he’s done, of the half of her who is now lost.

How could he have expected that his own living, breathing wife would haunt him so?

THE LIBRARY IS CLOAKED IN A HUSHED DARKNESS as Aemond buries himself in his book, the words flying over his head as he tries to comprehend them. The oppressive silence of the night presses upon him, mirroring the strain in his heart. His worry for his wife weighs heavily on his mind, a persistent ache that refuses to be ignored. She has withdrawn from him, choosing silence over conversation, and the void between them grows deeper with each passing day.

In dreams, Luke sits atop his fledgling dragon, looking at him with a somber expression that makes him appear at peace. They are in the skies of Storm’s End again, only this time, neither of them is involved in a chase. They face each other, and each time, Luke talks, and Aemond seems to have no choice but to listen.

This did not have to happen, uncle, he would say. You could have let me live.

Every time, he wakes and resists the urge to slam his fists and pull his spun silver hair out as he wills the fragments of Lucerys to leave him be. He had initially blamed the shock, but even as he gains his bearings, the visions, dreams, and voices only seem to become louder, stronger, and sharper. It would seem that the more desensitized and ready to face war he becomes, the more his nephew insists on haunting him - reminding him that he is no war god, but simply a boy forced to grow into a man too soon.

This did not have to happen, uncle. You made a terrible mistake.

“Leave me in peace bastard, be gone!” He would scream as he slams his fist into the table and sends parchment flying. 

Aemond's torment continues unabated, the ghost of Luke lingering in every corner of his life, a silent spirit that refuses to be exorcized. Late at night, as Aemond lies in bed, he catches glimpses of Luke's face in the shadows that dance on the walls, his eyes hauntingly fixed upon him. The weight of his gaze bears down on Aemond's soul, making sleep an elusive and tormenting escape.

In the courtyard, where the echoes of laughter resound, Aemond finds himself frozen in place, the air heavy with Luke's presence. The wind carries whispers that seem to be the soft murmur of Luke's voice, leaving Aemond questioning his sanity. He can almost feel Luke's hand on his shoulder, a touch that sends shivers down his spine and leaves him grasping at the emptiness.

During war strategy sessions, Aemond's mind plays cruel tricks on him. As he pores over maps of wargrounds and fortified keeps, Luke's reflection materializes beside him, scrutinizing terrains with an otherworldly knowledge. Aemond's fingers tremble as he traces the borders, half-expecting Luke to offer his uninvited and foolish insights, but the silence remains.

In the Great Hall, where feasts were once lively celebrations, Aemond finds himself unable to escape the ghostly presence. The sound of revelry - that Aegon insists upon as they celebrate Luke’s death - becomes a haunting cacophony, and he can almost hear Luke's laughter intermingling with the echoes of those who celebrate his demise. Aemond often finds himself raising his goblet in a futile toast, the wine swirling like a macabre dance, mirroring the torment within him.

Even in the solace of nature, where one would hope to find peace, Aemond can't escape the ghostly reminders. Trees cast shadows that resemble Luke's silhouette as Aemond and Vhagar fly overhead, and the chilly air seems to whisper secrets that he strains to understand.

As he closes the book, a phantom chill creeps into the room. A sense of unease claws at him as he tries to erase the recollections from mind, as though doing so would remove the occurrences altogether. The chilly night air outside intensifies, causing the candle flame to dance wildly before it sputters and extinguishes with a subtle hiss. Aemond dismisses the notion, attributing it to a mere draft, and turns away from the now darkened candle.

As he turns, his reflection in the ornate mirror catches his eye, but instead of his own weary countenance, the mirror unveils the ghostly image of Luke. Aemond's breath catches in his throat as he stares into the haunted eyes of his nephew. The dim light casts an eerie glow on his ethereal almost-figure, and the air in the library seems charged with an otherworldly energy. The weight of guilt and the eerie manifestations converged, leaving Aemond paralyzed in the haunting stillness of the library, caught between the realms of the living and the departed.

"This did not have to happen, uncle," Luke's voice carries a weight of unspoken sorrow, each word etched with the regret of an untimely departure. The ghostly echoes linger in the air, weaving through the ancient shelves of books that stand as silent witnesses to this mad exchange.

Aemond - his breath catching in his throat - struggles to find the right response. The weight of guilt presses upon him as he gazes into Luke, dazed. The regret, palpable and suffocating, threatens to consume him. Luke lingers, a reminder of all his irreversible choices. Caught in the grip of the moment, Aemond feels a lump forming in his throat. "I never wanted it to end this way," he whispers, his voice tinged with regret that he would never have admitted to feeling if he hadn't had to voice it out loud. 

"You made a terrible mistake," Luke's voice echoes, the accusatory tone cutting through the oppressive silence of the library. 

Aemond's eye meets the hollow gaze of his nephew. "I am aware, and I am burdened by it… by you." He confesses, the weight of guilt hanging heavily upon him. Memories of happier days in his marriage pass his mind, and he is once again left with the gnawing pain of not knowing if she will ever seek him out again. Is he going to be made to live with this chasm between them forever? How could she live without him?

And immediately, as thoughts of his sweet wife cross his mind, the image of Luke transforms into when he was much younger, his curls a lot more prominent and his face a bit more round. He says the words again, the same words that Aemond had heard him say about his marriage - and it is all he can do to not fall apart. "She's my twin. She is mine. Her place is by my side, and nobody else's!" Luke's words resonated in the stillness, each repetition intensifying the haunting atmosphere.

The air crackles with unresolved tension as the words loop, a haunting refrain that refuses to fade. Each spoken phrase intertwines with the musty scent of ancient books, filling the room with a lingering sense of melancholy. As the words pass through the room, the library stands witness to the unfolding chaos. Dust motes, disturbed by the weight of the conversation, hang suspended in the air like transient memories. The ambient firelight, filtered through the stained glass windows, casts a surreal glow on the troubled face of a man who desperately tries to escape the consequences of his actions. The words create ripples in the stillness of the library, a transient disturbance.

His fists clench, and with a roar of frustration, he lashes out at the mirror. The impact shatters the haunting reflection, the fractured pieces falling like a cascade of broken memories. Aemond, panting and wild-eyed, stares at the shattered remnants of the mirror as drops of his blood stain them all an angry, bloody red.

ON A DARK, EERIE MORNING, Aemond decides he will seek refuge in combat training with Cole. The rhythmic clash of steel on steel promises a momentary escape from the haunting of his tormented mind. In these fleeting moments, he clings to the hope that the precision demanded by the dance of death will anchor his thoughts, keeping them disciplined and resolute.

But the training ground transforms, and the air shimmers with the echoes of unsheathed swords. In the midst of training, Luke materializes. The world blurs as Aemond's gaze locks onto his nephew's phantom form, the arrogance etched upon his face mirroring the smirk that haunts him. A tempest of confusion descends, and in the blink of an eye, he lunges forward, sword clashing against an illusion.

Reality slips away, and he finds himself ensnared in a mirage - a realm where the dead dance with the living, taunting them with all they have left. In the throbbing aftermath, the truth bears down on him like a relentless storm.

He killed him. The admission echoes in the hollow chambers of his conscience, overtaking him completely. The clash of blades morphs into a funeral dirge, and as he stands amidst the lingering consequences of his actions, the training ground transforms into a graveyard of memories. The air hangs heavy with the scent of remorse, and the phantom of Luke lingers, a silent witness to the torment that now possesses Aemond.

How he wills for his nephew to leave him alone. How he wishes he could turn back time, to a day when his wife was happy with him, when he was not the object of repulsion in her eyes. How he wishes she would welcome him with open arms again...

But why would she, uncle? Why would she, when you have slain her twin and taken me away from her? Her true other half?

He swings his sword once more, the blade cutting through the air with a desperate force. Each slash is a fervent plea, hoping that the slashes would tear up the ghost of his bastard nephew to ribbons that fly away with the wind. Even in death, his nephew is a stain on his life that refuses to let him live in peace. First his eye, now his wife.

Her place is by my side, uncle. And by killing me, you only reminded her of that.

The echoes of Luke's haunting words reverberate through the empty training ground, as Aemond battles not only the illusions before him but also the relentless demons within. The weight of his actions, the echoes of his nephew's voice, and the damning truth merge into a haunting symphony that accompanies each swing of his sword, forming an enemy much more dangerous than the Blacks that he’d sworn to kill.

The air is thick with the acrid scent of remorse. Aemond's movements become more desperate, as if trying to carve out a safe haven from the phantoms that encircle him. The blade slices through him, yet Luke's voice persists, an unyielding reminder of the havoc wrought upon not just his life but everyone’s around him.

Amidst his violent dance with illusions, Aemond longs for the solace that has eluded him since that fateful day at Storm's End. His sword becomes an extension of his anguish, a vessel through which he hopes to banish the nightmares that torment his every waking moment. The words resonate, mocking his attempts to escape the repercussions of his actions.

Aemond's grip tightens on the hilt of the sword, the struggle etched across his face as he battles the intangible. The illusion persists, refusing to be vanquished, a testament to the indomitable force of guilt and regret.

He lowers his sword and the ghostly echoes of Luke's voice linger. The training ground falls silent, a wave of unresolved grief as Aemond grapples with the realization that, even in death, his nephew remains an inescapable presence in the twisted tapestry of his existence.

Luke smiles once more, and Aemond slams the tip of his sword into the gravel, watching it fall to the side as he screams. Luke’s reflection is a sharp image on his blade, but when he looks up, the ground is empty, save for a worried mentor that watches him from the side. What must he do to gain solitude again?

The air in the training ground seems to thicken further as Aemond walks away to put his sword aside. The haunting memories of his past misdeeds cling to him like a shroud, and the distant echoes of Luke's words continue to reverberate in his mind. The once-familiar grounds feel like a journey through a desolate and forsaken landscape as he somehow registers the distant sounds of Cole calling out his name in worry.

As Aemond picks up the sheath, he senses an eerie silence enveloping the surroundings. The wind carries whispers of his regrets, and the atmosphere is charged with an unsettling energy. He looks up to see his wife standing at one of the windows, her gaze fixed on a seemingly endless point beyond the horizon. The pain of a fractured marriage weighs heavily on his shoulders, and his arrogance, once a shield, now crumbles under the weight of remorse.

Their eyes meet, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. He reads the emptiness in her eyes, an emptiness that reflects the void he has created between them. Aemond's heart sinks, realizing that his mistakes have irreparably damaged the bond he once took for granted. The echo of Luke's haunting voice intertwines with the desolation that surrounds him.

She is his, but he does not want to have her like this; unwilling. Unable to withstand the haunting gaze, Aemond turns away. The clang of metal against metal resonates in the air as he sheathed his sword. The once-sharp blade now feels heavy, burdened with the weight of his own sins.

Before he leaves, compelled by an unseen force, Aemond looks up at the tower once more. But this time, it is not his wife who meets his gaze. Instead, the window frames the ghostly figure of Luke, staring back with fear etched on his face. Before he can further contemplate the vision, she is right there again, looking away. With the many sightings of Luke that he is subjected to, Aemond is not fazed anymore. But he is once more reminded of how similar his nephew and wife look in fear. He does not like seeing her this way.

A shiver courses down Aemond's spine as his gaze meets the ghostly visage of his nephew. Before he can avert his eyes, the apparition transforms into his wife, each manifestation carrying an accusing, sorrowful, and frightened expression. The visions alternate with unsettling speed, a haunting dance where Luke and his wife exchange places in the blink of an eye. 

Aemond is unnerved by the rapidity with which the pair appears almost indistinguishable, their features blending into an eerie resemblance that sends chills through his soul. The accusatory eyes of Luke and the sorrowful gaze of his wife interchange with a disorienting fluidity, leaving Aemond trapped in a whirlwind of regret, fear, and a gnawing sense of the uncanny.

He walks away, steps definitive and terror-struck as he steps into the tower. The silence is deafening, broken only by the echoes of regrets and the distant wind. Aemond, haunted by the consequences of his actions, contemplates the surreal encounter. The armor-laden grounds, once a place of training, now serve as the stage for the haunting manifestations of his past. The ghost of Luke remains and so does his remembrance of a happier wife - who, for reasons he cannot fathom, reminds him of his biggest mistake. A constant reminder that redemption may be forever out of reach.

THE WORD HOLDS TOO MUCH EMOTION than he can bear to pour into his voice, but he says it all the same.

“Wife.”

As Aemond approaches her, he takes in the sight of her, a weak vision of House Strong's distinct features marked by dark hair and blue eyes. The vibrant happiness that once defined her has been replaced by weariness, one that seems to have settled into the very core of her being.

Her brown hair, once a shiny cascade, now hangs in loose tendrils, lacking the luster it once possessed. The dim light highlights her fatigue, revealing the toll that the sorrow of losing her brother has taken on her. The lines etched upon her face speak of countless nights spent wrestling nightmares and the strain of unanswered questions. Her eyes, once bright and expressive, now carry a perpetual sadness and seem to bear the weight of all her losses.

Does she grieve for them too? For their marriage? For him and all the time they’ve lost?

As Aemond gathers the courage to approach, he can't help but feel a pang of regret for the role he played in casting this shadow over the woman he once knew and still loves. The air around her seems heavy with declarations unmade, the room echoing with the quiet desperation of a fractured connection that he is grasping at to mend. Aemond, yearning for reconciliation, steels himself to bridge the gap that has grown between them, hoping to heal not just their relationship, but her as well. 

She turns to look at him, the faint moonlight from the window hitting her face as she assesses the man that stands before her. Not her husband, no - Aemond knows how she looked at him when she loved him. Now she simply stares through him, understanding that it’s her brother’s killer that she is facing. He doesn’t know what hurts him more - her grief, or her cluelessness. 

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t walk away either, empowering him to take a few steps further. He reaches out to her and takes her hand, and smiles by the corner of his lips when she doesn’t grab her hand back. 

“Are you… well?”

The idiocy of the question while he sees how tired she is does not escape him, but in all honesty, she has him tongue-tied. Aemond has missed her touch, and simply getting to hold her hand again has set a fire ablaze in him that he cannot seem to quell.

“As well as one can be, considering the circumstances.”

Time stands still as he takes in the sound of her voice, hoarse from not having said much in a long while. His mother tries with her, but even the Queen can’t make his grief-stricken wife budge - she would stay until she couldn’t, leaving his wife to her thoughts. What could she say to make things better anyhow?  I’m sorry my son killed your brother? I’m sorry you’re caught in a war that is not of your making? I’m sorry you cannot look at your husband with anything but disdain?

He is rendered well and truly silent as he tries to measure her feelings, but she beats him to it as she speaks again - addressing the elephant in the room as quickly as she is able. “Are you here to apologize for murdering my brother?”

“It was an accident.”

He knows he shouldn’t be arguing, but what was he to do? He’d let the world speak cruelly of him and brand him a kinslayer, but he cannot have his own wife hate him so. His defense of his actions only seem to spur her further as she pushes her free hand into his chest, and he holds onto her hand tighter, unwilling to let her go like she wants to.

“Don’t demean yourself by justifying your venom, Aemond. You have hated Luke your entire life, and I’d rather you not make years of hatred seem like nothing in your pursuit to make a better name for yourself with me now. You’re well past that, valzȳrys.” She spits out the last word, making him feel hurt and horrendously out of place. husband

“You don’t believe me.”

“You killed him!”

She sobs, her tears making it very clear that he is a lot less in her eyes now than he used to be. He fights the urge to scream, to hold her by the shoulders and shake sense into her. He wants to remind her that he is not what she thinks him to be, and that he genuinely would never do anything to hurt her. But he has. And he is now facing the consequences of weighing the choices and choosing wrong. How he wishes he’d simply let Luke leave - Aemond had won, why didn’t he?

Her sobs echo in the strained silence, the air thick with the weight of unspoken grievances. In a moment of raw vulnerability, she hits him square on his chest - each strike of her closed fists carrying the weight of accumulated sorrow, an outward manifestation of the tumultuous emotions that have festered within. Aemond, initially taken aback, winces. 

Yet, even as the blows intensify, Aemond doesn't recoil. Instead, he envelops her in a desperate embrace, a gesture born not out of defiance but of a shared longing for understanding. The chamber becomes a battleground of emotions, the struggle to make sense of their fractured marriage playing out in light of all that has taken place.

“I want to hate you so much.” She says, the words choked out as her voice comes out muffled. Her lips are branded onto his chest as she mouths the words over the leathers he wears. “I want to. You’re a monster, that's all I see. I hate you so much.”

He pretends to not hear any of the damning words, for fear of hurting her in the anger that they rouse in him. She looks up at him, and all he wants is to crush her in his hold as he feels the anger creep up on him. But what she says next knocks the wind out of him, reminding him of why he has taken the trouble to come here to try and repair their marriage. 

“But I love you all the same, and I don’t know if I hate you or the love I hold more.”

It is all the confirmation he needs. She is not out of reach just yet. Aemond, grappling with the weight of her words, feels a heavy tension in the air as her lips remain pressed against his chest, the muffled admissions still hanging in the space between them.

As she lifts her head, her eyes, red and swollen, meet his. Aemond sees the internal conflict etched into the lines of her face, torn between the desire to loathe him and the persistent, undeniable love that refuses to be extinguished. He remains silent, understanding the gravity of her admission, aware that any response from him could tip the fragile balance they are trying to restore.

In a moment suspended between resentment and longing, she tentatively reaches up to touch his face, her fingertips tracing the contours of his jaw. Aemond, still holding back the urge to speak, feels the warmth of her touch, a gesture that speaks volumes. Then, as if guided by an invisible force, their lips meet in a hesitant, exploratory kiss. It is not a fiery embrace born out of passion; rather, it is a delicate connection, an attempt to bridge the emotional distance that has grown between them. 

And then Luke surfaces, yet again.

He holds her tighter and kisses her deep, his tongue begging for entrance as he fights the ghost of Luke, staring right at him as he tries to make his wife forgive him. With every movement of their joined lips, he refutes his dead nephew’s words. He is hers, and she is his. From this day, till the end of their days. 

Not Luke’s. His.

“Mine,” he mumbles in between kisses. Over and over until the blasted bastard’s spirit hears and lets him live. But why should he, when Aemond did not offer him the same courtesy? “You’re mine. No one else’s.”

“What?” He doesn’t answer her murmured question, not quite ready to make her privy to the haunting of his mind by her twin. He does not want to let him ruin this moment for them, not any more than he already has. His hands involuntarily find her skirts, pushing them up as he lowers his lips to kiss her neck.

The skin of her thighs are as soft as he’d remembered, his hands relishing in the touch as it disappears under her dress. She clings to him, a slight whine escaping her lips as his fingertips graze her skin, holding onto her backside as he lifts her up effortlessly, feet carrying them both and pushing her into the nearest wall. The kiss is never ending, and he’d not have it any other way.He presses into her, his hands holding her by the hip so tight that he’s probably bruising her, but he is too far gone to care. He needs to prove his nephew wrong, and with each moment he believes he is closer to vanquishing the ghost of the Strong pup from his consciousness.

“Take me,” she says. He hears her, but he is not quite sure he is listening. However, he does as she says. He has wanted this for long, having missed her touch for long, having missed her wanting him for long. He has wanted this for too long to do anything otherwise, and so he does. He growls as he bites her neck, while she unlaces his breeches and lets his cock spring free. The weeping tip is erect and stands proud, and he hopes she can see what she could have had in the time that she pushed him away. No matter, she’s here now.

He is taken aback by how tight she is, how warm and inviting she is despite it all. Her wetness engulfs him as he thrusts into her, making up for wasted time. With each thrust and with each moan that she lets out, he hopes and prays that their marriage will endure - but the phantom of his nephew is never ending as he refuses to fade. Aemond claims her as is his right, but as he does, he realizes his true goal is to simply remind the ghost in his head that she is his, and no one else’s.

“Mine.”

She leans into him, meeting his forehead with hers as her hair falls around them. Her panting breaths and heaving chest has him in a tight chokehold, and it almost keeps him from being haunted by her twin. Almost.

She peaks with a shuddering moan, and as she falls into him - limp and willing - he chases his pleasure. He brings her down to stand and mindlessly thrusts into her as he chants mine, mine, mine over and over again and when he does spill in her, he wants to be able to only experience pleasure, and nothing else. 

Surely his mind is playing tricks on him, or Luke has simply taken over Aemond in a capacity far beyond his control - for he is certain he sees him in her eyes for just a moment, taunting him and reveling in his misery.  

The memory hits him like whiplash, and it is all he can think of.

Aemond’s hands encircle her delicate throat, pressing her frail form against the unforgiving stone wall, as though he intends to merge her essence with its cold surface. The echoes of her labored panting reverberate in the air, a desperate struggle for breath, while he, consumed by an unrelenting force, cannot cease his actions. 

Her blue eyes roll back in agony, and the veins on her neck stand out more prominently than usual, appearing blue in certain lights and green in others - details he might have discerned if not blinded by rage and madness.

He sees clearly, he always does. But in this moment, the intensity of his anger clouds his judgment, rendering him as blind as he is perceptive in moments of calm. Her pallor intensifies, and her hands futilely attempt to pry his fingers from her skin, seeking reprieve - he wants to let go, but he cannot. How could he?

His nephew has haunted him for years, much like the famed phantom of Harrenhal. Luke may have only been nine years of age when he took Aemond’s eye, but it has wielded a malevolent influence throughout his journey from boyhood to manhood. It has been the root cause for a lot of what he’s done - right from marrying her, to now killing her so she can join her brother wherever he is.

He needs to banish the haunting memory of his nephew from his tormented consciousness. He wants so badly for the words to stop playing in his head, weaving a harsh thread of thoughts that he cannot seem to find his way out of. Her life hangs by a thread, one that he stretches taut until she snaps.

As much as he resents acknowledging it, perhaps Lucerys was right. He isn't killing her; he is merely guiding her to where she belongs, by his side. “Aemond…” Her plea is feeble, choked, and nearly devoid of a voice. “Husband, please…” He hears his sweet wife’s last words, but he refuses to listen.

As the light in her eyes slowly dims, he watches as she struggles to keep her eyes open. Her hold on his choking hand loosens and loses its fight, and she gives in. It is almost as though they are back to how they were, in the days when they were happier, and his hands had been around her neck in much more sensual moments - always just enough, never as tight and deadly as this.

She looks almost peaceful in this state, in the last moments where she’s accepted that she has outrun her course. He cannot have her this way, does not want her this way -  where she fears him and what he has truly become; where every moment that she looks at him with mixed emotions, he is reminded of his nephew and the day he died.

Cursed bastard.

Her once kind smiles, the very essence that once distinguished her from her twin, have undergone a haunting transformation. Her face has since been etched with an unspoken terror, a fear that clings to her like a shroud of impending doom. Every glance she casts seems laden with an eerie anticipation, as if she is poised to deliver a fatal blow.

In those harrowing moments, the resemblance between them becomes a grotesque mirror, reflecting a likeness he cannot bear to acknowledge. The weight of her presence - his presence - is suffocating, an unsettling reminder of his own recklessness. He cannot afford the luxury of a wavering mind, not in the midst of a relentless war that demands his unwavering focus.

This connection has become an unbearable burden, stoking a fury within him that knows no bounds. All he craves is the dissolution of his nephew's haunting memory, an obliteration that refuses to comply with the confines of his subconscious. Instead, it lingers, an ominous specter that shadows his every waking moment, intensifying the horrors that plague him day and night.

And then, her breathing ceases.

The chilling realization of what he’s done crashes over him like a wave, dragging him into the abyss of his own making. The haunting echoes of his nephew's voice, the relentless specter that had tormented his every waking moment ever since the fateful day at Storm’s End, had finally ceased. However, the newfound silence is shattered by the ghastly thud of her lifeless form crumpling to the floor, unleashing an eerie force that wraps its tendrils around his soul.

She seems liberated from the oppressive shackles of fear and her lifeless face descends into an eerie calm that chills the marrow of his bones. In death, she appears more tranquil than any moment he witnessed in life since her twin’s passing. The grotesque disparity between her and Lucerys’ final moments sends a shiver down his spine, the air thick with the stench of regret and the palpable weight of his transgressions.

With a trembling hand, he reaches out to touch her slowly chilling forehead, pressing a sorrowful kiss upon it. The chamber becomes suffocating, the air thickening with an oppressive calm that clings to the shadows. In that macabre stillness, a chilling certainty takes hold — Lucerys will no longer haunt him, but the cost is etched in the lines of his lovely wife’s lifeless face.

As the reality of his irreversible choice seeps into his bones, a haunting question claws at the edges of his conscience: Was the liberation from the phantom of his nephew's influence worth the mad ending of his wife's life? The Seven bear witness to another one of his kinslaying crimes and the heavy silence that follows - a testament to the darkness that now envelopes his soul, as the shadows of the hearth themselves seem to recoil from the stench of blood that stains the very fabric of the air.

Now the twins are together in death, by each other’s side. 

Aemond is free.

NO TAG LIST. Please follow @randomdragonfics and turn on post notifications for all my fic updates!

MASTERLIST

[bearwithegg]

Fight Like a Girl || B.Blackwood || Part 2 ||

My thoughts have just been plagued with scenes I can write for this, i honestly intended this to be 2 parts but I ALREADY HAVE IDEAS FOR PART 3 SO FUCK IT WE BALL???

PART 1 HERE

PART 3 HERE

Kieran!Benjicot Blackwood (fancast) x f!Reader

Words: 2.2k

Warnings: Swearing??? Idiots in love but they dont know what that means

Tags <3: @spider-stark

***

War, for all that it brings with it, destruction, pain, suffering on a scale hitherto unknown remained a constant and unchanging conundrum. Were the gods so cruel as to let brother kill brother over trivial squabbles? It was a fascinating thing, to understand, to learn. You, however, decided in this current juncture it felt like a personal punishment aimed to torment and break you down. Realistically, the suffering it caused on a wider scale was insurmountable and that was something you could acknowledge. But in this instance, the way your body aches and screams from constant use makes it feel like a personal sleight.

“Your grip is weak.”

A soft groan of frustration exhales when you sigh, “I cannot hold the sword otherwise.” Dropping the sword by your side, it had been hours without respite and weeks of training for what? You still couldn’t even hold a sword properly and that frustrated you only more.

Benji laughs, softly, circling you with his head tilted to the side. You want to hit him but decide against it. After all, he didn’t need to visit your tent and assist in getting you battle ready — yet he did it either out of some sense of male honour or he secretly enjoyed overseeing your own personal agony.

“Does my ineptitude amuse you, my Lord?” You throw the sword on the ground, it landing with a thud on the canvas flooring. In the throes of frustration, you wipe the sweat from your brow and run a hand through unevenly chopped locks of hair.

“Your petulance, perhaps.” The boyish smile breaking through his hardened demeanor always caught you off guard. A gentle reminder that he was not some battle beaten man, he was young and had his innocence ripped from him; more or less like you. “You may not see it but there is improvement,” he dips down to pick the sword up, holding it out for you to take it again.

Right or not, it didn’t matter in the present. The improvement may have been so miniscule it might as well not have counted, though it was always difficult to see one's progress without the lense of the past. And with a sigh of concession, you snatch the sword from his hand and give him a goading look, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Again,” he instructs firmly, tongue protruding slightly out from between his lips — he was too good at that, switching from his natural charming disposition to a commanding authority in an instance. As if two halves of him were at odds with each other, another part of him lay dormant but the crazed look in his eyes often betrayed his steadfast composure. You weren’t sure if you liked it or feared it.

With a roll of your wrist and standing with a sturdy bearing, you take an offensive stance. His eyes wander all over you, in a completely different scenario it may have been flattering or intrusive, but there is no desire hidden away in the deep brine pools of his eyes. Under his scrutinous gaze you hold firm; at least my wrist doesn’t feel like falling off.

Improvement.

He steps to your side flank, head tilted in thought. The low hum accompanying the loud thoughts you wished he’d say out loud.

When did he get so close? You swallow nervously — he was a practical man, but often opted to show you how to do something by watching him first. Surprisingly gentle to the touch he brings a hand over yours, the one that grips the sword and adjusts your grip. Tilting your wrist slightly and nudging your thumb to a different position.

“Can you feel the difference?” He murmurs, an unexpectedly tender moment that would have floored you entirely had you not spent weeks training at his command. Even now though, you feel composure waning, creaking away like a tree that has had its trunk chopped halfway.

“Feels like… I have more control,” You utter, looking slightly over your shoulder. Oh. He was much closer than you thought.

He nods, softly adjusting your grip to keep the blade upright, though he doesn’t move his hand this time. “Your stance is good and solid. But means little if you have no strength to fortify it…” His other hand is held up so that you can see it and slowly brings it down to your hip. Not once during this small interaction does he break eye contact, it was as though he was giving you the chance to stop him if you wanted to.

You don’t, of course.

A moment of hesitation as he tentatively touches your hip before holding it and rotating you ever so slightly, “what you lack in strength, you have in speed… This stance is better for your momentum.”

“Right,” you whisper, blinking out of the daze you felt yourself fall into by the pull of his gaze. His eyes were so lovely. In moments like this they were bright with a golden hue, as if marked by the Gods. Other times they were dark, dangerous abyssal pits that you could equally get lost in. But not now.

“Good,” he smiles, the same boyish smile that makes you a little nervous and nauseous concurrently. Which was a strange feeling because you weren’t repulsed by him and yet your body reacted all the same. No one had ever elicited such strange reactions within you like he did.

“Try and disarm me.”

“What?” You feel your arm immediately drop as he steps away and unsheathes his own sword. No longer honey touched eyes boring into yours, they were void and wild. He doesn’t give you a chance to process anything before swinging his sword, you have no choice but to stumble back, practically flailing your own sword to stop from getting hurt.

Clang!

The metal blades ricochet off one another and you take the chance to scurry across the bed swiftly before he can attempt another blow, “fuck, fuck — fuck!” You hiss, standing on the other side of the tent, barely a chance to think properly before he’s back onto you like a grounded tempestuous storm.

With wide eyes you jump out of the way, his sword connects with the side table and wood splinters off into pieces. The first casualty — you’d have laughed or joked if you weren’t absolutely fearing for your life in a way. Heart pounding hard as you take a chance to counter, using a leg to disable him by going for his knees but he sees it and contorts his body just in time.

“C’mon!” He shouts, eyes wild and borderline murderous.

Unsure what possibly possessed you other than it felt right. Call it a childish rebuke or not, you instantly straighten your stance and yell back at him, a deep and guttural yell, like one would trying to fend a bear off an attack.

He licks his lips, the grin of a mad man apparent, “there she is.”

This time you swing first, kicking off the back leg gives you a good enough propulsion and wind up with the sword. Cling! He cross blocks, letting your blade slide down his own and the two of you are practically face to face, the slightest smirk pulls at his lips and you match it with a barely audible snarl.

Using your full body weight, you push into him to get distance which only just works.

Another swing from him, narrowly missing your shoulder as you jump aside, his sword clashing with one of the bed posts, it snaps under the force and limply hangs onto the unmarked wood. You take advantage of his over extension, ducking beneath his arms and opting for the best option, shouldering him in the waist and bringing him down to the ground.

Not your finest work, but he tumbles - and you with him - onto the canvas flooring, but at least you had the upper hand and though strength was not in your arsenal just yet, speed was. Pinning him to the ground, you straddle higher than the waist to keep him from bucking you off or swinging his legs around.

Both of you held your blades to each other's throat in a stalemate, chests heaving with heavy breaths.

“A fair play, my lady,” he pants quietly, though the impish grin on his face suggested otherwise. Your eyes travel down to his other hand where he had his dagger pressed softly against the leathers of your tunic, no doubt a lethal puncture in the abdomen if you were in a real fight. He lowers his blades, “you are improving — getting better at trusting your instincts.”

“You went easy on me,” you whine, tossing your blade indignantly. The semi victory loses its glory almost instantly, souring in your mouth. Standing back up seemed to be more effort today than usual, muscles shaking, screaming for a modicum of respite. But war does not rest so neither shall your body.

“If you wish for me to kill you, then you need only ask,” he jests, you knew this — he was holding out for a reason. You hadn’t seen him in battle but can very well imagine without much stretch of the imagination how he has coined the notorious namesake of ‘Bloody Ben Blackwood’. Even more it seemed, he was often harsher, stricter and more brutal when he would lead training with the younger boys.

“Don’t offer such a tempting proposal,” you laugh, tired, exhausted.

He looks at you, seriously for but a moment, “if you desire rest, it is okay to take it.” And the sweet, caring and kind Benji fronted, flecks of gold honey in his eyes as he steps forward and grabs your hand with a touch so kindly it seemed foreign. He need not force you, tugging you to the bedside and sitting you down, “you are not weak for needing rest.”

You chuckle softly, “there is no rest for someone like me, I need to be ready for when we march forward within the tenday.”

“You won’t be much use to us if your legs cannot even carry you. Rest.” He says firmly, pushing gently on your shoulder which didn’t need much for you to collapse onto the bed. “We can resume overmorrow.” He’s seated on the side of your bed now, you open your mouth to contest but he glowers immediately, tilting his head forward and setting his jaw as if to silently say ‘don’t you dare’.

So you don’t dare.

“If I was less encumbered by my exhaustion I’d have hit you for looking at me like that,” you bite, rolling onto your side and instinctively curling in on yourself.

“You certainly would have tried.” He laughs.

“And succeeded, I pinned you already today — I could do it again if I willed myself.”

“Is that so? Perhaps we should get a maester to check those ears of yours, did I not request you disarm me? I don’t recall asking you to pin me.”

“Hmmm,” you hum, narrowing your eyes at him though the barely suppressed smile betrayed your poor attempt to keep a straight face. “I stopped thinking the moment you attacked me like a brute.”

He nods along with your words and though his words are vaguely threatening, his smile indicates a hint of mischievousness, “a Brute am I? You have a crass tongue, My Lady, you’d better keep it in check.”

“Clover.”

“Hm?” His head tilts to the side, like a dog hearing a command.

“Call me Clover… Garrus finds it easier… Less likely to accidentally call attention to my identity.” You run your fingers over the furs of your bed, naturally you omit the little part of the nickname because that seemed sacred to Garrus. Only he can call you that. But Benji had your trust, and you had his, even if it be an unspoken bond that grew stronger the more time elapsed within one anothers company. He at least deserved a little part of you.

There is silence, as he sits on your words, a faint smile ghosting his lips and he nods singularly, “As you wish, Clover.” And the strangest feeling encompasses the tent, it was thick but not suffocating, warm but not a hellfire. His hand moves so deftly, you hadn’t seen it until his fingers barely grazed your temple, pushing back a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

He holds it, a moment, two moments, before his eyes blink rapidly, something reminding him of his place and he flushes red, retracting his hand quickly as though he had touched hot coals. “A-Apologies… forgive me — that was wholly inappropriate. Please do rest, I will see you overmorrow.”

It happened rather quickly, he stands and you sit up as swiftly, “Benji.” You call but he was out quicker than bat out of the hells. Your shoulders slump, a faint pout on your lips as you try to decipher what that could’ve been about. Whatever it had been, you liked it, you liked him but that could mean a plethora of things.

You sigh, falling back into the bed and staring at not particularly anything. Perhaps it would be prudent to speak on the matter with Garrus when he returned.

[theivorybilledwoodpecker]

I was exactly halfway into my second pregnancy, and up until that point, we were so ecstatic to be expecting again — a baby we’d been praying for. We kept talking about and imagining the joy it would be to bring our new baby home to meet our 2-year-old daughter. But at my 20-week ultrasound, a day that is supposed to be full of excitement and awe, we received devastating news. Our baby, a second daughter, had many severe and insurmountable skeletal and organ issues. Fetal specialists told us that it was extremely unlikely she could survive because all her major organ systems had significant development issues. We were blindsided and heartbroken, and yet somehow clear-minded. We chose to do what we believed was best for our unborn daughter as well as for our family; because that is what you do as parents. And we saw the choice we ultimately made as an act of love for her. We respect and honor that other parents have chosen — and will continue to choose — the only other option our doctor suggested to us — to let the pregnancy take its natural course and provide specialist or palliative care as needed. And that is the point. Individuals and their families — no matter where they happen to live — must be able to make the best choice for them. They need to be free to choose their own act of love. I believe now more than ever that anyone’s reason for seeking an abortion is valid. Who are we to say it isn’t? What we didn’t know when we made our decision was that in addition to being so difficult emotionally, it would be made so much worse by the abortion bans recently enacted in Idaho. Because of these cruel laws, my Idaho doctors could not provide me with an abortion — something they could easily have done before Roe v. Wade was overturned — in my own community supported by family and friends. We had to spend the following days cold-calling countless clinics in nearby states where abortion is still legal, but found out that because of all the other new abortion bans in states across the country, many clinics had closed, most had no open appointments for several weeks, and still others considered my pregnancy, at 20 weeks, too far along for me to receive care. The thought of waiting out this pregnancy, possibly for weeks, or however long, while trying to get through the day working as a chiropractor and still being active and present for our toddler was more than I could handle. All I could think about was whether the daughter I was carrying was already suffering; my anxiety and sadness were overwhelming. We both felt hopeless and heartbroken until we reached a Seattle clinic with a last-minute cancellation. Although relieved, there was so much we had to do to get there in the haze of our grief. There were flights to make, hotels to book, a car to rent and medical care our health insurance would not cover because we were going out of state to access and receive it. One of the most tragic — and degrading — parts of our situation was knowing that people in my home state of Idaho believe this is acceptable, denying me bodily autonomy. We will always be grateful to the clinic and team in Seattle for offering us professional, compassionate care. I am a person of faith and for months after my abortion, I kept telling Brandon there had to be something positive that would come out of this experience. Several months later, I learned that the Center for Reproductive Rights was putting together a challenge to Idaho’s abortion laws, and I knew immediately that moving forward as a plaintiff in the case was something I had to do. I’m proud to be one of the many women and doctors challenging and broadening these laws. Physicians in Idaho must have greater discretion over when abortion exceptions are warranted, and the decision should be the patient’s in consultation with their doctors.

[hammerbonk]

Here’s a goofy ooc Vernetto exchange I came up with. Tbh I just wanted to think about sleep deprived Vertin being silly and Sonetto continuing to never beat the ouppy allegations💀💀

Sugarcrash

Recently, Sonetto had witnessed the Timekeeper go through one of their most challenging ordeals yet: no Picrasma Candy.

They were due to get another batch from Medicine Pocket themself, but due to ‘higher priority projects’, they refused to manufacture any unless Vertin coughed up some extra funds, which they had a distinct lack thereof.

When Sonetto checked earlier that day, Vertin had been on their last few pieces, determined to ration what they had. It was now late in the evening, leaving Sonetto with very grim feelings about what state her superior could possibly be in.

She could distantly recall learning the signs of withdrawal symptoms, and her blood ran cold. If the claims of Pricrasma Candy containing alcohol were to be believed, then Vertin could be suffering from a lack of that and the cell stimulating effect of the Pricrasma concentrates.

And as the Timekeeper’s chief assistant, their wellbeing was her top priority! She had to check up on them.

“Timekeeper? It’s Sonetto. Please may I come in?”

She knocked on Vertin’s door, ears pricked for a reply.

“Come in.” Came the Timekeeper’s voice in an unusually flat tone.

Entering their office, Sonetto immediately made a beeline to Vertin, whose posture was a bit too rigid while their head was slumped at a good 45° angle.

Even in their exhaustion, they held onto the pen that they were using to fight off the insurmountable amount of paperwork they had received. Her gaze softening, Sonetto wrenched the pen from their hand and put it aside.

“It’s alright, Timekeeper,” she whispered gently. “You can go rest in your room. I’ll handle the rest of the reports for you.”

In scenarios like these, Sonetto expected to hear some sort of protest from the ever altruistic Vertin. But to her surprise, none came. They simply watched her as she took the papers from their desk.

“Mmh… Thank you, Sonetto…”

There was a long pause before Vertin said something else, half lidded silver eyes blinking slowly at her.

“…pretty.”

“Sorry?” Sonetto asked, cheeks instantly turning as red as her hair.

“Pretty girl. You’re such a pretty girl,” Vertin said in an incoherent manner that somewhat resembled cooing. “Who’s a pretty girl? Who’s a pretty girl? You are, you are…”

To Sonetto’s flabbergasted delight, Vertin brought their gentle, uncoordinated hands to her head, ruffling her hair and squishing her cheeks, all the while tumbling all sorts of strange praises from her mouth.

But just as she was settling into the affection, they snapped out of it, and quickly recoiled their hands. She just barely put a lid on the whine that was about to escape her throat.

“My apologies, Sonetto,” Vertin whispered, mortified at themself. “To be frank… I think I am losing it.”

“I— you—” she took a deep breath. “That’s alright, Timekeeper.”

[eggymf-archived]

no place like home;

ft. garreth weasley with f!reader/mc (one-shot)

themes: hurt to comfort, angst to fluff, established relationship, aged-up characters, post-hogwarts, fiance!garreth, ex!dark!mc, slytherin!mc, 3rd person pov

warning: two idiots in love arguing, mc being the bigger idiot for once, implied traumatic events, implied violence, not spoiler-free, get a load of this sap

summary: she couldn't bear to make him suffer with every horrific danger that constantly chases her, hence she decides to run away one rainy summer night.

word count: 3.2k

a/n: happy weasley wednesday! this is my first entry and fic of garreth actually. i’ve decided to frankenstein the [lyric prompts] sent by @applinsandoranges​​ a while back along with the weekly prompt for weasley wednesday, “wet”. also, if you have read these two smut oneshots (pt.1 and pt.2), this fic features the same mc (just older). that aside, enjoy? :D

main masterlist || series masterlist || AO3

bonus: audio

It was during the summer of 1892 — the year when they finally graduated from Hogwarts. 

She never expected to be given the privilege of spending the summer after her 7th year with Garreth. It was undoubtedly what she truly needed: an opportunity to escape from the utter chaos of the life she has within her own family home in London: specifically her father's seething wrath after that stunt she had pulled, which almost destroyed their own family’s stellar reputation within the wizarding world's pureblood society. 

Family drama aside, not only was it the perfect time for her to rest and recuperate, but it was also the chance for her to contemplate the future now that she has broken free from the shackles of her responsibility as an heiress (temporarily, that is). Perhaps in the midst of it all, she could also make amends for her past wrongdoings.

Oh, but [what on Earth can atone for all the wrong things that she had done]? 

It wasn’t an easy task, to say the least, for the blood that was spilled on her hands all in the name of the greater good has long stained her psyche. There was an insurmountable amount of filth that resides within her as the vessel of accumulated pain, and all she could do was endure the ordeal. The moment she had made that dire decision in the repository during her 5th year, she was doomed to a life of loneliness, but all of that changed during her 7th year when the threads of her own fate were intertwined with his.

She never would've expected that Garreth Weasley out of all people would serve as the beacon that would lead her back to all that had been long forgotten — her own happiness. 

Truth be told, she wasn't the most forthcoming with the notion of romance in general due to her unsavory experiences and personal issues, opting to steer clear of the entire topic in general. In fact, she was better off alone, but for some miraculous reason, the fiery-haired male had managed to creep into her heart, taking his rightful seat on its long-abandoned throne. It was truly a mysterious outcome, for nobody would've foreseen the unusual relationship to even happen, much less prosper.  

A Slytherin and a Gryffindor; the celebrated hero and an aspiring potioneer. They were like day and night; the sun and the moon — ever so different, yet fell in love too soon. Perhaps the irony of it all was what truly brought the both of them together, regardless of all their atrocities, differences, and follies combined. 

But even the greatest of love stories always had their own fair share of trials and tribulations, and the silly, dramatic little tale of her and Garreth weren't an exception. She remembered it all vividly: the times when she'd discourage him from pursuing her, only for her to fall harder and harder for him in the end.

“You'll never know peace a day in your life once you decide to be with me, Weasley.”

“I'm not good for anyone, lest you want a head full of gray hairs before you reach the age of forty.”

“You're better off without me, I assure you.”

“Garreth, please don't. I'll ruin your life.”

Yet her words, no matter how grim, threatening, or incessant, would always be met with his adorably goofy little grin along with the same simple reply that held the undying promise of his devotion and loyalty.

“I know.”

If only things were that simple.

From this moment onwards, ["I know" is never good enough] — not when she's aware of the dire consequences that would soon follow should she decide to pursue the yearnings of her poor, naïve heart. It was too huge a risk to gamble the life of the man who had brought her solace and joy amidst the pandemonium that rages within her blackened soul, for he was all she had left — the only person who would never treat her as a pawn across the chessboard; her most trusted confidant, companion, and lover: her chosen family.  

The musical incantation of Vulnera Sanentur from his Aunt Matilda's lips was all that she heard whilst she silently wallowed in her own thoughts of self-blame, her eyes darting around the damaged parts of their humble abode out of pure guilt. She glances at Garreth's father, who winces as several hands aided him to sit more comfortably on the sofa. His younger sister and older cousins scampered around to repair the several damages within the house whilst checking up on the others after the incident.

It was an ambush by dark wizards: the ones who sought to covet the corrupted power within her. Despite her not being a family member of the Weasleys, they fought gallantly alongside her, defending her as if she was one of their own. Although they are well capable of empathizing and understanding her prior violent display of magic within the heat of battle, it did not quell the bubbling shame that stews within her being. 

It was almost the norm for her to be targeted by the enemies that she had made in her past battles, but to be attacked while she was in Garreth's family home? To put the Weasleys in danger? Preposterous. Utterly preposterous. She'd never forgive her enemies for it. Hell, she'd never forgive herself for it either. 

The warmth of Garreth's palm on her arm startled her from her train of thought whilst she was in the middle of repairing the broken walls, offering her a kiss on her forehead the moment her head turned. 

“Garreth…” her voice, uncharacteristically small and hesitant, trails off while he cups her cheek, tracing his thumb over her delicate face as a form of reassurance.

“It’s not your fault, so please don’t think about it too much, alright? We’ll handle it from here,” he reassures.

Despite her evident disagreement with her fiancé's words, she bit her tongue, not wishing to add any more fuel to the fire. She gave the Weasleys one final glance as she headed to the kitchen to help his mother prepare their dinner for tonight while the others focused on either healing their mild injuries or fixing the damages within their house.

The Weasleys were a beautiful family. It was the ideal family that she would truly love to be a part of in a heartbeat: they were kind-hearted, selfless, and honorable, never swayed by the adversaries that came their way. It was for this very reason that she decided to protect them with all that she has, and she would never allow a single soul to harm even the hairs on their head even if it means that she has to bring herself out of the picture in the end.

Thus, she has made her final decision. 

[She's only safe when she's alone], just as they'd be a whole lot safer without her presence. She could easily slaughter anyone who stood in her way without fear of disappointing anyone with her ruthlessness, and none of her loved ones would be used as ammunition to make her submit to her enemies’ bidding. This painful choice was truly for the best — such as the fate of all fallen “heroes” who walk a lonely, dark path.

Yet despite all the danger he'd have to face and the sought-after coalesced filth of humanity that literally resides within her, her departure was Garreth’s greatest fear.

It was on the same day of the incident that he received the heartbreaking news in the middle of that particular rainy night. His sister was about to pay her a visit for their usual heart-to-heart session, only to find out that she was no longer in their home.

“Gone? What do you mean she’s gone?!” he bellowed, fear lacing his voice as he sped towards the guest room with soft footsteps trailing after him.

“Garreth, I'm sorry. I went to her room and—”

Not giving his younger sister a chance to finish, Garreth barged into the guest room with evident panic, only for his heart to sink at the sight of a room that was entirely bare of her belongings except for a note that she had hurriedly scrawled before she left.

I'm sorry. I love you.

Garreth quickly ran down the flight of stairs and straight to the exit of their home. The shouts and cries of his name fell on deaf ears as he bolted out of the house, racing into the chilly night with a million panicked thoughts buzzing unpleasantly within his head as raindrops drizzled upon his form.

[She had his heart, and he could only hope that she wouldn't hurt him] permanently with one measly written goodbye. He was angry and dismayed with her drastic decisions that lacked his consultation, but he simply couldn't allow all that they'd built to just disintegrate in a blink of an eye. She was, after all, his dearly beloved — the person he'd give his all without a second thought.

As soon as the thunder rumbled, he hurriedly took out the piece of parchment that she had left, casting a tracking charm with his wand. The piece of paper immediately bursts forward, leaving a trail of glittering golden dust for him to follow before the increasingly damp piece of parchment falls to the ground. The spell worked, and it only meant that she hadn't wandered off too far.

He knew exactly where she was from where the trail was heading. With the location clearly visualized within his mind, he apparates to their usual spot, hoping that she was still within the particular vicinity.

Needless to say, he was right.

There she stood in front of the tree where they often frequented for their usual picnics — the place where it's usually just the two of them, gazing upon the meadows of the countryside whilst enjoying the summer breeze. She looks upon the ring that was on her left hand, admiring the ruby and two small diamonds that glimmered under the moonlight. With great reluctance, she attempts to slide her engagement ring off, intending to keep it within their box of little keepsakes before she leaves, which was contained within the tree's hollow.

Amidst the soothing pitter-patter of raindrops, the sound of an audible crack was soon heard from a distance followed by several thuds of footsteps, effectively stopping her. She whips her head in the direction of the sudden noise, only for her eyes to meet a pair of emerald-green orbs. 

[Sometimes, she forgets that she was his] — he'd always find her wherever she may be simply because he knew her that well. She should've expected that he'd figure out her whereabouts within minutes after she had left the Weasley family home. He was, after all, her dearly beloved — the keeper of her heart; the one who knows her better than herself.

“Blast, I shouldn't have loitered around…” she thought ruefully as she faced him completely, a shaky breath escaping her lips as she braced herself for an earful. Instead, he runs towards her with a relieved expression, pulling her into his embrace before kissing her fervently. 

As if it were right on cue, the rain began to pour harder, just like those dramatic little romance novels written by Muggle authors. His touch, although scorching against her cold, damp skin, brought relief to her mind, body, and soul. 

It was only he could bring her such solace, nobody else.

As soon as his lips parted from hers, he grabbed her bag nearby before turning to her direction once again with a tired sigh. Before she could retaliate, he swung his arm around her, engulfing her in his arms before apparating back to his home — specifically into the living room, where the rest of the family was awaiting their return. A blush crept up to her cheeks upon feeling their eyes on her and Garreth, who held her by her waist. The both of them were soaked to the bone with their clothes and strands of their hair clinging uncomfortably onto their skin.

Wordlessly, Garreth set her bag on the ground before flicking the tip of his wand at both of them, casting a drying spell before making his way to the kitchen. She winced at his deathly silence, while the others glanced at each other with an evident grimace as well.

“... Alright, you lot! Off to bed, we go. Come along now!” his mother urges, pushing the other family members right towards the staircase, much to his younger sister's and cousins' chagrin.

“But mum—!”

“Shhh!”

She received several apologetic looks and pats of good luck from his cousins, for she was obviously going to need it. Garreth was upset — abysmally upset to be precise. It was a rare occurrence, but whenever it happens, it was a painful punch to the gut.

Silence looms over the living room, the thumping of footsteps dying out as they scamper to their bedrooms, leaving her and Garreth alone on the first floor of their home.

“Garreth…”

Silence.

“Garreth, please say something?” she pleads, all to no avail. He remains tight-lipped, averting his gaze from her as he grabs the nearby teapot to pour each of them a cup of tea.

She hated it when he was like this, but his reticence was definitely warranted. She sighs in defeat, finally deciding to stop beating about the bush.

“... The attack from earlier—”

“—Was, again, not your fault. And you ran away because you didn't want any of us to get hurt. I know that,” he cuts her off bitterly before he sips his cup of tea in hopes of calming himself down. 

“Then you're aware of the dangers, Garreth. You've seen what they're capable of. You've experienced it for yourself.”

“Yes. So?”

“So why did you bring me back? You know that chaos ensues whenever I'm around, and it's never the good kind.”

“Really, now? Seems like a pretty peaceful night to me until you decided to leave,” he sarcastically snapped, much to her exasperation.

“Garreth, for god's sake—”

He slams his cup on the countertop, nearly shattering the object. His frown deepened, finally looking at her with a glare.

“A note with no explanations? Sneaking out right under my nose? Is that how trivial our relationship is to you?” he asks with a tone mixed with anger and hurt. She visibly pales at this, panic evident within her eyes that he would even think of such a thing.

“Garreth that's not—”

“—what you meant? Oh, believe me, I know. But it certainly feels that way and it's really upsetting. I'm not mad though. I could never be mad at you, but I'm sick and tired of you pushing me away at every bloody inconvenience!”

“I'm doing this for your sake! As long as I'm around, you and your family will always be—”

“I didn't ask you to play hero for us!”

“So you'd rather thoughtlessly sacrifice everyone else just to keep me around?!”

“YOU'RE MY FIANCEE FOR GODRIC'S SAKE!” 

She was stunned into silence by his raging outburst, all retaliations within her head immediately disappearing as he ran his mouth, pouring out every single trace of frustration that had accumulated within his chest.

“Don't you know you're just as important as everyone else in here?! I know what I signed up for — mum knows, dad knows, my little sister knows, every single relative knows! You're already a part of this family at this point!” he continues exasperatedly, running his fingers through his hair out of sheer agitation. “Gods, you’re always like this! I hate that you feel the need to constantly tell me I shouldn’t be with you! I’m still here, aren’t I? Is that not enough for you?!”

She looks away, letting out a shaky exhale while she clenches her fists, her eyes becoming glassy with tears. His heart was thumping loudly, his chest heaving as his emotional hurt slowly descended from its peak. His glare soon faltered the moment he realized the aggression of his words, his fiery anger slowly dissipating as he stared at her with guilt simmering within his gut. Her eyes were downcast while she chewed on her lip, desperately keeping her emotions under wraps while placing her arms gingerly around herself to soothe her nerves.

With an aggravated sigh, he gently pulled her into a warm embrace. She whimpers at his display of tenderness despite the prior exchange of heated words, finally letting her tears run free as she wraps her arms around his waist, a string of apologies pouring out from her lips. He pressed his lips at the side of her head before parting from her as he cupped her face with both of his hands.

“Darling, listen to me. Look at me.”

She acquiesced, her bleary sight slowly trailing up to meet his verdant-hued eyes, which gazed upon her with pure love and adoration despite his recent display of anger. 

“I know I may not be the best man for you, but you best believe that I'll do whatever I can to keep you safe. When I swore to you that I'll accompany you to the ends of the earth, I meant every single word,” he whispers with heartfelt sincerity, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “But all I ask of you is to please have a bit of faith in me; in us — that we’ll manage all of this just fine. Please, I love you too much to let you go...”

“But… Your family…” she meekly sobs.

“Then we'll live alone together, just the two of us.”

“But what about you?”

“Then I'll be stronger for you! Hell, I'll beg Sallow to teach me how to duel better if I have to so please…” he begs, his voice cracking. 

“Don't ever leave again. Stay with me until the very end.”

At that moment, she finally caves into her heart's desire, standing on her tiptoes to urgently plant her lips on his without hesitation while his hand flew to the small of her back, the other placing itself at the back of her head to press her further into him. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally parted, gazing at each other's eyes with a smile of relief etched onto their faces. A surprised yelp escaped her lips as he scoops her up into a bridal carry, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

“Well then, now that's done and settled, let's get you to bed, shall we?” he grins, his anger completely appeased by her response.

“At least let me bring my bag upstairs first, love. I need my clothes,” she laughs.

“Clothes? For what?”

“...To change in?”

“Oh, trust me. You won't be needing them tonight,” his voice drops into a teasing whisper. 

Her eyes widened, warmth creeping to her cheeks at his insinuation. He chuckled at her reaction, planting a kiss on her cheek before heading upstairs with her in his arms. The tense aura that loomed over the entire building was now completely gone, her soft giggles of sheer elation filling the halls before a peaceful silence ensued the moment the door to her room was closed shut.

Like the moon and stars that reside in the night skies, this was where she truly belongs — right in the arms of her dearly beloved; her most cherished abode.

[thisismisogynoir]

My post about hating the Barbie movie and how it actually spat in the face of feminism and all that the franchise stands for is done and dusted, I'm afraid, but that being said there are still some points I left out of it that I would like to address, and I will do so here:

The movie portraying women as hopeless endless victims who have no hopes of succeeding or getting what they want out of life is bad enough, but there's a brief blink-and-you'll-miss it scene where Barbie is taking Gloria and Sasha back to Barbieland, and as they're on the spaceship, she says to them that women control everything and have all social and political power, which is fine...but THEN she goes "basically everything men do in your world, women do in ours" and that...that line just makes me so appalled and angry I could SPIT. Like you're really spelling out that you think women in the real world have no power or control in any aspect of society? I understand that it's supposed to be "commentary"(it's not good commentary tho) and that the real world IS a patriarchy, but we HAVE women in power in our world too! We HAVE female Supreme Court Justices! We HAVE women in high office! We HAVE female mayors and CEOs! We HAVE women in positions of power and leadership, period! And yet Barbie creates this illusion that women in our world such as Sasha and Gloria would have NO knowledge of or point of reference for women in power who do any important shit at all; it's completely fucking absurd. But then again, this movie was written and directed by a white feminist. A white feminist, who, like all white feminists, has a complete miserable victimhood/defeatist complex. So of course she projects it onto her female characters(even female characters of color, who are ofc SUPPOSED to be more sad and let-down than SHE is!), like the sad, pathetic fuck she is. And y'all wonder why I hate persecution flips so much. We need to shove that bullshit trope six feet under. If you want to tell a story about the patriarchy, then FUCK, WRITE ABOUT THE ACTUAL GODDAMN PATRIARCHY!!! Don't just do this nonsense "uwu what if men were the oppressed ones and women were the privileged--" no. Stop. Cut it the fuck out. This is getting ridiculous.

This part is probably incidental but fuck that, I'm still gonna knock it. Sasha and Gloria never actually get to experience the matriarchal utopia, and I just find that so depressing. Despite the bleak and frankly miserable lives that they lead, they never get to experience the escapist freedom of living in a society in which they are in charge, where womanhood isn't looked down upon and is in fact honored, where they have power and aren't in danger of being stalked, followed, or killed by men just for walking down the street. They leave their patriarchal world, hoping to see a world that is better, and instead enter a world that is just as bad and equally as patriarchal as the one they tried to escape from. It's truly depressing, especially for Gloria who specifically wanted to get away from her anxieties with real life and just have fun with her daughter for a bit. Instead she has to be confronted with ANOTHER patriarchy, watch the childhood doll she loved and played with have a panic attack and give up on life just like she did, and then give her infamous, cliche, and paint by numbers "being a woman is suffering" corny as hell speech. Before reinventing the matriarchy and getting her power back only by leaning in to patriarchal stereotypes about women's bodies and sexualities. And then leaving back for her regular patriarchy world without getting to experience any of it. It's almost like the movie was literally saying that women will never be able to free themselves from patriarchy and that a better world than this one does not exist. Patriarchy is insurmountable and all-prevailing, says this movie. It's truly tragic.

And honestly, with regards to that shitty ass clusterfuck of a speech, isn't it like, so totes ironic, that part of Gloria's speech is her complaining that women have to apologize for men's bad behavior...only for the "happy" ending of the movie to involve BARBIE HAVING TO APOLOGIZE FOR KEN'S BAD BEHAVIOR?!?!!??!?! Like no one fact-checked that shit and went "wait, something ain't right"? Are you fucking kidding me?!?!?!?!?! I hate that scene with every fiber of my being and realizing this makes me hate it even more now. Just, ugh.

Tldr: Fuck this movie, but then again, I've said that shit like...several times before. lol.

[7assanmohammed]

A Cry for Help from the Depths of Despair

I’m Hassan and lam write to you today with a heavy heart and tears in our eyes, as I try to convey the unimaginable suffering that my family and I have endured in the wake of the merciless war that has torn apart our beloved my home land.

Just months ago, our lives were shattered by the horrors of conflict. Our once bustling neighborhood, filled with laughter and love, now lies in ruins—a stark reminder of the cruelty and devastation that has engulfed our homeland. Our four-story house, once a symbol of security and stability, now stands as a crumbling relic of the past, unable to shield us from the harsh realities of life amidst the rubble.

Donate here :

My sister Dima, my brother Aboud, and I find ourselves trapped in a nightmarish existence, living in a flimsy tent that offers little protection from the biting cold of winter or the scorching heat of summer. Every day is a battle for survival, as we struggle to find food, clean water, and even the most basic necessities of life.

But our physical suffering is only part of the story. The scars left by war run deep, tearing at the fabric of our souls and leaving us haunted by the ghosts of our past. We are plagued by constant fear and anxiety, unable to escape the horrors that we have witnessed and the uncertainty that lies ahead. We are drowning in a sea of despair, desperately clinging to the hope of a better future.

And yet, amidst the darkness, there is a flicker of light—a glimmer of hope that shines through the gloom. We long to reunite with our father in Egypt, to escape the horrors of war and build a new life free from fear and suffering. But the path to freedom is fraught with obstacles, and we cannot do it alone.

We need your help, dear friends, to raise the funds necessary to secure our passage out of Gaza. The cost of coordination for each of us is $5,000—a seemingly insurmountable sum for a family torn apart by tragedy and loss. But with your generosity and compassion, we believe that anything is possible.

Your donations can help us escape the ruins of our past and embark on a journey towards a brighter future. They can provide us with the means to seek the medical treatment we so desperately need, to complete our education and pursue our dreams, and to rebuild our shattered lives from the ground up.

Please, I implore you, do not turn a blind eye to our suffering. Every dollar, every cent, brings us one step closer to freedom, one step closer to a life worth living. Together, we can turn despair into hope, darkness into light, and tragedy into triumph.

Thank you for your kindness, your compassion, and your unwavering support in our time of need.

With deepest gratitude,

[thedemoninme141]

Blade Of Miquella Chapter 6: A Woe Worth Fighting For.

Summary: You and Wednesday's love is intertwined in every life. Warnings: ANGST! SO MUCH ANGST! SuicideVisions! MuchMoreEmotionallyDestroyedWednesday! Previous Chapter 👉 Here

Wednesday was standing in front of your grave and has been for the last 5 hours, she couldn't move, she didn't even try to move. "Be my love for this life," you asked, And she accepted. "Take my love for this life." You offered. And she accepted. So why were you gone? Why did fate steal you away, leaving her to navigate the void you left behind? "Be my love for this life," she whispered, her voice trembling with sorrow. "Take my love for this life." She took out the same pistol that was used to take you away from her. She aimed the muzzle at her heart. "One life with you, I couldn't share," she murmured, her voice cracking as tears streamed down her cheeks. "Maybe, one death with you, I could." she smiled. She pulled the trigger. "WEDNESDAY!" you screamed as you woke up, "Relax, that wasn't your Wednesday." you heard a voice, your vision was blurry, and it took a while for your vision to clear out when you saw Wednesday in front of you, No, it wasn't Wednesday, whoever this was, had a similar face like Wednesday, but dirty blonde hair and much paler face. "I am not your Wednesday either; I am her ancestor, Goody Addams," she introduced herself. You couldn't help but feel a mix of confusion and curiosity as you tried to make sense of the surreal environment around you. Everywhere you looked, there was nothing but a vast expanse of white, an otherworldly realm that seemed detached from reality. "What is this place?" you asked, your voice tinged with uncertainty. "It's a realm between your world and the afterlife, our world," "Owh" so you were dead. It didn't surprise you when you recalled the battle against Crackstone and the moment when you were struck by his hidden blade. The memories were clear up until that point, but beyond that, there was only darkness. At least you are free from that cursed being, Malenia. "Are you here to guide me to the afterlife Goody?" you asked. "If you want, yes. However, if you don't, you can return," Goody replied, her voice soothing yet mysterious. "Wait… I can go back?" The possibility surprised you. You weren't sure if you truly wanted to return, given the burden of your curse. A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you pondered the complexities of your existence. "What's the point of me returning? I will forever be cursed. Forever scared to even touch, forever afraid of HER…" Your voice trembled with a mixture of fear and frustration. Malenia seemed like an insurmountable obstacle, and you wondered if returning would only lead to more pain and suffering. "Maybe, or maybe she can help you." She said as some sort of portal opens in front of Goody. You see Wednesday holding your damaged body as if you were her lifeline, As you gazed at Wednesday through the portal, even after what Wednesday did to you, your heart ached for her, and a part of you yearned to reach out and comfort her. "An Addams don't feel until they meet the one who was created to make them feel," she said. "You were her's… In every life." You looked at her. "The dream you saw, of Wednesday joining you in death at your grave, wasn't a dream, it was… another life. It was another love." You felt a mix of awe and sorrow. To think that you and Wednesday had experienced such a tragic fate in another existence was both haunting and captivating. "A life where Thornhill's cruelty knew no bounds," Goody explained, her voice heavy with sadness. "But even in that darkness, your love for Wednesday remained unwavering. An Addams rarely opens their heart, but when they do, it's a love that spans lifetimes. I've never seen two lovers be so intertwined with each other. In every life…"

All of a sudden you were in front of another portal, There, in front of another grave, stood your own reflection, clutching the same pistol you saw in Wednesday's hand, The gravestone bore the name that was etched into your soul "Wednesday Addams, Terrifying Daughter and yet ever so loving Girlfriend." "Another life… another love." You whispered.

Another life, another love, you saw yourself with her, holding each other, sleeping.

Another life, another love, you saw yourself with her, holding each other, dying.

Another life, another love, you saw the whole world, taken by your Scarlet Aeonia, as you sat there in petals, holding Wednesday in your arms. Her body was taken by the Scarlet Rot, just as your mother's was, and then your eyes went to the knife in front of you. You didn't need to see the rest to understand what happened next.

And then, you were back in front of your own life, where Wednesday was holding you, Weems weeping behind her, Xavier running in and falling on his knees seeing you.

"Yes, Life will be hard on you, it always was, Your curse will be right with you, you might win over it, you might lose yourself in it again. But whatever happens, Wednesday will be right with you." Goody said before going through the portal to your body, "Whatever you choose, Wednesday will be right with you, even if it meant joining you in death, she is your soulmate of course," Goody said as she sat beside your body, opposite to Wednesday, she put one hand on your bleeding wound, and offered you the other, "So what do you choose?"

Wednesday needed you. The thought of a future without you was like staring into an endless abyss. You had never asked for anything from her, never demanded anything. You simply accepted whatever she was willing to give, patiently waiting for her to open up and let you in. And when she finally did, it was too late. The cruel hand of fate had ripped you away from her, leaving a void that seemed impossible to fill. The pain in her cold, stone heart was excruciating. It cut deeper than anything she had ever experienced, even more than the loss of her beloved Nero. She had vowed never to shed another tear after that tragedy, but now she found herself weeping uncontrollably, the tears flowing like a river of grief for you. She lifted you a bit up, placing her forehead against yours. In that moment, she pleaded to any deity who would listen, begging them to bring you back to her. She knew, deep down, that even if you didn't return, she would follow you to whatever realm you had journeyed to. In life and death, she was bound to you, her heart forever entwined with yours. In this final moment together, she wanted to give you the love you deserved, to let you know just how much you meant to her. Slowly, she leaned in, her lips meeting yours in a tender, heartfelt kiss. Your lips felt like delicate rose petals, soft and sweet, and for a moment, she could almost forget that you were gone. But then, she felt you kissing her back. In that fleeting moment, it was as if the world had stopped spinning. A glimmer of hope flickered in the darkness, and Wednesday clung to it with all her might. Could it be possible? Could you still be here, somehow, against all odds? Tears welled up in her eyes as she pulled back, her heart pounding. She looked into your eyes, searching for any sign that you were still there, that you had returned to her. The uncertainty was overwhelming, but she dared to hope, dared to believe that you were not truly lost to her. She looked at your bullet wound, only to see it was gone. Then, she noticed the pale ghost in front, Goody Addams looking down at her. "Cherish every moment with her Wednesday," Goody said with a gentle smile before vanishing into a cascade of shimmering gold auras. As Xavier was busy calling an ambulance, Wednesday looked back at you. She would face whatever challenges lay ahead, for she knew that a love like yours was worth fighting for, A woe worth fighting for, even in the darkest of times. PART 7 👉 HERE

[lynettethemadscientist]

So. . . what is Fallout 4 about in your opinion?

(Asking this not angrily, but as someone who's genuinely curious about your thoughts on the game. I played it too and I love it. Nick Valentine my beloved!)

Thank you for asking!!

Fallout 4’s story is primarily about two things, both concerning how we cope with Suffering and Despair.

When you begin the game, you and your spouse are finally reunited after a long military deployment and you have a brand new baby (no more than a few months old). You’re on the cusp of a beautiful future together. All your dreams are finally coming true.

And then it’s all taken from you. In the worst possible way. Your spouse is executed in front of you. Your child is taken by people with unknown but undoubtedly horrific intentions. And when you wake up for the second time you have no idea how long he’s been in their possession.

When you find the last remnant of your past life (Codsworth), he informs you that everything you know and love has not just been destroyed, but is long forgotten.

You only have one thing left; one reason to keep going, so you pursue your only lead.

And there you find Preston Garvey. He tells you about people and places that mean nothing to you. And he burdens you with the responsibility of saving these people.

It feels almost cruel. The world has brutally taken everything from you and still it sees fit to task you with saving it.

You only say yes because your moral compass insists. You can’t just leave people to die. Not when you can do something about it.

But if you do ask Preston about his recent tragedy he’ll tell you:

“I had to put on a brave face as long as there were still people counting on me. That's the only reason I kept going.”

You don’t know it yet, but this foreshadows your future in the Commonwealth.

As you search for your son in a poisoned, decaying land full of giant monsters, you quickly realize there are two kinds of people: those who want to kill you, and those begging you to rescue them from certain death. Everywhere you turn there is desperation. And you grow more weary and more worried each time you steer away from your search to save a family pleading for your help.

And then you find Kellogg. However you feel about killing him, the answers you need are locked in his head, so you leap in. As you walk through his memories, to your dismay you find that his family was brutally taken from him in much the same way yours was. And that he chose to become the very same monster that created him.

And here we find the first thesis of the story: suffering is inevitable, and it will change you, but you are the one who decides whether your strife changes you into a better or worse person.

However the Sole Survivor chooses to respond (or not respond) to this is up to your character, but the message is clear.

For the purpose of truly realizing the second thesis, let’s say this moment was a wake-up call for your Sole. You grit your teeth and silently swear an oath to yourself that no matter what happens, you won’t end up like Kellogg. You won’t let your loss turn you into something evil.

But it’s hard to fight the despair creeping into your heart now that you know your son is already 10 years old. He’s been raised by the Institute. An organization that has thus far only seen fit to inflict harm on the Commonwealth for unknown reasons. You try to push the implications of this out of your mind as you now search for access to the organization that has haunted this land for over a century.

The burden of helping settlers only grows heavier as the seemingly insurmountable task of getting into the Institute looms over you.

And when you finally get inside, not even your most harrowing nightmares could have predicted what you find.

Your son is an old man. A callous and calculating old man. He bears features resembling that of you and your spouse, but the more he talks the more he seems like a cruel mockery of your once happy family.

Searching the Institute for answers only plunges the knife deeper. Every terminal, every overheard conversation only confirms the worst; that the squalor and desperation of the Commonwealth, the constant fear and instability, is all the intentional result of the Institute’s machinations. Your own son is the one who has been making life a living hell for all the people you've met and befriended on your way to rescuing him.

Devastating doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The one thing you had left, the one reason you endured for so long has not just been irrevocably taken from you, but has been twisted into something monstrously evil.

When you reach the surface again, you realize you have nothing left. Maybe you consider walking into the water and letting the rads take you. Or maybe putting the barrel of a gun in your mouth.

You wonder why you even survived this long. Why couldn’t you have just died in that cryopod? Or been another casualty of the wasteland? Why are you even still here?

But before you can finish the job you remember why. As much as you might want to, you can’t die yet. There are too many people depending on you now. And you’re the only one who can stop your son.

And here we find the second thesis of the story: having a purpose beyond oneself is the only way to endure impossible levels of suffering. Without a purpose, one succumbs to despair.

What was once a moral obligation has become your only reason to keep going. What was once a burden is now your lifeline.

And with that I think perhaps I should stop haha ^^; I’ve already waxed on for a lot longer than I intended and I feel bad that I made you wait so long for a response. I’ll keep going if anyone wants to hear the rest but I think I’ve about covered the core themes of the story and I fear I’ve already been too tedious about it

[violetduchess]

A rose by any other name:

Synopsis: Imlied poly, Angst

TW: uhhh flowers in your lungs?

Notes: 😉

[------------------❀•°❀°•❀ ------------------]

The quiet and tranquil halls of the Demon Slayer Corps headquarters were disrupted by the sound of coughing echoing through the corridors. You, a skilled and determined Demon Slayer, had been afflicted with the dreaded Hanahaki Disease. Unbeknownst to the five pillars of the Demon Slayer Corps who had captured your heart, you concealed their condition, choosing to suffer in silence rather than burden your loved ones.

Rengoku, the Flame Hashira, had always been perceptive, and his keen senses detected something amiss in your actions. He noticed the subtle changes in your demeanor, the slight coughs that you've tried to suppress. Concerned, he approached you one evening, his eyes filled with worry. "Is something troubling you, dear? You can trust me. We're comrades, after all," he said, his voice filled with warmth and kindness.

Torn between your desire to confide in Rengoku and the fear of hurting him, you hesitated. "It's nothing to worry about, Rengoku-san," you replied with a small smile, your heart aching with each word. "I'll be fine."

Giyuu, the Water Hashira, observed you from a distance, his gaze reflecting the concern etched deep within his eyes. He noticed your weakening health and the faint, soft petals that slipped from you lips. Unable to bear the weight of his worry any longer, he approached you one evening, his voice laced with both gentleness and determination.

"I know something is wrong. Please, confide in me. I promise I'll do everything in my power to help you," Giyuu implored, his hand reaching out to grasp your's gently.

Your heart tightened with the weight of your unspoken feelings. You looked away, unable to meet Giyuu's gaze, and replied, "I appreciate your concern, Giyuu-san, but there's no need to worry. It'll pass."

Obanai, the Serpent Hashira, had always possessed a sharp intuition. His observant eyes caught the signs of your deteriorating health, the petals staining your lips and the traces of sadness clouding your eyes. Concerned for your well-being, he confronted you one evening, his voice soft yet firm.

"I can see that something is bothering you. Don't you trust me enough to share your pain?" Obanai asked, his expression vulnerable despite his usual aloof demeanor.

Your heart clenched at Obanai's words, knowing that you were close to revealing your secret. You swallowed hard, your voice wavering as you replied, "I... I can handle this on my own, Obanai-san. Please, don't worry."

Uzui, the Sound Hashira, possessed a keen sense of hearing, attuned to the slightest changes in the world around him. Late at night, when the moon bathed the headquarters in its gentle glow, he overheard your muffled coughs and the soft whispers of petals falling to the ground. Filled with a mixture of curiosity and concern, he approached you with a confident yet compassionate smile.

"Darlin', I can hear the pain in your every breath. Please, let me be there for you. Tell me who hurt you, and I'll make sure they pay," Uzui offered, his eyes filled with determination and empathy.

Your heart ached with the longing to confess your true feelings, but the fear of the consequences held them back. You couldn't bear the thought of burdening Uzui with the knowledge that it was he himself who held your heart captive. With a forced smile, you shook your head, attempting to brush off Uzui's concerns.

"It's not worth your attention, Uzui-san," You replied, your voice tinged with sadness. "I'll find a way to handle it on my own. Thank you for your concern."

Sanemi, the Wind Hashira, was known for his gruff exterior and his straightforward nature. However, beneath his tough facade, he held a sense of protectiveness for those he cared about. As he observed your declining health and the increasing number of petals that stained your palms, his concern grew insurmountable. One day, he confronted you, his voice rough yet laced with genuine worry.

"Damn it, don't you see that you're falling apart?" Sanemi's voice cracked, his usually sharp gaze softened with concern. "Tell me who did this to you. I'll make sure they pay for it."

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of fear and longing threatening to overflow. You couldn't bear the thought of causing Sanemi any pain by revealing your true feelings. With a heavy sigh, you turned away, your voice filled with hidden anguish.

"I appreciate your concern, Sanemi-san, but this burden is mine to bear. Please, let it be."

◇_____________◇

As days turned into weeks and the petals continued to fall, your condition worsened. Your secret weighed heavily upon them, threatening to consume their very being. The pillars of the Demon Slayer Corps couldn't ignore the truth any longer; they saw through the walls you had carefully constructed.

One fateful night, when the moon hung high in the sky, Rengoku, Giyuu, Obanai, Uzui, and Sanemi gathered around you, their expressions a mixture of concern and determination. They refused to let you suffer alone any longer.

"We know, love," Rengoku's voice held a gentle conviction. "We can see the pain you're hiding. We won't force you to tell us who it is, but we want you to know that we're here for you, no matter what."

Your eyes widened, tears pooling within them. You never expected their secrets to be uncovered, and the overwhelming mix of emotions threatened to drown them. Slowly, you nodded, unable to speak through the lump in your throat.

With your secret laid bare, you found solace in the embrace of your pillar comrades. Rengoku, Giyuu, Obanai, Uzui, and Sanemi became your pillars of support, offering comfort, understanding, and unwavering loyalty. They remained by your side through the highs and lows of your battle against both the demons and the affliction within their own heart.

Though the identity of the one who held your heart remained unspoken, the pillars' actions spoke volumes. With each passing day, their unwavering dedication and support became a beacon of hope for you, slowly mending the fragments of their broken heart.

In the face of their shared trials, the bonds between you and the five pillars grew stronger, transcending unspoken words. Together, they faced the demons that threatened their world, while silently, within the depths of their hearts, a love that couldn't be uttered blossomed amidst the petals of sacrifice.

All rights reserved @violetduchess. All works of fanfiction belong to me, please do not copy, translate or repost any works without my express permission. Thank you.~☆

[stuffedwriting]

Cassandra’s Poem

Erysich, my love, you who understands my pains because you share the very same pain, I thank the gods for our meeting, I cherish you like none other, for you have comforted me when my mind fills with prophecy or worry, you were always there with warm touch and soft words to soothe my heart. You are unlike any other on earth, no mortal or god is similar, you have been treated like a monster your entire existence, you are as deadly as the Minotaur for your hunger is endless and your greatest pleasure is devouring men whole, I understand how that is horrifying but when I see you overcome with the pleasure of it I can not help but feel the same.

Now I write of the mastermind Oysseus, you cunning man with a mind that rivals gods. You gave me insurmountable sorrow from slaying my kin and my people with help from that wretched wooden horse you fooled my land into believing was a gift to Athena and Troy and yet you are the only man able to believe my prophecies. I thank you for letting me journey with you as you follow the commands of gray eyed Athena and for giving me the only place I truly feel at home, you are the reason I met my lovely Erysich, the things I have done with you are countless, far too many to list here. I often think that the fates enjoy the irony of our relationship, of how you helped kill my family who hated me then years later you accepted me as your companion as you and your crew loved me as your own.

Next I shall write about golden eyed Medea, you wily woman, skilled at the works of Hecate to kill and poison countless men, I admit I am quite frightened of you but your demeanor eases this fear inside my heart, I am unsure who the better schemer, you or Odysseus, time and time again you have proved yourself a valuable crew member and friend.

Ulysses… I am sorry for taking part in your creation, your suffering is undeniably horrible, I have asked Apollo to make he who shakes the earth, Poseidon and lord of wine and madness Dionysus to release you from their grasp but they refuse, I hope next time our paths cross I can help soothe your pain.

With that I close this poem, it is the first time I have ever done this despite being a priestess of the god of which poetry is part of his domain. Apollo, accept this devotive offering, may reading it delight you.

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

Ten characters. Ten fandoms.

Thanks for the tag @theradioactivespidergwen 🖤 I love this!

1. Aemond Targaryen

I don't think any of us are surprised by this. Aemond is...the boy is everything to me. He's let himself become so warped and tortured by his trauma that recovery and self betterment were never an option. He's full of rage, he's cutting off pieces of himself to stay Mommy's good little boy, he's begging his father via his actions to notice him, notice him, notice him. The toxicity is off the charts and I would give my life for this scared child in a man's body.

2. Nesta Archeron

Nesta is a stone cold bitch and I would die for her. This woman, barely not a girl, was ready to sell her body to ensure a better life was possible for her sisters, and the entire time she was denigrated by Feyre for "doing nothing" because what she did was woman's work. Who do you think did the cooking? The cleaning? The clothes mending? She helped end a war. She was violated. She had her autonomy stripped from her. She was not allowed to process her trauma in the way that came naturally to her because it was a mirror that Rhys couldn't handle looking in. Very few people deserve a happy ending as much as she does.

3. Kylo Ren

Give me a character that is tortured by their actions and the legacy of their past and I will show you my favorite little baby in the whole world. He's so alone. He doesn't know his way in the world. He can't live up to his mother or uncle or father or grandfather and it's eaten away at something vital inside of him, leaving him rotting. The mental torture and abuse he's endured at the hands of Snoke have twisted him into something unrecognizable. And I love him, damn it.

4. Ophelia

She is hope. She is madness. She is full of life and love and all of the things the people try to chip away at as we grow up. This rendition of Ophelia stands above the rest for me because she was finally given the opportunity to set aside her suffering and continue on, even if it's with the knowledge of what genuine pain feels like.

5. Zuko

Are we really surprised by the addition of another angry young man searching through vindication and the reclamation of his honor by living up to the expectations of people who never truly cared about them? This list has a theme apparently. Zuko had one of the best and most rewarding character arcs of all time and his journey is one I literally watch over and over. Also Zutara forever.

6. Sansa Stark

Sansa is all of the things that were conditioned not to like when it comes to a character. She's feminine and a little whiney and naive. She's fodder for torture. And yet she's also one of the strongest characters in this entire series, both book and show (boo hiss). Sansa Stark turns her fear into hope and her hope into strength and I will never not love her.

7. Fleabag

I am her. She is me. Fleabag will never fail to rip my entire heart out and feed it back to me. She's awful. She's incredible. She's in pain. She's stumbling through life in the dark and using her suffering as a marker on the map.

8. Astarion

The theme continues. Suffering? Check. Insurmountable pain? Check. Using his body as a way to ensure his safety? Check. Saved via the power of love and friendship? Check. Astarion's arc follows a typically feminine-coded route and I was obsessed from the get go with this cunty little man. I want to wrap him in a blanket burrito. I want to sink my teeth into him. I want to spray him with a hose.

9. Eddie Munson

I'm not sure I've ever loved a character quite like I've loved Eddie Munson. The absolute heart of gold inside that poorly tattooed chest literally fuels me. He's insecure. He's an asshole. He's kind. He's angry. He's unsure of his place in the world. I will forever ignore the senseless tragedy of his death. It never happened. Nope. No. If I loved him less, I could talk about it more.

10. Dani Clayton

Dani Clayton, the love of my life. Though she weeps and trembles and avoids at all costs, there is no one stronger than Dani. She's suffered since the beginning and never let it stop her, not until she had to save the woman she loved by giving her very life. Tortured, haunted, so full of grief that it had nowhere to go. I would literally die for her.

No pressure tags: @jadore-andor @emilykaldwen @massivecolorspygiant @corrabell @cheesybadgers @ladylannisterxo @niocel @middimidoris

[anaeve1224]

Hello my friend,

I just wanted to stop by based on the nature of your account and send you a bit of much needed love. Your strength and perseverance, even though you shouldn’t have to work so hard, is something beyond admirable. I know that it will have little effect telling you I was in your exact position quite a few years ago and this disorder continues to ruin me, but I figured I’d still leave a little message as I know EXACTLY what you’re going through. Okay, maybe not the exact specifics, but I know the extreme suffering you are going through and that you deserve to be recognized and congratulated. Despite it all, you continue to still exist. The worth you hold is insurmountable and unequivocally important. Give yourself a break for me. Take a moment to reflect on how far you come and get excited for what will come. Despite your struggles, you leave your mark on this world in such a beautiful way. Things will be okay. I can’t promise soon, but I can promise it will. Stay curious about the future. Find something to strive for. Remember everything good about you (and you are not allowed to say there isn’t anything). The fact I am leaving this message means there’s at least one person who knows your presence and will be impacted if you’re gone. I encourage you to get help asap, but it’s okay if you are also not ready. Do your best to stay safe and remember to give yourself a break. You deserve peace of mind and soul. Don’t settle for anything less.

You matter. Your struggles matter. Your story matters. Your suffering matters. You are worthy of getting better and impacting the world even more.

I am rooting for you. I see you. And I know it’s hard, but, though you shouldn’t have to, you will get through this. I’m sending you love and peace.

-Your new friend <3

this is the sweetest thing ever thank you honey 🥹🫶 im not quite there yet but i hope you know that when i do start my recovery journey, you will be in my heart the whole time, thank you so much for the kind words and encouragement ❤️