#mothers are omniscient beings

[purrfectlycontent]

i may be going insane

[carefulfears]

how many of you would get mad at me if i said that mulder fucking another woman while wearing scully’s crucifix necklace is one of the most romantic things to ever happen….like, gothically and punitively so….it’s like….well, it’s like…it’s like “aw boohoo he has to get laid because he’s so sad his partner is gone” but like for a person who never allows themself any indulgence or respite or attention, who therefore only has sex as penance. only in blood. and it’s like…yes, it’s self-harm, in many ways, but in many ways it is also confession. crucifixion, as a laying down of sin. bless me father, for i can’t save them, and i miss them anyway. crucifixion as being watched over…when he asked maggie, “why did she wear this?” and maggie answered, “because i gave it to her.”

[pttucker]

As the roar continued on, the 'King of the Underworld' addressed me. [Now, go.] Hades didn't even look at me when he said that. Even though he didn't, he was still looking at me. He had always been looking at me. [< Underworld > is your ally from this moment on.]

Yesssss. Such an epic scene.

But, more importantly, we've cemented the fact that not only have Hades and Persephone been watching him from basically his first moments, it was Hades who first found him (everyone did say that Hades liked Dokja even if he doesn't say much) and that Dokja was actually prophesied to come hundreds of years ago.

Which I think is interesting because them receiving a prophecy specifically about their successor finding the end isn't quite the same as when Dionysus said that the end was prophesied to come.

Aside from this particular prophecy, we haven't really seen anything else in the entire Star Stream that can see any information about Dokja, including his future, except for maybe Anna Croft who may or may not be able to see it. (Upon reflection, I've started to wonder if maybe she could just see it at that time due to how thin the Fourth Wall was on the island? I guess we'll see.)

Of course, that's only if it turns out Dokja actually is the one in the prophecy.

Maybe it's just vague enough to not technically be about Dokja and so there was wiggle room to make it about Dokja since they are, ultimately, the ones to choose their successor?

Except they don't actually want Dokja to succeed them.

Hmmm.

Also, it makes sense why Persephone and Dionysus were immediately so warm to him and Dokja himself has thought back on certain events (when talking to Dionysus back in chapter 334) and realized that maybe he'd gotten a little lucky.

Or, at least he was almost lucky. Dokja did specifically mention the Even Bridge in the very beginning of the novel and how it just randomly appeared when they were in trouble and we all know how that turned out...

[venomgender]

it hurts

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

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

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

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

Warnings: traumatic childbirth, blood, semi-suicidal thoughts, Aemond is fantasizing about murder again, all the angst

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: I don't understand why, but thanks so much for all the support I've gotten from this horribly angsty fic! This is my first go at angst so I really appreciate it. I'm gonna work on two happy-ish fic chapters before I get started on When It Breaks, but it's coming...

And a huge, enourmous thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ripdragonbeans for being my betas for this! I was so anxious about getting this absolutely right and they were so kind and encouraging. Love yall forever 💜💜💜

Taglist is done via reblogs

Series Masterlist

What is Broken

She was so light, his ābrazȳrītsos.

Even while carrying their children – their sons – Aemond swore she was lighter than when he left. He held her close to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder and her legs draped over his forearm. With every step, he could feel more of the liquid that had spilled from her womb - now mixed with small, hateful tendrils of blood -  dampening his sleeve.

Gods, how much blood had he seen in the past year? How much had he spilled himself? There had even been times when he reveled in its metallic tang. But the sight of her blood was nothing less than abhorrent.

He ran faster, until he could not make out the faces of those he passed, shouting for a Maester to be sent to their chambers immediately. One of them must be a servant. With luck, the Maester would already be there when they arrived.

She cried out as he began to ascend the stairs, wincing with each step, her weak grip on him tightening. “It hurts, Aemond.”

“I know, my love.” He slowed down, though his pounding heart urged him to do just the opposite. “I’m so sorry. The maester will be here soon, and he’ll help you feel better, hmm?”

“He has to stop it. It’s too early,” her voice cracked, and Aemond’s heart with it. “They’re not ready!”

But it couldn’t be stopped, not by man or gods. Their children would be born today. The only question was whether they would survive. If their mother would survive. Her poor body was so weak, and her heart… he had broken that, too.

If any of them died today, that blood would be on his hands, and he would gladly accept his damnation to the worst of the seven hells.

“Come now,” he chided gently as they reached the corridor to their chambers. “Our sons are dragons – they will be strong. And so will you, ābrazȳrītsos.”

“Sons?” She lifted her head, her entire body trembling with the effort it took. Her eyes – those beautiful eyes now gilded by the setting sun outside the windows – locked with his. “How… you sound so sure.”

Just one more lie. One more, and then he would never lie to her again.

Besides, this lie was small, nearly inconsequential. Many fathers insisted that their children would be sons until the child itself proved them wrong. It would be so easy for her to believe. The truth would hurt her – perhaps weaken her further. Aemond did not want her to hear Alys’ name. She should never have to even think of that witch ever again.

But he could not bring himself to do it. He could not sully the birth of his sons with yet another lie. He pushed their door open with a shoulder, never breaking her gaze. “Alys told me after you left. Before… she had a vision of us holding our sons. I’m so sorry, love.”

She slumped again, her face dropping into the curve of his neck. Once, she kissed him there, slept with her head tucked there. Now, it was simply where her head lolled. “I’m glad it’s sons. You’ll have two heirs…”

Her words were cut short by a gasp of pain, but Aemond heard it clearly. It echoed in his very bones. So if I live, you’ll have no more need of me. The gods had just crumbled the ground beneath him, his heart and soul with it. He was falling, falling, falling…

“I am glad, too.” He set her down gently in the bed, brushing away several tangles of hair stuck to her sweaty brow before arranging the pillows around her, hoping he was adequately managing to hide his devastation. For he could not bear to be without her, could not bear to love her only from a distance. He would go mad. Yet he would happily accept that horrible fate if it meant he would not lose her to the Stranger. “Mother will be, as well.”

“Mother!” She tried to rise, but he held her softly to the bed. “I can’t do this without Mother, Aemond. We must return home immediately!”

“I am afraid that is not an option, Princess.” Maester Artos stood just within the doorway, maids and Septas streaming in behind him. He was a mountain of a man, better suited to the battlefield than the birthing bed. But he was good at what he did – very good. Aemond had seen him work miracles on men who should have never survived their injuries.

The moment the women began attending to his wife, he approached the Maester, speaking quietly so as not to frighten her. “Something is wrong, Artos, she is bleeding. And she’s very weak.”

Artos hardly acknowledged him, looking only at the princess lying in the bed. “The blood is not the problem. She is distressed and too thin.” He stated, as cold and clinical as all other Maesters.

“Yes, I know that already.” Aemond took a shaky, calming breath. He did not like the way Artos observed her, as if she was a thing to be studied rather than a woman – a princess. Perhaps when it was all over, he’d kill the man for it. “I fear she is not strong enough to survive this.”

She cried out behind them. Two maids were pressing damp cloths to her forehead. Another was hastily braiding her hair back. A Septa had begun cutting away her dress, leaving her only in her chemise as two more maids removed her slippers and stockings. Two other Septas knelt by the windows, praying, while one woman who seemed to be neither maid nor Septa laid metal and wood instruments atop a tall, thin table.

It took every ounce of Aemond’s self-control not to go to her. To shove away each woman because it should be him – and him alone – to touch his wife while she was so vulnerable. He should be the one to protect her, but he couldn’t. He could only hurt her, it seemed.

“Artos!” Aemond hissed.

“Is her spirit weak as well?” There was suspicion in his dark eyes. The same he’d shown when he confirmed Alys was carrying a child. If he hadn’t been so proficient a healer, Aemond might have killed him then.

But for now, Aemond was glad Artos was alive. He swallowed, avoiding looking back at the bed as his wife continued to whimper and moan. “Yes.” The maester just hummed before approaching the bed. Aemond followed, kneeling at the bedside, the maids immediately clearing away.

“This is Maester Artos, ābrazȳrītsos.” She stared wide-eyed at the hulking mass of the man who now knelt between her legs. Aemond tugged on her hand, her gaze snapping back to him. “I know him well. He’s going to take very good care of you, I promise.”

She shuddered, her eyes closed tight as she squeezed Aemond’s hand so hard he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. He delighted in it. She was not as weak as he thought, thank the gods. If she needed to break every bone in his hand – in his body – to live through this, he would let her do so without complaint.

“Are you going to stay with me?” she asked, her voice already ravaged by screaming.

Aemond blinked. When they first learned they were to have a child, he swore he would. But now, it seemed impossible for her to want him there. Not after what he’d done. “Do you… want me to stay?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out but another moan of pain. Her eyes darted all over his face. The longer she stayed silent, the further Aemond’s stomach dropped, and his heart ached.

“I believe it wise to have the prince wait outside,” Artos said decisively.

Aemond felt her hand slide out of his, the sensation the same as if he were falling from Vhagar’s back—her answer.

He nodded, and though he knew he shouldn’t, he leaned over her and kissed her forehead, trailing a hand down her cheek. “I love you.”

As he walked to the door, he still held a little shred of hope in his heart, waiting to hear her say it back.

It never came.

The moment the door shut behind Aemond, she regretted sending him away. She wanted to call him back so she wouldn’t be alone with so many strangers. But panic began to set in as the maids pulled her gently down the bed, and her voice failed her.

“It won’t be long now, princess,” the maester said, but she found no comfort in it. She couldn’t even remember his name. Alton? Alyn? Amos? Aemond had said he trusted him, but…

But that meant he had been here when Aemond was with Alys. And that glint of pity in his eyes, not just for her conditions, but for what he knew. He knew. Seven Hells, he’d probably been the one to care for Alys and her pregnancy.

Alys. Alys, Alys, fucking Alys!

She did not know what to think of the woman who had stolen so much from her. Had she stolen it, or had Aemond given it? She could hardly make sense of what she’d learned in that dreary little room.

Alys was not the evil, scheming witch she had first imagined. But neither was she innocent in the affair, not wholly. She was not remorseful for her actions, but she apologized for hurting her. She had been kind.

Blinding pain shot through her, and she screamed. Wordless and desperate, her only outlet for release. She needed to scream, needed to roar, needed to breathe fire. Anything to distract from this. Gods, she even wished for a moment for Alys to be there, holding her hand. At least then, she could return some of that pain.

“Princess,” the maester said, though he sounded far away. Though it was more likely that her shouting was drowning him out. “Very soon, I will ask that you push. Do you know how, your highness?”

Push. That’s what the septas had instructed Helaena to do at the birth of her twins and for Maelor. She even had vague memories of the word from when she peeked through the open door to her mother’s chambers when Daeron was born. But what it meant and how to do it?

Her confusion must have been apparent, for the maester continued. His voice was frustratingly calm and steady. “It is fine if you do not, princess. You must simply follow your instincts. When you feel the urge, push the child outward with all your might.”

“I have no might.” She heard herself laughing through tears and only then realized she was crying. Someone took her hand – she didn’t know who. But the feeling of another’s skin on hers was heavenly.

“You have carried these babes for months,” the maester – Artos! that was his name – said gently, “while your husband and the realm were at war. In my estimation, you are the mightiest woman in Westeros.”

She felt nearly every muscle she had tense, turning her answering grateful smile into a grimace. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have weathered her pregnancy as well as a paper boat in a storm. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not still love her husband after he betrayed her. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have let her emotions weaken her or put her children’s lives in danger.

She was far from the mightiest woman in Westeros, and she could not do this. She wasn’t strong enough. She was only a weak and broken little girl.

A maid approached, a fresh cool, damp cloth in her hands. The princess had not looked at any of their faces, too absorbed in her pain and panic. But now, she caught the eyes of this girl—deep, rich brown, so similar to her own – to her mother’s.

“I want my mother,” she whispered to the maid, even knowing it was impossible. “I can’t do this without her.”

The maid gaped at her as if she could not fathom a princess ever speaking to her. She looked to her companions for guidance, but the princess only looked into the maid’s eyes and thought of her mother—the scent of the rosemary oil she used in her hair, the warmth of her embrace, and the soothing tones of her voice.

“Please, I want my mother,” she begged. A new surge of pain gripped her, radiating into her legs. They were coming faster now; she barely had time to breathe between each wave. “Please.”

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness.” The maid’s voice was high and breathy, nothing like her mother’s. “The queen is not here.”

She cried, turning away from those false eyes. She was alone – entirely and utterly alone.

“Princess, I need you to be strong now.” Artos’ sweaty brow was furrowed with half a dozen creases, his eyes wide and mouth a firm line. He looked more like a commander on a battlefield than a maester. The Grand Maester would have smiled at her, but he was not here, either. “Your labors are progressing quickly. It is nearly time to push.”

“I don’t know how,” she cried. She refused to open her eyes. If she kept them closed, she could almost imagine she was home.

Artos wrapped his hands around her ankles, pushing them upwards and further apart. “You do, princess. The Mother wove the knowledge into your body. Listen to it, and all will be well.”

“I – ”

Her next scream rattled the room, the keep, the entirety of the Riverlands.

Fire, ice, steel, and claw seemed to rake down her spine to her thighs. But Artos was right; her body reacted to the pain, her muscles moving near-unconsciously to force the babe out of her womb. She followed the instinct, pushing it harder, harder, harder.

“Very good, princess!” Was that Artos or Orwyle? She couldn’t tell anymore.

It was never-ending.

Pain, pushing, and a brief moment of reprieve.

Again.

Again.

Again.

It lasted hours, days, perhaps even years.

Was a child – a son – even worth this pain? How could she love someone who had tortured her so? Would she ever be able to look at him without remembering how she suffered?

Pain.

Pain.

PAIN.

Then –

“Stop, princess!”

She went limp, vaguely beginning to feel other sensations creep in: the coolness of the water on her forehead, the slight scratching of the sheets beneath her, and the hushed whispers of the maids and midwives.

The pain was still there, but softer. Less insistent.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice nearly unrecognizable, even to her.

Artos emerged from between her legs, relief painted over his harsh face. “Nothing is wrong, princess. It is simply time to be gentle and allow your body to do its work.” He smiled, chuckling under his breath. “I can see your babe’s white hair – quite a bit of it.”

Laughter bubbled up in her throat. Deep, joyous laughter. Another slight wave of pain passed through her, but she didn’t care at all. She was thinking about her niece and nephew, how Jaehaerys was born with nearly a full mane of silver frizz while Jaehaera had not a single hair on her head until she was over a year old. “He has hair?”

“Yes, although I do not know yet whether it is a boy, princess.”

“It is. He is.”

There was one more brief surge of pain, and then she heard her son cry.

It was torture to wait outside while his ābrazȳrītsos screamed with pain. At first, Aemond stood leaning against the wall, as Aegon did when Helaena began her labors, but his knees failed him when he heard a scream that rattled the world.

He’d been on the floor since, resisting the urge to cover his ears. But he had caused her this pain, so he must listen.

He would be in that room with her if he hadn’t been a weak, damnable fool. He would have held her hand, letting her release her pain onto him. She had only squeezed his hand once, yet he still felt the ghost of her touch on his skin. He would savor that pain for the rest of his life.

It seemed to be never-ending, the torture his son was inflicting upon her. How could he ever forgive the child for doing this to his own mother?

Then, it stopped.

Aemond leaped to his feet, panic infecting his blood like a disease. Why had she gone quiet? What was wrong? Was she dead? He couldn’t face –

A babe cried—his first cry, with his first breath.

Their son.

He tried to push the door open, but it was locked.

“Let me in!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the door. “Artos, let me in!”

There was no answer, but he could hear soft voices inside. None sounded like hers. Oh gods, had she brought their son into the world at the cost of her own life?

Aemond slammed himself against the door again and again, not caring for the damage he was doing to his own body. “Open the door now, Artos!”

He threw himself against the wood again and again. At some point, it had to yield. Either it would, or his body would.

It opened just before he launched himself at it again—not all the way, but it was open. Then, Artos stared at him through the gap with his hateful, disapproving gaze.

“Let me in,” he growled. Trying to force the door open was useless, as the maester was practically a giant and, apparently, throwing all his strength into holding it closed. “If you don’t let me see my wife, I swear I’ll – ”

“Your wife has not finished her labors yet, my prince.” Damn him, the mountainous bastard. “But I am pleased to inform you that she has borne you a son.”

Though he knew it was to be a son, the words still shot through him. A son. His son. Their son.

“Is he healthy? Is she?” There was no more fight in his voice. The warrior prince had vanished, replaced only by the husband and father. By all the gods, he was a father.

Artos nodded. “The boy is small but healthy. Your maester may have miscalculated the date of conception. He is remarkably healthy for being born so early.”

“And my wife?”

“She is tired, but well. The second babe is not quite ready to emerge, so she is resting.”

The weight of all the world was lifted from his shoulders. He felt like the little boy he had once been on Driftmark, wanting nothing more than to see his zaldrīzītsos and take comfort in her embrace. “May I see her? Please.”

“I’m afraid not, my prince.” Artos at least had the decency to sound genuinely apologetic. “She needs this rest. With the first birth, she was wonderfully strong, more than I could have ever imagined. But I fear she has depleted her strength. She fell asleep the moment it was done.”

“Is… is it bad that she fell asleep?”

Artos sighed, his eyes turning to the floor. “Ordinarily, no, but with how thin she is, how weak… it worries me.”

No. No, no, no. “Is there anything you can do? To help strengthen her?”

“I am afraid not, my prince.”

“Well, do something. Do whatever you can.”

A soft moan came from behind the door. Ābrazȳrītsos. Aemond pushed against the door, opening it as far as he could to try and catch the barest glimpse of her.

Her eyes were nearly closed, her reddened cheeks making them appear as dark as night. Her chemise was soaked through with sweat and whatever other fluids came out with their child. But no blood beyond what he already knew to be there.

“Ābrazȳrītsos! I’m here!” He shouted. It took a moment for her to look his way. He could have sworn she smiled. “I’m with you! You must be strong, my love. I know you can be. I love you! I love you so much, ñuha zaldrīzītsos!”

Artos pushed against the door, forcing Aemond back. “That is enough, my prince. Upsetting her will only drain her strength.”

Aemond knew it was true, that his presence would likely upset her rather than comfort her. So, he stopped resisting and allowed the maester to close the door. Just before it closed, he whispered one final command, “Take care of her, Artos. She is my world.”

The pain returned, worse than before. The lightning crept down her spine again, but it was now accompanied by a great force set on tearing her body apart at the seams. Pushing brought no relief, nor did it seem to move her son any closer to the world.

Artos came to her bedside, resting the back of his hand against her brow.

 “It’s worse this time,” she confided in the maester when it finally ebbed. “It’s so much worse. Why?”

He sighed and sat on the bedside, his massive hand nearly eclipsing her head as he stroked her hair. It made her feel remarkably like a kitten. “I cannot say, princess. There are many possibilities. This child could be larger, in a slightly different position, or…” He hesitated. “As I said, there are too many possibilities for me to be sure.”

His pause unsettled her, but it soon faded away when another wave went through her. “Is he nearly ready? I can’t do this much longer.” At least she knew what to do this time, so surely it would be better.

“Ah, another son, is it?” Artos stood from the bed to examine her spread legs. Several maids gently moved her to replace the sheets beneath her. “Not yet, but soon. Your motherly instincts will tell you when.”

Motherly instincts. Gods, she was a mother now. There was a child on the other side of the room that she had given birth to, that she had grown within her. A son who would depend on her for his entire life. Her, and his father.

Aemond would be a good father, she knew, even if he were decidedly lacking as a husband. But as a father, he would be attentive, kind, and loving. He would give their sons all the love he was denied by their own father.

They would not repeat the mistakes of the past. They would love their sons. They would not ignore them, speaking to them only to scold them. They would teach them the language of their ancestors themselves instead of relying on tutors. As soon as they were old enough, they would teach them how to be compassionate and fair rulers. They would not force them to marry for political advantage or the continuation of the bloodline but let them fall in love, as they had.

She could see them now. Both with white hair and unruly curls. Bright lilac eyes. The elder would take after her, but with Aemond’s determination. The younger would take after their father but with her gentle temperament.

As if the vision was summoning her second son, she felt her body constricting, muscles tightening. Without fear, she began to push.

“Princess, stop!”

Artos screamed as if someone was holding a sword to his throat, desperate and panicked. His eyes were wide and bulging as he looked from her face to where her second son should be emerging. “You mustn’t push now, princess. Not once. I…”

He stood, pulling one of the Septas aside. Others followed, and their frantic, poorly hushed whispers grew louder. She knew the sight should frighten her, but she forced herself to remain calm. Aemond said he trusted this man and had seen him work miracles. Whatever was wrong, Artos would fix it.

She was sure.

Artos burst out of the door without warning. Aemond pushed away from the wall. “Is it over?”

The maester sighed.

Shit. Seven Hells and all the Gods.

“Your wife is strong, my prince,” he began. Holy gods, he sounded as if he would cry. “Enough so that I would have little doubt that she could deliver your second child, but…”

“What’s wrong?” Aemond felt his heart race, his blood surge, his finger twitching for his sword. He was going into battle, but this was not a battle he could fight with steel or fire. This was not a battle he could fight at all. “Artos?”

“The babe is not in the right position.” He moved his hands as if it would somehow make Aemond understand what he was saying.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the babe cannot be born, your highness.”

No. This couldn’t be happening. Not after everything she had suffered and survived.

“If she were to continue her labors, neither she nor the child would live.” Artos put a hand on his shoulder, an attempt at comfort. “I can save only one. Who survives… that is your decision, my prince.”

The gods were cruel to force this upon him – the very choice that had damned their family decades ago when Viserys chose to sacrifice his wife and queen for the chance at a son. That was where the seeds of destruction had been sown.

Aemond could not repeat the mistakes of the past. He would not be like his father. He had his son and heir. A second would be preferred, but not at the cost of his ābrazȳrītsos.

His ābrazȳrītsos, whose heart would break to lose her son. Who would never forgive him if he decided to –

He couldn’t choose. He couldn’t let her die, and he couldn’t let their son die.

He couldn't live without her, and he couldn’t take away her will to live.

He tore himself out of Artos’ grasp and stormed into the room.

Aemond threw open the door, his eyes wide and wet, and suddenly, she was not so sure that Maester Artos would fix whatever was wrong.

He ran to the bed, not sparing a glance at their new son. She burst into sobs the moment he took her in his arms. “Oh, ābrazȳrītsos,” he whispered into her hair as he kissed her temples. She entwined her fingers with his, desperately squeezing. “I’m here now. Everything is going to be fine.”

Liar. Sweet Liar. Beloved Liar.

“I want Mother. I want Helaena.” Her voice crackled with tears and exhaustion. Everything hurt. Someone – most likely her – was crying, though it sounded distant. And if Aemond was here, not waiting outside…

If Aemond was here, holding her hand and stroking her hair, it meant something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“Mother is not here right now,” he said, squeezing her hand tighter. He wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t meet her gaze. “And Helaena… she can’t be here. I’m so sorry.”

“She told me she would hold my hand like I did for her. She promised!”

“I know. I know, my love, but it is not possible.”

Because Helaena was dead. So were Daeron, and Jaehaerys, and Jaehaera, and Maelor, and Otto, and Ser Criston, and nearly every other person she loved. Aegon would be dead soon, too, then she would only have her mother and her husband.

Her mother, who had begged her to forgive the husband who betrayed her and broken her heart.

“I can’t do this alone, Aemond. I can’t.”

“You can, I know it. You are so strong, dearest.” Yet there was no confidence in his voice.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear his hair out just to make him hurt, too. “I can’t! I’ll die if you make me, Aemond, I know it. I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.”

He pursed his lips, eyes narrowed. “My love, I…” his voice faded, leaving them in total silence, save for that distant crying.

Then, he kissed her—not the soft kisses on the temple or head of the past fortnight, but the way he had kissed her when he said goodbye all those months ago. His lips slotted against hers perfectly, and she opened for him on instinct. She knew she should stop, push him away, and scold him, but she couldn’t.

Everything felt wrong—her entire body felt wrong. But this, kissing Aemond, felt right. Her desperation for comfort far overpowered her anger and resentment. Her trembling hand rested on his shoulder, her fingers bunching in his shirt. She pulled him closer, wanting more—more rightness, more connection, more feeling.

More Aemond.

But he pulled away, resting his brow against hers as she chased his lips again. He placed a hand on either side of her face, holding her still. “I’m going to fix this,” he rasped, his voice shredded by fear and desperation. “I will fix this, I swear.”

Then, he let go.

He stood from the bed and turned away from his wife.

He was leaving. He was fucking leaving her.

She screamed his name, cursed him, begged him to come back, hurled insults, and cried for him. He couldn’t do this to her, not after everything he’d already done.

This was not love. The heat that burned in her chest was not love.

It was hate.

For the first time in her life, she truly hated Aemond.

“Alys!” Aemond bellowed as he descended the stairs to the servant’s quarters, taking the steps two, three at a time. No one dared approach him. Not even Artos had tried to stop him as he ran away from his ābrazȳrītsos.

She may hate him forever for this, for leaving her when she was so weak and scared.

Fine. It would be worth it.

“ALYS!” The door snapped from its upper hinge as he tore it open. The witch was precisely where she’d been when Aemond left, her hand on her chin as she looked into the fire. What vile hell did she see in her visions now? “Alys!”

“I heard you, Aemond.” She did not look at him, only staring at the flames, those green eyes flitting around as if she were reading a book. “The entire continent heard you.” There was no humor in her voice, no hint of a smile on her face.

He swallowed, panting. He was crying – weeping like a little boy. That didn’t matter now. Very little mattered now.

Aemond fell to his knees before the witch with whom he had destroyed his life. He would do whatever she asked, destroy what little was left of his pride if necessary. “I need your help, Alys. Please.”

“She’s dying?”

“Yes. The maester said I had to… that I had to choose who to save.”

“And you can’t choose between her and the child.”

 “No, I – ” he swallowed as his voice shattered. He was going to vomit. “I can’t, Alys. I can’t. Please.”

“What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” She was colder than the Wall, than the entirety of the lands beyond it.

“Save them, both of them.”

Alys’ eyes narrowed. Her face was painted with an expression he had never seen. He had no clue what it meant. “What would you sacrifice,” she asked flatly, “to ensure your wife and her children – your true heirs – live?”

“Anything,” Aemond croaked, “Everything.”

One corner of her sinful mouth lifted in a way that did not bring him comfort. She sighed as if taking the time to thoroughly consider his plea. The wicked bitch was gleefully stalling when the lives of his wife and child could end at any moment.

“Please, Alys,” he begged again, desperation crawling through his veins like spreading ice. “I cannot live without her, and she will never recover from her grief if she loses the babe.”

Something passed over her face, and she smiled fully. “You have always been a man of loyalty and nobility, Aemond.” Her grin sharpened as she laid one delicate hand upon her belly. “Almost always, at least.”

“Alys,” he growled in warning.

“Oh, don’t be a beast about it,” she scoffed. “I will do it – save them. If only in memory of our time together.”

Aemond sagged as relief swept through him, but it did not last long. She was still dying. The babe was still dying. Whatever Alys would do, she needed to do it now. He opened his mouth to command her to start, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“I promise it will be done.” She flung her hand to the door in dismissal. “You should be there for her. She is still so very frightened.”

He needed nothing more to run back to his wife.

She was alone. Even with Maester Artos and the dozen women hovering around her, even with her son cooing softly from the cradle by the window, she had never felt so alone.

Aemond was gone.

He’d left her. Without even a goodbye, he’d left her. He had not even stopped to meet his son.

Artos murmured something to one of the Septas, who quickly gathered the other women on the far side of the room. He approached the bed, again seating himself upon the edge, and pressed the back of his fingers to her brow briefly before petting her hair. “How are you feeling, princess?”

“Am I going to die?”

He hesitated in answering. “I cannot say for certain…”

“I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.” Her heart constricted as his fingers brushed against a spot where Aemond had kissed her. “You told him, now tell me.”

“Very well,” he sighed. His harsh face fell, and she swore she could see his eyes glistening. “The babe is breech. It should emerge head-first, but it is not. It’s… the way it is attempting to come out is nearly impossible. Should I not intervene, one or both of you will die.”

No. No, no, no, it wasn’t fair. To suffer for this long, to endure what she endured, only for her child to enter the world wrong? In a way that would kill them? She had always been good and devout. She prayed and studied holy texts, listened to her Septas and the Maesters, and avoided sin at all costs. Then why was she being punished?

Unless… the gods had not sent this to punish her.

Aemond had abandoned her and their marriage – their holy union – when he slept with Alys. It would be fitting, and very like the gods, for him to lose that which he had forsaken. She and her second son were merely instruments of punishment. But it wasn’t fair.

“There is nothing you can do?” She felt hollow as Artos continued to look at her in pity.

The warrior-maester looked as if he were about to cry, as well. “In these situations, it is usually asked of the father whom he would rather save.”

So that was why Artos left the room – to ask Aemond whether to save her or the child.

“Who did he choose?” Either answer would devastate her. He would either prove the fragility of his love for her, or he would willingly break her heart by killing their son. Whatever he chose, he would become a kinslayer thrice over.

“He… he did not, your highness.”

“What?”

“I explained the situation, and he stormed in here – to you. When he left, he said nothing. He just ran. I presumed he had…” But he hadn’t. Had not said a word about the peril she and their son were now in.

A coward. Too frightened to maintain his vows of marriage. Too weak to admit his wrongdoing. Too cowardly to even make this most crucial of decisions. The gods damn him.

If they hadn’t already.

“So… what will you do?” If she had to be the one to make the decision, so be it.

“There are three options.” None of them were very good, she knew, simply by looking at his forlorn face. She had thought him a grave man when she first saw him. Now, he looked mournful – a reluctant harbinger of death. “I can forcibly remove the child, more than likely killing it in the process. I can attempt to save it and, in so doing, certainly kill you. Or we can proceed with the birth, risking killing both of you and pray that the gods may be merciful.”

Such a choice – a decision of life and death – should be difficult. It should tear away at the soul to condemn another. It should be far beyond the limits of the heart or mind.

But it was easy.

“Save him,” she whispered. “Let me die.”

Artos frowned deeply, shook his head, and said something in return, but she did not listen – she could not and would not hear his words. She only vaguely saw him move to the end bed, ripping away the sleeve of his robes as he barked orders at the maid and midwives. Perhaps the gods were merciful to dull her senses now so she could pass peacefully.

What did it matter if she died now?

She will have fulfilled her duty and given her husband his heirs. Finding a new wife would be easy – what woman would not want to marry him? Even if news of Alys spread beyond the walls of Harrenhal, surely it was nothing in exchange for a crown. Aemond would have everything he needed to be king.

If she lived, what sort of life would it be? To raise one son while constantly mourning the other. To be the wife of a man she could no longer trust. To remain empty, a shell of her former self. She would be alive, but she would still be a ghost.

“Save him,” she said again, her voice fading.

It was easier this way. Hadn’t she already learned that it was easier not to fight? Letting Aemond take care of her was easier than fighting him. Perhaps it would be easier to let him care for the children, too. He would love them enough that they would not feel her absence.

Distantly, she felt pressure between her legs, then heard her firstborn son cry out to echo her own screams.

Her son.

Oh, he had no name.

She couldn’t leave him motherless and without a name.

Months ago, she had decided on names, but they were hard to remember now. What was it? She could grant him this one last gift. She just needed to remember…

“Daeron.”

Yes. It had been her brother’s name. Her kind, brave, daring brother. He died some months ago. There had been a battle. Why was her little brother fighting? He was too young for that.

Tendrils of pale mist crept into the edges of her vision, playfully willing her to sleep.

Once she was gone, Daeron—her Daeron—would have a little brother, too. He would need a name as well—a strong name, a courageous name. When she was dead, he would need courage.

“Aenar.”

A strong name. With courage enough to forge a new beginning.

There. Names for her sons, the little princes.

With that last parting gift, she could close her eyes at last.

Goodbye, she tried to say.

I love you, my children.

Be kind to each other.

Love each other always.

Goodbye.

The mist filled her vision, illuminated by a distant light. It was cool, like a late spring morning. She did not hurt anymore. Did not feel anything but an overwhelming sense of peace.

The distant light faded.

The mist darkened.

Through it, she swore she could see grass-green eyes and hear the faraway cry of a babe.

She was still screaming. Good.

Screaming meant she was still alive. Screaming meant Alys was fulfilling her promise. Screaming meant that Aemond was racing back to his wife – his living, breathing, beloved wife – and not her corpse.

The door was still locked when he arrived—one final obstacle between him and his family.

No, not final. Far from it. The door was the only tangible thing keeping him from his wife and children, yes, but there was far more beyond it. The pain he caused her, the hatred his ābrazȳrītsos now surely felt for him, and the third child that would soon be born still kept them as far apart as the earth and stars.

They would get past it. They had to. They were siblings, husband and wife, now destined to become King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They were meant for each other. The gods or fate or whatever else had made her for him and him for her.

They were two parts of the same whole, cleaved.

“Prince Aemond.”

Cregan Stark, the man who humiliated him and his wife mere hours ago, stood behind him. Aemond snarled. “Leave. Now.”

Stark stood strong and still. “You have been my enemy. You may be still, I have not decided. I have no admiration nor respect for you, my prince. In short, I do not like you.”

“Do you want me to kill you?” Aemond asked. He did not wish to greet his sons with blood-soaked hands, but if Stark didn’t close his fucking mouth –

“To lose the woman you love so dearly in this way… it is a pain I know all too well and one I would not wish on anyone. I have instructed all my men to pray for the Princess and the child, and I will join them soon. Negotiations will be postponed indefinitely.”

“I…” Perhaps Aemond had underestimated the brute, if he was a brute at all. And though he knew the prayers were unnecessary, gratitude still dulled his rage. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

He simply inclined his head and walked away, leaving Aemond leaning against that godsdamned door, listening to nothing but the sound of his own panting breath.

Oh gods.

He froze.

The screaming was gone.

It was silent.

Was she dead?

Had Alys betrayed him?

He would kill her. He would tear her apart with his own hands and –

A child cried.

Then…

Oh, thank each and every god a thousand times over.

For then, Aemond heard his wife laughing.

“Princess?”

She always expected that the voice of the Father would be deep and smooth, but shouldn’t it be the Mother to greet her, given how she died? And shouldn’t the gods greet her by name, not her title?

“Princess, it is time to wake up,” the voice said again. “Open your eyes for me.”

Oh, her eyes were closed. She should open them.

The Heavens were not as bright as she imagined, nor as golden. They were dark and sparsely decorated and looked very much like –

“I am not dead?”

Maester Artos looked down at her and smiled. It reminded her of the few times she had seen her father smile at her, sparking a warmth in her chest she had not felt for years. She had not known she still remembered those smiles. “I am very happy to say you are not, your highness.”

“But, my son – ”

“He lives, too.”

It couldn’t be. After all the suffering of the past year, she could not believe it could be true. Loss had become a certainty, as sure as the sun rising each morning.

A babe cried, and she turned toward the sound. A young maid was wrapping an infant boy with a shock of white curls in a cobalt blue blanket. Daeron.

A different, softer cry came from the other end of the room. There, another boy with only a smattering of silver wisps atop his head was being gently cleaned by a Septa. Aenar.

Her sons – alive and well and here.

She threw her head back against the pillows and laughed.

She laughed with joy and relief, with eight months of eager waiting and sickness. She laughed with a body nearly dead, saved only by some miracle she did not understand. And she laughed with a heart that was both shattered and overflowing.

This was the moment she had dreamed of since she learned she was pregnant, since the moment she married Aemond. She had dreamed of this all her life. It was her destiny, even if it was vastly different from how she had dreamed it. For she was not at home in the Red Keep but within the cursed stones of Harrenhal. Her mother was not by her side but miles away. The family that was supposed to crowd around her and coo over the children were nearly all dead. And her husband…

“Let me in!” he shouted through the door, the wood pounding against stone as he threw himself against it. He had been doing that before, but she did not notice until now. It was so like him, the impatience and need to act, that she laughed again. “Ābrazȳrītsos! Is that you? Tell me you are safe!”

Taking her laughter as permission, Artos opened the door. It was mere heartbeats later that Aemond was upon the bed, his eye flitting over every inch of her, his hands roaming to try and locate something wrong, to stem blood that did not flow or relieve pain that did not exist.

“I’m fine,” she said, breathless. “I did it, lēkia, and I’m fine.”

“You did it?” He looked down at her in utter disbelief and joy before his eye drifted to the Maester. Tears slipped from his eye and caught the light of the setting sun. “She did it…”

Her gaze went to the maid that held her firstborn – the girl with eyes like her mother’s. Fitting, for her to be the one to hold him. But it was her turn. “Bring Daeron to me,” she ordered,” some strength at last returning to her voice. “I want to hold him.”

Aemond stared at her. “Daeron?”

Was he angry that she named their sons without him? She couldn’t quite tell. Her mind was still fuzzy, like the mist she had seen still lay over her, casting everything in a sweet, happy light. She shrugged. “There are already too many Aegons, so…”

He laughed. She had missed that sound – she loved it so dearly. He settled into the bed next to her, their bodies fitting together perfectly, like two halves of a broken plate. So many familiar feelings – the warmth of his arm around her, the rhythm of his heart, his lips kissing her temple in the gentle way that always sent shivers down her spine. Hadn’t her spine hurt not long ago? “Daeron is perfect.”

Indeed, he was absolutely perfect. So tiny and precious as he was put in her arms, looking up at his parents with wide lilac eyes. Neither she nor Aemond said anything as they beheld him, taking in each tiny, perfect detail. The wild curls of his silver hair. Each and every eyelash framing his bright eyes. The pink of his lips. Fingers and toes so wonderfully soft and small. A toothless smile that lit the world.

“He’s going to be king someday,” she realized aloud. How could someone so tiny rule an entire kingdom? He had a lot of growing to do before the Conqueror’s Crown would fit.

“A great king, I think,” Aemond mused. He held out a finger, and Daeron instinctively wrapped his hand around it. “Wise and strong. Daring, like his namesake.”

“He must be kind, too.”

“He will be,” Aemond assured, brushing out her damp, tangled hair with his fingers. The feeling was so familiar, but each touch had her flinching slightly. “We will raise him to be kind. His brother, too.”

“Aenar.”

Aemond stiffened. Had he forgotten they had another son, or did he not like the name she gave him? He pulled his finger back from his son’s fist to touch the babe’s hair. “The Exile?”

“I just thought…” Perhaps it had been a foolish name. But it had felt right when it came to her, when she was on the brink of death. “Our family needs a new beginning.”

“Yes… I suppose it does.” He kissed her again with slightly too much pressure. “Another fine name.”

She looked at the Septa that had been cleaning him. Maester Artos stood with her now, along with several other women, crowding so much she could not see the babe. “I want to hold him, too. Bring him to me.”

None of them moved. The room fell silent.

“Allow me just a moment longer, princess,” Artos said. His voice shook, and he would not look at her or Aemond. “I am still finishing my assessment of the boy.”

He’s dead, her mind insisted. They saved your life at the cost of his. He died because of you.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

Daeron began fussing in her arms, disturbed by how she began to tremble. She failed one son by killing him, and now she was already failing as a mother to the one who survived. Aemond tightened his arm on her shoulders, pulling her closer as his free arm gently lifted their son into his own grasp.

He hushed her, ducking his head to press his cheek to hers. “Lykirī, ābrazȳrītsos. Izūgō daor īlo bēvili gō.” Calm, little wife. Do not panic before we have reason to.

“Kostan daor,” she whimpered. If Aenar was dead…

“Is he alive?” Aemond’s hand moved to shelter Daeron’s head as if to shield him from whatever danger or heartbreak lurked. She turned to press herself into him – into the safety of his arms.

Brother. Husband. Protector.

Why did the feel and scent of him no longer make her feel safe?

“Yes, my prince,” Artos answered.

“Will he remain that way?”

“Yes…”

“You could tell me he’s green-skinned and winged for all I care.” His arm curled protectively around her, but it did not comfort her. Rather, she bristled against it, the possessiveness of it. He did not notice. “He’s alive, and that’s enough. Bring him.”

Artos hesitated but obeyed, hastily wrapping the babe in a dark blanket.

He looked whole – unbroken. Aenar’s eyes were closed as the Maester placed him in her arms, but she could feel his warmth, his little heart beating, and the faint rise and fall of his chest. He only woke when a tear fell from her cheek onto his.

Even then, he did not cry. He only looked at his mother with bright eyes – the same shade of violet as his father's and brother’s. “Ñuha trēso,” she whispered, and he smiled. My son.

“Taobosa sylvȳse,” Aemond added. “He already recognizes the language of his ancestors. He will serve his brother well. Dārys sepār Ondoso zȳhon.” Wise boy. The King and his Hand.

They had two perfect sons. So why did Artos still look like that?

The Maester’s frown deepened. “I am afraid…” he cleared his throat. “It appears that the younger prince was injured during the birth.”

She examined him again but could find nothing wrong. He was perfect. Surely, Artos was mistaken.

“May I?” His large hand hovered over the edge of the blanket.

Her instinct was to pull away, to not let this man touch her son. Yes, he had saved both their lives, but he must be wrong now. Why should she let him make a problem where there was none?

She suppressed that instinct and allowed him to uncover Aenar’s right arm. Artos’ demeanor had made it seem as though something was horribly wrong – that the arm would be missing or deformed. But it was just an arm, small and plump and pale, with a splotch of reddish-purple covering the shoulder like a pauldron.

“It… is it a birthmark?” She brushed a thumb over it, the skin smooth but slightly raised. A birthmark wasn’t an injury, nor was it exceedingly unusual. There were several families where such a mark appeared on nearly every child born.

“Explain yourself, Artos,” Aemond hissed. He looked ready to tear the man to pieces. If he did, he would likely do so without even setting Daeron down.

With a sigh, Artos ran a finger down the length of Aenar’s arm. “Note how he gives no reaction.”

“So he is calm,” Aemond spat. “I fail to see the injury.”

“Do the same to the elder.” He repeated the touch. “Gently, my prince.”

Aemond obeyed with a scowl. The moment he touched the babe, Daeron squirmed and flailed his arm.

“But he looks fine.” She looked down at her second son, her wise boy, and held out a finger, as Aemond had with Daeron. Aenar’s left arm squirmed within its wrappings, but the right was still. She touched the arm, silently pleading with the gods for it to move, for that tiny hand to reach for her.

It remained still. A desperate noise escaped her. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aemond and Artos said in unison. Her husband attempted to pull her into his chest, but she pushed him away. An embrace could not fix this. Nothing could. He did not pursue her again.

“It is not uncommon among children born breech.” the Maester explained. “I have seen many such injuries and many even worse.”

Artos offered no sympathy or apologies, and she was thankful for it. There was nothing he could say to ease the pain of knowing that her son would never be whole, just like his father. But unlike Aemond, he was never even given the chance, wounded from his first breath. What would the people call him? ‘Prince Aenar One-Arm, son of King Aemond One-Eye?’

“What do we do?” She asked her husband, the Maester, the gods. Anyone who may have an answer.

Aemond’s face was drawn with grief – for his son and for himself. “He will adapt, as I did. I will ensure it. He will be stronger for this. I promise.”

I cannot trust your promises.

The thought was a sudden gale of icy wind scattering the lovely mist coating her mind into oblivion, leaving her with only stark, wicked reality and the faint memory of green eyes.

“How did I survive?”

Too quickly, Aemond turned to her, taking hold of her chin and pulling her close to him. “It does not matter, ābrazȳrītsos. All that does is that you are still with me. You and Aenar.”

If he wasn’t holding her firstborn, she would have shoved him from the bed.Liar. Liar. Liar.

I will fix this. he’d said before he left her. The pure, unrelenting anger she felt as she watched him leave had prevented her from considering what those words meant. Now, she could think of nothing else. What could he do? He was no midwife nor Maester. He had no knowledge of childbirth, beyond the few questions he’d asked of Orwyle months ago. What could he have done for her and Aenar except beg the help of another?

Of Alys.

Alys, who had eyes the color of fresh grass and possessed a dark magic that allowed her visions of the future. Was she also able to influence that future?

How?

At what cost?

What had Aemond promised her in exchange for their lives?

“No Maester wants to admit to ignorance,” Artos smiled sadly as Aenar continued to try to wriggle his left arm free of his blanket, “but I cannot explain it. All I can think is that the gods are kind to you, princess, and for that, I am glad.”

She could not look at him or any of the others in the room who watched her as if they could see the Mother’s hand upon her shoulder.

The gods weren’t kind. They were cruel to allow her to now owe her very life, and that of her son’s, to the two people who had destroyed her. Would she ever be able to look upon Aenar and not remember? To not feel her soul torn between unyielding hatred and infinite gratitude?

Yet, she had her life – and her sons. Surely anything was worth that.

Wasn’t it?

“I’m tired,” she said. The day had seemed to last a year, and the sun had not even set. “I want to rest now.”

After what she endured, no one argued.

His ābrazȳrītsos fell asleep mere moments after Daeron and Aenar were settled into their cradles. She did not even wake when Aemond lifted her so the servants could replace the soiled bedding. Just as she had so many times before, she tucked her face into his neck as they sat in the window, sighing contentedly. Now, he lay beside her in the bed, trying to memorize how it felt to have her in his arms.

When she woke, he knew she would never allow him to hold her like this again.

She knew. Somehow, his wife knew what he had done to ensure she and Aenar survived, and she would never forgive him for it for as long as she lived.

But she would live.

Aenar would live. Though he would bear the wounds of his father’s sins forever.

After his wife had fallen asleep, Maester Artos had told him that it would likely be necessary to amputate Aenar’s arm. The purple mark on his shoulder had grown, apparently indicating further bleeding within the limb. If it grew much more before morning, the arm would be removed before midday.

It was his fault, Aemond knew.

Alys had told him that in her visions, both boys had been healthy. But that was before his ābrazȳrītsos knew that he betrayed her. Before he brought her to this cursed place. Before he failed to stop her from meeting Alys and learning the full extent of his sins.

He only hoped Aenar would not grow to hate him for it.

For now, the boy slept in his crib, limp arm hidden beneath the dark blanket he was swaddled in. Aemond rose from the bed, moving closer to his son.

How peaceful he looked now, with the redness of his skin finally faded. He did not have as much hair as his older brother, but his was wilder - more reminiscent of his mother’s curls than his father’s straight locks. At least he had that part of her, if not the warm brown eyes Aemond had hoped for.

In the other cradle, Daeron fussed slightly, though he did not wake. It seemed he resented being confined within the tight swaddle of his blanket. The thought made Aemond smile, remembering how his younger brother once did the same. It faded quickly.

He had to go to Alys. To thank her for giving him his family - a kindness he did not deserve. To say goodbye to the child he would never meet. Another cost he would force himself to pay.

He had to go now, while his ābrazȳrītsos slept.

“Before our wedding,” he whispered, careful not to wake her as he approached, “I promised to hold you every night I could, that I would do anything to return to you when I was away. I have failed to uphold that promise, and for that, I am so sorry.”

When he stroked her cheek, she turned into his touch, a small smile upon her lips. Seeing that some unconscious part of her still reacted to him with love warmed his heart, even as the knowledge that her conscious mind would never allow her to do so felt like a dagger buried in his gut.

Aemond knelt at her side, basking in her beauty, memorizing her peaceful face. “Now, I swear my devotion again. I know you no longer wish for me to hold you, and I promise I will not try to persuade you otherwise. But I swear I will always be with you, to love and protect you, even if I must do it from a distance. I will never fail you again.”

It did not matter that she could not hear his vow. Even if she did, she would not believe him. But he made it anyway, for his own sake, and so the gods, wherever they may be, would hear him. It was to them he spoke next.

“Should I ever harm you again, I pray that the gods will strike me down where I stand. And if they do not, I shall do so myself.” He kissed her brow - the sealing of a promise and a farewell - and left.

A maid shrunk away as she passed Aemond in a corridor deep beneath Harrenhal, cradling the bundle of cloth she carried closer to her chest. It was one of the same maids who had tended to his wife—the young girl with deep brown eyes. She did not wear the clothing of a midwife, but the colors of her linen dress were similar. Perhaps a midwife in training.

Strange, then, for her to be here. Stranger still for her to be seemingly performing the duties of a laundress.

He glanced down at the bundle of cloth she carried and froze.

There was blood. Too much blood.

A young midwife, carrying bedlinens soaked with blood.

What would you sacrifice? Alys had asked.

Aemond ran.

He knew what he would find. There was no other explanation. Yet he still hoped and prayed he was wrong. Loss had followed him like a loyal dog for so long, but today it was banished. It must be.

Alys stood in front of her fire. One hand rested on a stomach that was not as distended as it had been only hours ago.

His wife’s stomach now looked very much the same.

“What did you do?” His voice shook with fear and guilt and shame. Gods, he felt so weak.

Her eyes, cold and distant, slid to his. “What you asked.”

“I didn’t ask you to…” This blood was on his hands - the blood of his child.

The word that had haunted him for more than a year - the word that had nearly led to the death of every person he ever loved - echoed in his mind.

Kinslayer.

Killer of his nephew. His uncle. His child.

Aemond looked back into the corridor, hoping to see the young midwife again. Had he not looked closely enough? Had she been carrying the body of his child within those bloody linens?

“I only wanted you to save my wife and son.” His words were a justification, a plea. It fell on the deaf ears of the gods and the dead child’s mother.

“And you thought there would be no cost?” Alys laughed, cruel and cackling. “No god in the world is so generous as to save a life and ask for nothing in exchange, boy.”

“I didn’t think – ”

“You never do.”

Grief morphed into anger. Reckless, aimless, dangerous rage. “You should have told me!”

“What would you have done?” She faced him fully now, her hand falling to her side. There was no trace of the woman who had once comforted and reassured him - who had kept him sane amidst the insanity of war. There was only annoyance and derision. It reminded Aemond of his dead half-sister and her bastard sons. “If I had told you?”

“I –”

“Would you have left your wife to die? Let her son die?” Alys’ lip curled in a hateful sneer. “You could not choose between wife and son, yet you believe you could have chosen between two sons?”

The world stopped. Only Alys’ flickering fire and burning eyes remained.

“I… it was a boy?” Aemond leaned against the wall, sliding down to his knees, savoring the scrape of the rough stone against his back. He deserved every bit of pain. More.

Alys let a single hint of sorrow slip through her cold façade. “It was. Three sons within a year. What your father would have given to have had the same.”

The last thing Aemond wanted to do was to think about his father. The king who had nearly destroyed his throne by choosing one child over another.

Gods, was he any better?

Did his ignorance of his son’s sacrifice absolve him of blame? The guilt?

It certainly didn’t feel like it.

Alys sighed. “Better for his death to mean something than for his life to be spent destitute and fatherless.”

“I would not have allowed that to happen,” Aemond said. It was a reflex, a reassurance he’d grown used to giving since he learned he seeded a bastard.

“Wouldn’t you? Perhaps if my visions had not changed. But now…” She shook her head, more exasperated than sorrowful. Did she mourn the child at all? “No. You’d have wanted us as far away as possible and done anything you could to not think of us.”

“I would have ensured your comfort.” The words felt as hollow as his chest.

“Your wife would, yes.” Alys smiled fondly, just as she had when his ābrazȳrītsos sat across from her earlier that very day. She had never smiled that way for Aemond. Never truly cared for him. He should have known. “She is kind-hearted. But not you. Your resentment of me, of us, would have festered until you found some way to be rid of us.”

He wanted to deny it. To say that there was nothing that could drive him to do what she insinuated. Once, it would have been true. But now, with the man he’d become in the war and how close he’d come to losing his heart itself, it would be a lie.

If he had killed Alys along with the rest of her cursed family, would he have become this man? Would he have learned to cherish the metallic tang of blood and its warmth as it coated his hands? Would he have become so proficient a liar that false words rolled off his tongue like a Valyrian lullaby? Would he have grown so accustomed to violence that it now came as naturally to him as loving his wife?

Would he have broken his ābrazȳrītsos’s heart?

He’d trusted her visions. It had been a mistake.

One mistake that led to thousands more, and it was all her fault.

Alys was the one who lied, who deceived him. Who had pulled his strings as if he were no more than a puppet, knowing that he was married and his wife was lonely and infirm.

His failure as a husband. His wife’s pain. The death of his third son.

Her fault. Her fault. Her fault.

Aemond’s heart slowed, his breathing becoming deep and steady. No longer the heart of a broken boy or a desperate husband. Now, it was the blackened heart that had carried him through countless battles and raging rivers of blood.

“I will be rid of you now,” he hissed as he stood. “And I will be rid of you forever.”

The bitch had enough sense to look scared.

“In memory of the son you killed, I will allow you to live. But no more than that.” She didn’t even deserve that, this woman who did not mourn her own child. Perhaps it was good that the babe was gone, for surely he would have suffered with a witch as his mother.

He approached Alys, sneering down at her and the false bravery on her wicked face. “As Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I banish you from these lands forever. You have ten days to leave Westeros. After that, if you are ever seen here again…” He reached out and grabbed her by the throat, holding just tight enough to steal a bit of her breath - just enough to make her fight for it.

“I will kill you myself,” he promised. “Without hesitation or remorse, I will kill you. Slowly. And I will savor every moment, for it will bring me far greater pleasure than that withered cunt of yours ever did.”

She fell to her knees when he released her, clutching at her throat as she coughed and gulped for air. He didn’t care. He only turned on his heel and left, not sparing a single glance at the woman who had only hours ago been carrying his bastard child.

Only one woman mattered now, had ever truly mattered to him.

His ābrazȳrītsos was still asleep when he returned to their chamber, as were their sons. They had no idea where he had gone - that he had even left at all. No inkling of the fact that a moment ago, he had again become the man who wiped an entire bloodline from the earth, slaughtered tens of thousands, and delighted in the suffering he had wrought.

Now, as he leaned down to gently kiss his sons’ brows and muss their soft hair, he was a mere man of twenty, his heart bursting with love and affection for his family. How could a heart overflow with such love at the same moment it was fracturing with grief and regret?

It was a question far beyond him at that moment. Perhaps forever beyond his reach.

He was so tired. Too tired to consider the heartbreak that would come when he woke in the morning and his wife pulled out of his grasp. He could face that pain when it came. But now, he needed to feel whole, if only for a few hours.

So, Aemond climbed into bed with his wife, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her into his chest. He remained awake only long enough to kiss the top of her head and whisper, “Jāla tetan, ābrazȳrītsos. Īlon lentot selagon kosti.” It is over, ābrazȳrītsos. We can go home.

She woke to the sound of Daeron fussing. Strange how quickly she was able to tell them apart, even just by their little noises of discontentment. Although, considering she had been with them every moment of the last seven - near eight - months, it may not be strange at all. Perhaps that was why she felt so sure that it had been Daeron who occupied the top of her belly, constantly pestering her with his tiny fists pounding against her at the most inopportune times.

“Hush, little prince,” a soft voice said. “You’ll wake up your mother, and after what you and your brother put her through, I dare say she needs her rest.” A maid was speaking to him, a slight, old woman leaning over his crib. She had not seen the maid before, and somehow, it comforted her.

Daeron continued to grumble. She moved to stand but found Aemond’s arms wrapped around her waist. Thankfully, he was still asleep. Quite deeply asleep, apparently, for when she untangled herself from him, he did not wake.

The maid curtsied when she saw the princess approaching and stepped away from Daeron’s cradle. His fussing had now roused Aenar, but the younger prince made no sound, only glaring at his brother in what seemed to be intense displeasure at his sleep being interrupted.

“Is something wrong with him?” she asked the old maid. Daeron quieted slightly upon seeing his mother but still fussed.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, princess.” The old maid had a kind, soothing voice - that of a wise grandmother. She looked at the babes with fondness and a hint of apology. “They are simply hungry.”

“Where is the wetnurse?” She immediately regretted asking. In her sleepy haze, she had forgotten that Alys was the wetnurse at Harrenhal. Why wasn’t she here? Did she even want Alys here? No, of course she didn’t. Had Aemond requested another be found so she would not have to see Alys again?

The old maid looked away, sighing. “I’m afraid she’s left us. No wonder why, poor thing lost her babe again. Such a shame. We all thought she’d had a miracle with this one. But not to worry, Maester Artos sent some men to find another girl from the closest village.” She shook her head and again leaned over Daeron’s crib. “You’ll be fed soon, darling prince, don’t you worry.”

Alys’ child - Aemond’s child - was dead?

It was a good thing, wasn’t it? There would be no bastard son of the new king, no living reminder of what he’d done. This was good news. She should be happy, shouldn’t she?

But she wanted to cry.

“Mother, forgive me,” the old maid looked horrified as she clutched her pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star. “I should not have said that, princess. Not when you’ve only just finished your own labors. Please, forgive me.”

She glanced at Aenar, now peacefully asleep once more. How close she had come to losing him. It had devastated her. Made her willing to forfeit her own life if only he could live. If she had lost him and had to live with that loss… it would have driven her mad.

“How…” she licked her lips. “How many children has she lost?”

The old maid dropped her pendant. “I do not know, exactly. Enough that we all stopped counting.”

Oh gods. She blinked to clear her eyes, wiping away an errant tear with her thumb. “You said she’s gone?”

“Yes, princess. She left in the night. Didn’t say where she was going, to my knowledge.”

It made no sense. If Aemond had struck a bargain with Alys to save her and Aenar’s lives, why would she leave? Had whatever he offered her not been enough to keep her in the place where she’d lost so many children?

Daeron cried again, his face reddened and wrinkled. He was so hungry, she could nearly feel it herself. She… she could feel it. When she looked down at herself, she saw two dark stains on her chemise right above her breasts. Her milk had finally come in, which meant -

“I can feed them.”

The old maid looked aghast. “Princess, there is no need - ”

“I want to do it.” She was their mother, why shouldn’t she be the one to feed them? It was her body that made them, that brought them into the world. It made sense that it would continue to care for them even now. “Can you show me how?”

It took a moment for the maid to close her mouth before she smiled gently. “I’ve raised nine children myself, princess. I think I know a few tricks.”

The maid had gone by the time Aemond woke.

Daeron was still suckling at her left breast while Aenar had fallen asleep using the right as his pillow. She had not realized how heavy and uncomfortable they had felt until the boys had drunk from her, easing the pressure that she’d become accustomed to.

“You should not be doing that yourself,” Aemond muttered as he raised himself on an elbow. His eye darted from son to son, only ever glancing over her exposed breasts. Once, he loved to worship them, quite similarly to how his sons fed from her now. “Where is the wetnurse?”

Did he not know that Alys had left? Had no one told him of the death of his child?

No. Those were the faint remnants of tear tracks lining his cheeks, and there was a deep sadness in his eye that was not there when he held his sons for the first time. He knew. He knew, and he was grieving, though he was fighting to hide it. She still saw it.

Perhaps that was the real reason he never returned to King’s Landing during the war - he knew she would be able to see the guilt on his face.

“There is no other wetnurse,” she explained gently. “Alys left. They’re looking for another woman now.”

Aemond froze, his gaze growing distant. She could not decipher his expression. Rage? Guilt? Sorrow? Grief?

“I’m sorry, Aemond.” He frowned and shook his head, but she continued. “Truly, I am.”

“It’s better this way,” he whispered. He didn’t believe it. Neither did she.

He reached out to her. No, not to her, but to Aenar, gently stroking his hair. She allowed him to take the babe and hold him against his own chest.

Aenar opened his eyes and looked up at his father. Then, he smiled.

Aemond took in a deep breath. “That boy should never have existed,” he said, letting Aenar take hold of his thumb and mouth at it. “I already had what I needed. And wanted.”

So it was a boy. Another son. A brother for her own. Would he have had his father’s nose, as Daeron did? Or his stern brow, like Aenar? Gods, why did she care?

“You are allowed to mourn him. He was innocent. I bear him no ill will.” Bastard or no, a babe was a babe, blameless of his parents’ sins. Deep in her heart, she mourned him, as well.

Again, Aemond shook his head. “I cannot mourn what never should have been.” He turned his head to face her, face open and pleading. “And I am mourning too much already.”

“I am alive. Aenar is alive. There is nothing to mourn.”

“You know that is not what I mean, ābrazȳrītsos.”

She did. He mourned not for the loss of a life, but for the loss of their life. The life they should have shared, and would have, had Aemond not strayed. In truth, she mourned for it, too.

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment as Daeron finally finished feeding, stretching his little arms to push her breast away. She pulled her robe closed again to combat the chill.

Aemond raised a hand to help her. She flinched away. He winced in response.

“Ābrazȳrītsos, please.” His voice was already breaking, his eye watering. The sight should have tugged at her heart. His begging should have fanned the flames of her anger. But looking at him, she felt very little of anything, save a small seed of pity. “Alys is gone. My… the bastard is gone. Can we not return to the way we were? Pretend none of this ever happened? Can’t you forgive me at last?”

The answer came without hesitation.

“No, Aemond.”

Within her, there was no longer a grassland, barren with loneliness and despair. The never-ending field of raging fire had also vanished. In its place was a small, lush garden, safely contained within tall stone walls draped with flowers and a polished iron gate – locked firmly, but perhaps not sealed forever.

“I shall always be your sister, your blood, and the mother of your children.” Daeron cooed, as if he knew she was talking about him, and she could not help but smile down at him. “I will remain your wife in the eyes of gods and men. And when Aegon dies, I will be your faithful queen.”

Aemond shook as his breath quickened, failing to keep the heartbreak. “You will be a wonderful queen, ābrazȳrītsos. I know it.”

She pulled away, taking Aenar from him and into her empty arm. “But I will never again be your ābrazȳrītsos.” She forced herself to ignore the whimpering, broken cry that escaped him, the breath that carried it echoing like a death rattle. “I will not share your bed. And I will no longer allow you to hold my heart.”

Between desperate sobs, Aemond raised his head to face her. Utter devastation lay in his eye, but so too did acceptance. Anguished surrender. “My heart is and always shall be yours.”

I don’t want it, her mind told her, even as her heart cried, I will cherish it forever.

But her decision was made. In all but name, their marriage – their once legendary romance – was finished. A few fragments of love remained but would never be repaired. Could never be.

Slowly, she rose from the bed, her sons still in her arms. Aemond began to reach for her, but when she did not even acknowledge him, he covered his face with his hands and wept. Though it tugged at her heart, it was the same she would feel for any man weeping so, no longer the instinctive pull of a wife. She did not comfort him.

The soft, pitiful sounds of Aemond’s grief faded as she walked toward the eastern window, settling herself in the cushioned seat just beneath it.

Daeron smiled, watching the trembling branches of an oak tree dotted with the first tight green buds of the season. Aenar angled his head just so, until the sun warmed every bit of his fat, pink face, then promptly fell asleep. She sighed, taking in the sweet scent of spring on the wind, and realized she had not breathed so easily in months.

It was a lovely morning in Harrenhal.

[stories-and-chaos]

Something I’ve been pondering about Stolas and Octavia, especially since the mid season 2 trailer. So we as the audience know how unhappy Stolas is in his marriage. We saw his reaction to the engagement and Stella’s picture, how disengaged she was when Via was a child, the way she talks about him, and evidence that Stella has been physically and emotionally abusive.

We’re omniscient, we even know well before Western Energy that she’s hired Striker as a hit man. So we’re aware of how awful this relationship has been for Stolas.

Octavia isn’t. Stolas has been protecting her from Stella’s behavior her whole life. He’s done his best to give her the happy childhood he never got. Just contrasting the parent child interactions:

From the looks of it, Stolas has been taking abuse from his father and wife for decades, all while never letting his daughter know. Which is not at all unusual, for an abused spouse to hide it from their children. He’s kept Via out of the line of fire and has masked it so well she doesn’t even realize her parents have problems until the “Not Divorced” incident.

So from Via’s point of view, her dad has suddenly cheated on her mom who is screaming at him because she’s mad. Her dad is now acting bizarrely sexual and not giving her the attention she’s probably used to. We know that Stolas is experiencing a sexual awakening. He’s exploring parts of himself that many people would have as teens and young adults, not their mid thirties. That whole delayed puberty kicking in.

And we know from Stella gossiping with her friends that she and Stolas aren’t intimate. From the sounds of it, the two of them haven’t done the deed since Octavia’s egg was laid. So the girl is used to her parents being cordial in front of her, with no physical affection between them. That’s her normal.

Stolas suddenly hanging all over Blitzø, the dirty talk, him yelling back at Stella. From Via’s perspective her dad became a cheating sex fiend out of nowhere. Stella’s outbursts are probably common enough that the way she’s reacting doesn’t move the needle for Via. Unfortunately we haven’t seen Stella and Octavia interact yet. But Stella is enough of a narcissist that I’m sure she’s portraying herself in the best possible light in this situation, blaming Stolas for everything.

Meanwhile, Stolas can’t even manage to tell Via that her parent’s marriage is arranged, loveless, and abusive.

He tries but can’t verbalize what’s going on. Not that this excuses his behavior. The Loo Loo Land trip was such a disaster because Stolas wasn’t paying attention to Via. But Via is mostly in the dark about her parent’s dynamic. To her, her dad is the one suddenly acting weird and ruining the family. Stolas has insulated her so much from the worst parts of his life that she has no reference point for his unhappiness.

She’s genuinely confused about why Stolas hates Stella. And from the sound of things, Stolas continues to not talk to Via about it. He was hurt enough to be hospitalized for an extended period. But in the trailer we hear Octavia saying “You never loved mother and you don’t love me, you love him.” Which indicates that she’s still being kept in the dark. And she doesn’t know her dad was hospitalized because of the injuries her mom’s hitman inflicted. Stella is actively trying to kill Stolas and their daughter thinks Stolas is at fault.

Octavia is a sheltered teenager who isn’t being informed about what’s going on with the adults in her life. And Stolas in particular is keeping her out of the loop. He doesn’t realize that she’s growing up, becoming independent, and needs to know about what’s happening. Until she finds out the truth of her parent’s marriage she’s going to keep blaming Stolas. Maybe the trailer is faking us out but I get the feeling that the rift growing between Via and her dad is going to break wide open before they reconcile. I really hope Stolas will be able to tell her that yes, he never loved her mother, but he’s always loved his little starfire.

[jfkisonthemoon]

love as an act of consumption in omniscient reader's viewpoint... the obvious example of kdj consuming twsa to survive, but also 1863rd hsy letting herself and the world be consumed because she loves kdj and wants to keep him alive. lsy offering her own story to the masses because she (incorrectly) thought it would help dokja. dokja only understanding her and deciding to try and have a relationship with her when shes consumed by fourth wall. od offering up body parts to help yjh. persephone, who becomes dokjas mother, introducing the concept of stories being sustanence. 999 being the lifetime where yjh decided to live for others, and hes also the kkoma who cooks dumplings for kdj. i just love how orv compares stories to food as something that not only keeps us alive but can have flavor and texture and be a comfort. and then theres the underlaying irony of yjh, the character controlled by the story, being a chef. he prepares the sustanence for others. but he also loves food and takes pride in it. he becomes his own person and he cooks for himself. can anyone hear me its dark in here.

[themissinghand]

Nice to meet you🤗..If the request is still open, Can I ask for Dokja's request for lucky female readers?🥹..Where do reader have high good luck?.The reader and Kim Dokja have known each other for a long time because the reader first started a conversation with Dokja (I'm sure it's fun when Dokja introduces reader to his group😂.) It's okay if not. Just don't be stressed by the requests. I hope the requests don't bother you.. Thank you.. And may your whole day till night be good.. Bye-bye.. Don't forget to take care of yourself.🤗💕

Omniscient Reader Viewpoint Lucky Star

Summary: In which Dokja finds his lucky star.

Or, maybe he’s not that unlucky after all.

Pairing: Kim Dokja x Lucky! F! Reader

Note: Thanks for your patience! Make sure you all take care of yourselves too~

Noona: typically used by younger male to call an older female or sibling.

Warning: None.

★・・・・・・★

If there is an angel in this world, then it must be you.

You were a bright light in his life, providing salvation to him in forms of patience, encouragement, and friendship.

You were his manager at the game company he worked at. Someone who was vibrant and cheerful, who possessed an uncanny ability to turn the mundane into moments of joy.

"Dokja! Let’s go for a drink!" You would say, your infectious enthusiasm pulling him into a world where deadlines and stress would melt away.

But you also knew when to not take in bullshit.

“Hey (Y/N), why are you overreacting? Huh? Just because I didn’t do my work the one time-“

“One time? It’s been a week since you did anything. And you put it on the newbie to finish it?”

“So what? You’re a terrible manager anyway, that’s why women shouldn’t work here-“

A snap silenced him.

“Hey mother fucker, calculate your severance pay. Talk to me like that in the disputes office and see who dies first.”

Kim Dokja heard it accidentally, but from then on, his respect for you has soared above the clouds.

"Dokja, you've got this! I'll teach you the ropes.”

Dokja marveled at your ability to lead the team with outspoken confidence, patiently teaching him the ropes and offering unwavering support when the challenges of the workplace seemed overwhelming.

“Happy birthday to our newbie, Kim Dokja!”

“Merry Christmas everyone! I got some gifts!”

“Ya, let’s go out for a drink everyone! I got the holy bank card from the boss!”

The team loves you for being a beacon of light, someone who could be fun and leader-like at the same time.

Dokja couldn't help but think that you must be cherished by the heavens, as you were blessed with an extraordinary dose of luck.

Like how you would “accidentally” meet important connections and befriend them, leading to successful results in projects.

Or how you would win those in gacha games with the character that you wanted.

“Noona, if you were in a game, your luck stat would be maxed out.”

“I guess so, but isn’t that good?”

Very soon after, little did he know that your luck would soon become a lifeline when the world plunged into chaos.

When the apocalypse struck, Dokja stumbled upon the familiar face in an unlikely place – the convenience store, hastily gathering supplies with a calm demeanor that belied the impending doom. It was then that he realized the depth of her luck, a quality that extended beyond corporate success.

Like how does someone find a healing elixir in a pile of junk food in the convenience store!?

Or how does she find a ultra rare bow in a police station?

What is this unfair world!?

Dokja appreciates your help and your luck, but at the same time, he can’t help but lament on his own life.

Perhaps the luckiest thing that happened to him was dating you.

With such a thought, Kim Dokja’s lips curled up and hugged you from behind.

“What wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Does my good boy want some love?”

Although he was blushing aggressively and in public, he couldn’t help but nod.

[The Constellation ‘Demon-Like Judge of Fire’ is squealing and wishing for grandchildren]

[The Constellation ‘Secretive Plotter’ thinks Incarnation ‘Kim Dokja’ play a main character of a romance comedy show]

[The Constellations have sponsored you 1000 coins]

“Get a room.”

Dokja expected the worst when Yoo Joonghyuk entered the scene, but to his surprise, your life was spared.

“She’s useful.” Says the emo sunfish as he glares at Dokja for absolutely no reason.

(Okay, there might be that one time where he returned a punch, and absolutely wrecked that protagonist…no regrets)

Dokja wants to smack him a few times in the face.

The revelation that her constellation was the Secretive Plotter added another layer of mystery to her extraordinary luck. The constellation seemed to guard her against many dangers, marking her as someone to be protected, though for some unknown reason.

Can’t say Kim Dokja has any complaints about that at all.

You must be protected at all costs.

[The Constellation ‘Secretive Plotter’ thinks her lucky encounters and moments are interesting]

[The Constellation ‘Secretive Plotter’ donates 1864 coins]

Whatever it is, Kim Dokja has no complaints…scrap that, he has too many complaints since he has too many rivals!

“(Y/N), you are my lucky star right?”

“Yep! Don’t worry!” She pats him on the head and he ignores the knowing looks from others on the team.

“Hug.”

“Someone’s needy today.” Kim Dokja gave others the middle finger behind your back as he rested his head on your shoulders.

From that point on, Dokja affectionately dubbed her his "lucky star" or, as they playfully jokes, his "lucky charm."

Whether it was winning luck-based games or navigating perilous situations unscathed, your fortunate aura became a source of both amusement and comfort in the face of uncertainty.

“So, what’s it like raising a puppy as a Sugar Mommy?” Han Sooyoung asks you, who chuckles lightly.

“Han Sooyoung.” Kim Dokja twitched a brow, but calmed down a bit when you held his hand.

“He’s not a puppy, but he’s cute and bites people he doesn’t like. And he protects me well!”

“(Y/N)!” Kim Dokja blushes in embarrassment but couldn’t say anything in his stuttering mess.

Han Sooyoung raised a brow before she mimicked a barfing action.

“Damn girl, you have it hard, I respect you.” She patted your shoulder before leaving.

“Dokja, just like I’m your lucky star and charm, you are my lucky puppy. Okay?”

Looking at your puppy face, Dokja couldn’t say no.

“Fine…just don’t call me that in public…”

Kim Dokja felt a kiss in his nose, and he reciprocated the action by lacing your hands together.

“Aw, who’s a good boy?”

“Stop it…”

Your laughter is music to his ears, and while sometimes your teases make him want to hide somewhere in a hole and die from embarrassment, he loves you all the same.

“Get a room!”

“Shut up you sunfish!”

Maybe cursing at the protagonist isn’t the greatest idea.

(When has that ever stopped him?)

“I will kill you Kim Dokja!”

[odesofmeddea]

house of the dragon viewers who, mostly, are avid shippers of canonical incestuous uncle-niece marriage being so collectively repelled by the mother-son intercourse on-screen they cry and throw up begging for the harrenhal arc to end is so incredibly stupid, i'm not even sorry. daemon's arc this season is the best thing that could've happened to his individual narrative... he's the character who is not very vocal about, or easy with exteriorizing, his inner turmoils and anxieties. what harrenhal haunting does is forcefully dehisces those very intimate things out. although there's an obvious preternatural compulsion toward daemon's more malevolent impulses - as in the horrid compulsion issuing either from the place or the place and alys-entity's converged powers that might as expose and explore as pervert his resentment for rhaenyra and viserys and the simultaneous yearning to be unconditionally loved by them and by his mother into its extreme violent manifestations, - we still get to see way more human aspects of him becoming bare. things unuttered like guilt and sorrow, and regret no one believes him capable of - rhaenyra, laena, and little jaehaerys; fears, vulnerabilities, and the deep sense of emotional disorientation, trauma, and loss that the fandom's manichaean reading aggressively denies him. viserys' favoritism culminates in the decollation of rhaenyra that he himself is perturbed with not because he maniacally harbors harmful deadly intentions on her behalf but because there's an ugly wound that viserys, the family and patriarchal society as inevitability caused him and that alys' (or harrenhal's) influence is exacerbating through manipulation of his tattered psyche.

daemon dreaming his mother - whom he lost at too young age of three to actually establish any substantial proved relationships with - in this sexual role and womb-oriented denouement, in which he is only temporarily full of filial bliss before the ghast at consummation comes over him, is not some sui generis daemon-perversion but a part of his social and psychic character constitution and its study. alyssa's words might as well have been a self-consolatory projection he kept nurturing throughout his life: at least for his dead mother (whom he couldn't really know; dead being void, void being fillable) he was the most beloved, superior, and irreproachable one - the way that he wasn't for viserys and isn't always for rhaenyra, but wishes he was. viserys himself admitting to alyssa favoring toddler daemon most likely fortified this believe and necessity of that believe for daemon.

still, he is genuinely uncomfortable with every single apparition he's been subjected to face so far, and is not deriving a near sexual rapture (as does aemond at having aegon personally maimed) from seeing little rhaenyra accusing him of leaving her and stitching the head of the child he ordered to decapitate, nor rejoicing in the throne room after having her killed. he is not pouncing aroused (albeit he was, at first) on the figment of his bleeding mother to repeat the coitus - even if most of it is psychosexual, daemon is very obviously suffering from the horrors that are self, in situ, but are reflected through the doubles (rhaenyra, aemond) and the other (alys, alyssa).

it's breathtaking what they're doing with daemon this season. his line with alys is on par to the said. it's the best current new pairing in the show, with its own indefinite charm, albeit the pairing potentially being a sinister one. daemon is quite intimately drawn to alys despite the suppressed sense of something eerie in her omniscience. and i find it so interesting and captivating i almost wish it would never end... may daemon targaryen be haunted by his witch-fiend-friend forever!

[professorhayforbreath]

i know i don't shut up but this "percy is an unreliable narrator" bullshit is going to send me over the edge i stg. "oh the book is from percy's perspective that's why sally is being presented differently in the show" percy explicitly says he's never heard sally raise her voice, idk how that's subjective or open to interpretation lol it's an objective observation. yes percy's perspective is limited bc he's a kid and he's not literally omniscient, but at no point does he deceive the reader. he wasn't lying when he described his mother

like if they wanted to show a side of sally percy doesn't know, they should've shown her get frustrated when percy wasn't there. but instead they directed her frustration AT baby percy, directly contradicting the way she's described from his perspective

[pttucker]

"Thank you." The words spilled out and Yoo Joonghyuk replied indifferently. "Don't say anything that isn't in your heart. I know you dislike me." "Of course, I dislike you. I hate you. You are the person who took my role." "I don't know what that means." In Lee Sookyung's head, time flowed slowly. She heard that it should move quickly… then why? Was it because it was hard and difficult? "…I've known you from a long time ago. That kid often talked about you. He came to visit his mother in prison and only talked about this." –This time, he challenged the 12 gods of Olympus. The young face of Kim Dokja as he talked happily. Many thoughts had floated on this child's face. Yoo Joonghyuk spoke like he felt Lee Sookyung's heart rate slowing down. "Lee Sookyung. Don't let go of your mind." Lee Sookyung barely maintained her blurring consciousness. She continued to be drowsy on Yoo Joonghyuk's back. "In any case, at least once… I wanted to thank you." "You are saying things that I can't understand."

Okay, so I've been thinking this for a while now but is Joonghyuk perhaps literally unable to comprehend that he's a character in a novel?

Like, at first I just thought it was a secret (obviously it was) and he didn't know and then I thought that maybe, for some reason, he just didn't care because he's so goal-motivated and has crushed down all his own emotions beyond what's needed to save the world, but now I'm really starting to wonder if he literally cannot process it. Like maybe he has his own version of Fourth Wall but it stops him from realizing that he's a character in a novel no matter what people say.

Like, Han Sooyoung literally calls him "protagonist" to his face but it's Han Sooyoung so it's quite possible he brushed it off as that's just how she sees the world as a writer.

But we also have the fact that people were starting to recognize that the world was following TWSA way back before Dokja got lost for three years, heck people were recognizing it both inside and outside the Seoul dome way back when he pretended to be Joonghyuk for the first time. Since then, rumors have been spread all across the internet and there's apparently still functioning news agencies because Dokja's party members are treated like celebrities.

So you'd think by now that it has to be common knowledge right? If nothing else, Sooyoung can't have been the only person to ever say something weird or act weird around the Yoo Joonghyuk. It wouldn't shock me at all if people haven't tried to interview him like they did with Heewon and Jihye.

So does he genuinely have no feelings in regards to finding out he's a fake person? Do none of the other characters not care either? We've had plenty of POV scenes from other characters but thinking about it, the one time that we see the novel openly discussed is between Dokja and his mom, Dokja and Sooyoung, Sooyoung and Sangah...all non-characters...

And now we have Dokja's mom trying to have this serious conversation with Joonghyuk and he's saying he doesn't understand and while you can take that to mean that he doesn't understand how he helped Dokja since he's only recently met him, I'm starting to wonder if it's not more literal - that he literally can't process what she's talking about.

Like, Dokja literally just got done showing the giants the literal scenes of TWSA and Joonghyuk had no reaction whatsoever. Like, maybe in that particular instance he wasn't able to see those scenes, only Dokja and the giants could, but still...

"Where are your parents?" "I was told they died in an accident." "You don't sound sad." "I can't grieve what I can't remember." Lee Sookyung knew. He didn't remember because it wasn't in the original novel. Everything about Yoo Joonghyuk was just a character setting. From the beginning, Yoo Joonghyuk's parents didn't exist. Lee Sookyung hesitated for a moment. "Yes, humans are like this. Do you think I remember all my childhood?" "…Is it memory loss?" "Everyone gets memory loss. Little by little, we will forget our memories and one day, we will forget everything."

And then on the other side we have this. It almost feels like Sookyung is trying to reassure him that it's normal not to remember things that happened when they were children and she specifically goes out of her way to say humans are like this. Like she's trying to tell him that he's still a human and reassure him that this is normal and not from him literally being a made up person.

So maybe he does know and has just been quietly processing it? Or maybe he does have a Fourth Wall, maybe all the characters do, but instead of blocking them from understanding, their versions keep their reactions to the real world muted whereas Dokja's keeps his reactions to TWSA muted? So they're aware but just can't bring themselves to care???

Like, I could see maybe one or two people just genuinely not caring, and maybe one of those people is Joonghyuk just because of how emotionally exhausted he has to be by now (both him AND 1863rd) but you're telling me that Lee Jihye doesn't have some opinions on all of that? Lee Hyunsung hasn't at least asked Dokja what he was like in the novel? Shin Yoosung hasn't asked about what she did in a future without Dokja taking her under his wing?

And then finally we have this:

Yoo Joonghyuk spoke, "Sometimes I remember things. I remember someone watching me." It was the first time Lee Sookyung heard this story and she wondered, "…Who was watching you?" "I don't know either. There was a gaze watching me for a long time. There were times when I often felt the gaze." After Yoo Joonghyuk's words were over, Lee Sookyung didn't talk for a long time. There was a long silence before Lee Sookyung laid her hands on Yoo Joonghyuk's head and spoke in a gentle voice. "Maybe it was your parents." Lee Sookyung stared up at the sky. Numerous constellations were watching them.

I feel like Sookyung is once again trying to make him feel better by saying it was his parents but at the same time Joonghyuk isn't really connecting the whole "Dokja came to talk to me about you every day when he was younger" to "Dokja knows my entire life story including my future" to "someone has been watching me for years." Or, if he is connecting the two, he's unwilling to verbalize it and just seems like he's side-stepping the whole issue?? So either he can't process that he's a character or can but can't really feel it?

Well, if nothing else, I do love it when we get mentions of Joonghyuk feeling like someone was with him during his hardships just the same as Dokja felt that Joonghyuk was there with him during his.

[distant-velleity]

TRANSMIGRATOR’S GUIDE TO: Yuhua Wei

A “good student,” a “good friend,” a nobody. From that, to the voluntold assistant of Divus Crewel, stuck in the world of Twisted Wonderland where magic and arrogance run rampant.

This is the story of Yuhua Wei, another “Yuu” among many.

You’ve probably never heard of him, or maybe you have. Either way, this new and improved guide will give you a way to start getting to know him!

Below is more information about our self-saving scum protagonist~

PERSONALITY

Yuhua’s outward persona can change depending on who he is with: you could call him a people-pleaser. Around staff and certain upperclassmen, he is respectful and earnest. Around close friends, he is a bit more outspoken and brash, but also playful and encouraging. Around strangers, he is meek but affable when spoken to. So on and so forth. However, the degree to which he speaks his mind is varied—you could compare him to a nesting doll. Always removing or adding a layer that hides his true self, whatever that may be.

He also possesses a manipulative side, which is part of why he tries to appeal to people: so that if he needs to, he can use favorable opinions of him to make his life more convenient. Emphasizing his helplessness or weakness when he cannot do something himself; complaining so someone will take notice of a problem…

Of course, Yuhua would rather not stand out—it would be too much for his insecure, introverted self and too inconvenient. The practical part of him believes that being a polite, respectful side character is the role the universe has decided for him. However, he isn’t above what some would consider slightly immoral. After all, he always adapts to his audience, and in the villains’ world, one must do as the villains do.

ABILITIES

System: The strange aid that Yuhua was given upon transmigrating. It appears in the form of holographic floating screens that only he can see, and makes the world of Twisted Wonderland seem like a mix between a game and reality. The main story books and events are considered to be “missions” for him.

It allows him to check his status, relationships with others, their opinions of him, and possess a hammerspace inventory with more items than he could physically carry.

It also has a strange function regarding memories…

Potions: The System, plus tutelage under has allowed Yuhua to unlock the recipes to and make a vast array of potions, such as healing ones. He mainly uses these during battles.

TRIVIA

Much like how the teachers have their own uniforms, Yuhua also has his own magic-enforced “dorm uniform.” It seems to take inspiration from a Far East fairytale, where a young maiden was aided by her late mother in the form of a beautiful, golden carp. Yuhua wears a locket that is enchanted to switch him into his dorm uniform when he opens it.

He typically wears what looks like the standard school uniform, because 1) it goes under his labcoat in the classroom due to safety procedures, and 2) it makes him stand out less.

Floyd calls him “Koi.” Other students will frequently refer to him as “the TA” or “Crewel’s TA.” His more commonly-used nickname is “Yu.”

Inspirations: Cinderella, Ye Xian, Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint, Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System, etc.

———

taglist (ask to be added or removed): @thehollowwriter @theleechyskrunkly @elenauaurs @casp1an-sea @nahelenia

@boopshoops @skriblee-ksk @scint1llat3 @nemisisnemi @nyx-of-night

[emeritusemeritus]

His Firecracker [Fred Weasley x Gryffindor!Reader]

Title: His Firecracker.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fiancé!Reader [She’s implied Gryffindor]

Timeline: None-specified, set after DH.

Summary: At his engagement party, Ginny asks Fred what attracted him to his new fiancé, his firecracker.

Warnings: Mentions of bullying, drinking, a few swear words. Mentions of the Chamber of Secrets. George trying to wind up his twin.

"How did you know that you loved her?" Ginny asks, subconsciously leaning forward ever so slightly, listening intently to the anticipated answer. One half of the Weasley siblings are sat around the living room at the Burrow, each with a glass of various beverages in hand to toast to the newly engaged couple that they had gathered together to celebrate with.

"Never had to question it, can't remember a time when I didn't," Fred says with a smirk and a shrug, leaning back in the armchair opposite his sister. He was a few drinks deep already, not including the multiple shots of fire whiskey he'd consumed that George had managed to sneak under the seemingly omniscient eye of their mother.

"So what attracted you to her?" Ginny asks, following up from his vague reply. She clutches her own glass tightly and sips from the burning liquid as she listens in, realising moments before that she had never actually asked her brother those questions.

"Beside how hot she is?" George interjects playfully, earning daggers from Fred, knowing that his twin was trying to wind him up. “Why do you think he calls her firecracker?”

"Beside her beauty," Ginny adds, a little more eloquently than her older brother. Fred ponders for a moment, replaying the moment in his mind before letting out a little chuckle, beginning to tell the story.

School had just started back after the summer holidays and you'd entered your fifth year at Hogwarts feeling revitalised after spending the summer with your family and friends back home and on holiday for one of the weeks. Of course you'd missed your school mates and being able to do magic but it was a nice refresher that you needed after the horrible events of the previous year with the chamber of secrets and the petrifications.

It was the third day back and you were sat at the Gryffindor table in the great hall surrounded by your friends, looking forward to enthusiastically tucking in to the wondrous display of delicious food when Ginny Weasley came and sat beside you, looking a little nervous. You'd made friends with her when she first started but after everything that happened in the chamber, you'd really tried to be there for her this year and had stood up for her on multiple occasions against Malfoy and his cronies. You greeted each other fondly and then her older twin brothers who had sat across from you as Neville took a seat beside George.

"What you got there Neville?" You heard Ginny ask in a quiet voice, noticing the book he was reading whilst waiting for the food. He began excitedly explaining how his Gran had sent him up to the attic and he'd found it in an old trunk and how it explained that each plant meant something and how it linked to muggle and magical medicine, reciting different species and their etymology.

"Another example, Milkweed is a native wildflower that means 'let me go' but in reality it's"

"Longbottom, shut up! No one cares about your bloody plants, I've heard enough," Alison Denshaw shouts down the table, her group of cackling witches snickering to themselves around her. Neville looks crestfallen and silences himself immediately, embarrassed by her outburst.

"Oi," you shout back, "I don't give a fuck about your boyfriend cheating on you but it's all I've heard from everyone since we got back so you can deal with plant talk for a little bit longer." You then turn to Neville and with a much softer tone, smile at him and say, "Go on Neville, tell us about Milkweed."

Fred was certain that you'd never been more attractive to him then you were right there, seeing you be bold enough to stand up for your friends and their interests, no matter how dull you secretly thought they were. It was so effortlessly done, so brilliantly witty that he knew he had to get closer to you, to make you his little firecracker.

[angelsdean]

Also, since I'm divorce arc posting today, what if i said Dean wasn't wrong to say this:

CASTIEL The plan changed, Dean. Something went wrong. You know this. Something always goes wrong. DEAN Yeah, why does that something always seem to be you?

LIKE !!!!! Sure it was harsh and if emotions weren't heightened already and Dean wasn't still dealing with the very recent death of his mother and that grief (anger being a stage of grief!) and ALL the Chuck shit on top of that AND his own complicated feelings re: Jack's death (bc Dean was Not going to kill him, despite Chuck trying to manipulate him into doing that) he probably wouldn't have said that to Cas but like?? he's not really wrong.

You can easily trace a lot of the major season conflicts as a long line of dominoes starting with Cas's s6 betrayal. Leviathans. Purgatory. The tablets. Angels falling. Lucifer getting out of the cage via Cas possession. Etc etc. And most of the time Cas was doing things from a place of good intentions in his POV. Trying to fix things or spare others the burden of doing the hard thing. But still, these plans often backfire for Cas. Going it alone, not letting Dean (+ Sam) in on his plans, it usually does not end well !!!! They are TEAM Free Will for a reason. The show (and Dean) continuously emphasizes the importance of team and family and not going it alone. So, while what Dean says to Cas in this scene is definitely a harsh pill to swallow and not something I think Dean would say to Cas in normal circumstances, he technically isn't wrong. And that's what makes it such a heart-breaking scene.

And even more-so, he's saying this but he still, at his core doesn't want Cas to leave. ("Of course I wanted you to stay.") At the moment he needs space and time to process his grief re: Mary, and all the other stuff going on, but he still wants Cas there and ultimately wants to fix things. ("I'd rather have you." "We can fix this." "I was there where were you." etc etc)

But to fix things they need to address his huge persistent, recurring issue between them: not communicating effectively and Cas continuously leaving, going rogue, and/or deciding for them when to involve Dean.

Dean wants to work together, as a team. Dean wants to be involved. Dean wants Cas to not just up and disappear and "deal with things" on his own like he always does. Cas, in his own POV, sees his actions as perhaps a form of care. He's protecting! He's taking on the hardships! Also, his hubris, wanting to be the strong protector type. Wanting to be a warrior. Powerful. Securing "wins." And these desires stem from his years as a soldier of Heaven, of equating worth with Results. Not something Dean has put on him or required of him.

But Dean doesn't see Cas's actions the way Cas perceives them. We as the omniscient audience know more about Cas's motivations than Dean does too. Dean often just sees Cas leaving, prioritizing the mission and shutting Dean out. However, I do think it's important to note that Dean is also usually willing to give Cas the benefit of the doubt, defend him, and forgives easily / implicitly.

They both care deeply about each other and don't maliciously mean to press on each other's specific insecurities and traumas but like, Dean is abandonment issues boy. And Cas keeps leaving. Or ignoring his calls when their daily lives are a constant life or death battle because they are literally living in a horror show! Dean is not unreasonable to be worried when he doesn't hear from Cas for days, weeks, months on end. He's not being "clingy" or "demanding." Expecting some base form of communication from the people you care about is normal in any relationship. Cas refusing to communicate in these moments IS a problem between them.

So, when Dean says, "Yeah, why does that something always seem to be you?" re: Cas being the "problem" it's harsh yes! But it's pushing them toward addressing this recurring issue (Cas going rogue often = plans backfiring) and the root of that issue which is Cas continuing to leave to do things on his own, change the game-plan without running it by anyone, and keeping others out. This moment is a breaking point. Because Dean, under normal circumstances, is generally one to defend, forgive, and move past Cas's mistakes. Cas himself says it in this very scene: "You used to trust me, give me the benefit of the doubt."

But at this point something needs to give, they need an explosive moment to just bring all these issues to light. It's a rupture.

Yes, Dean might "still blame [Cas] for Mary" but Cas also knows deeply, as he expresses to Jack, that Dean needs time and space to process his emotions. That he feels things more acutely and intensely but that ultimately he usually comes to a place of acceptance / forgiveness / is able to move on.

That's what Dean wants and needs in this moment. He needs space to deal with his feelings and his grief (clearly in the anger stage of it). And he also wants to finally address these issues! But Cas is also struggling himself and in his own mind he's feeding old insecurities. He let Belphegor get under his skin. He thinks he's not needed or wanted anymore. So, he does what he tends to do. Leave.

CASTIEL Well, I don't think there's anything left to say. [Castiel makes to leave.] DEAN Where you going?

Cas decides to leave and Dean immediately asks where are you going? Because even now, feeling how he does, he doesn't want Cas to leave.

What Dean wants is to have a confrontation. He wants to get to the root of their issues. He asks Cas why didn't he just stick to the plan. And emphasizes the concept of WE, of being a team. "We would've figured it out....after. With Rowena." He wants them to stick together, work together. But he's struggling. He's grieving. And still, he wants Cas to stay, of course I wanted you to stay.

And I say it all here in this post but the whole "I left but you didn't stop me" is just, Cas really? From Dean's POV he sees Cas's leaving as a choice Cas makes. He respects his choice and doesn't ask him to stay because he also does not feel he deserves to ask people to stay for him. He is always putting his own wants and desires second to those of others. He thinks, if Cas wants to leave, who is he to stop him?

Anyways, I think too much of divorce arc puts blame on Dean or makes Dean out to be "the bad guy" and "the reason" Cas leaves and the one who needs to "grovel" and apologize / be forgiven. But Cas is not blameless. Cas leaves because Cas leaves. Cas leaves because he chooses to and because he does not want to confront the realities of the situation or his own role in their issues. And after Cas leaves he continues to bury his head in the sand and be avoidant (thee core issue!) while also going out and working a solo case in an effort to secure a "win" and prove to himself that he's still capable of getting things right and not always failing.

And all of this, the complexity, the layers, Cas's stubbornness and flaws, is deeply delicious to me. Cas is not a blameless innocent little baby who got his feelings hurt by "big meanie Dean" in this situation. He is someone who heard a hard truth from someone he cares about and made the choice to leave instead of confronting the issue. And throughout it all, they both still deeply care about each other. It's evident in everything they do. And they want to work it out, but are both at different places and struggling with their own feelings too.

[eri-pl]

So I was thinking about the "Not the first" line (as you do)

and it occurred to me what Feanor must have been thinking.

He doesn't know Finwe is in any danger. He is in panic, the Valar want his Silmarils (as Melkor had said), the Trees are dead, allegedly killed by Melkor (yes, for Feanor it would be "allegedly"), Tulkas bullies him and then, when he explains why he cannot (in his opinion, but that's another thing) give up the Silmarils, Namo basically tells him:

You have slain your own mother by the very fact of your existence, you have no right to anything.

Because yes, that's how Feanor with all his trauma would probably understand this. And... we all know how this ended.

I don't think it's Namo's fault actually.

Namo is omniscient and has a hard time imagining how others think. He knows what happens. He doesn't know why people do things.

I suppose he thought he is clearly communicating to Feanor that Melkor killed Finwe (if you think this makes him really dumb: no. As a long-time GM and some-times writer I can tell you: the foreshadowing that seems blatant and enough is usually 3 times too small to give anyone any chance of guessing where the plot is going. It just looks widely different when you know.)

Also, being enigmatic and "style over clarity" is Namo's main character flaw as I see it.

So, as usually, everyone's at fault (mostly Melkor. As usually)

[dollediary]

embarrassed.

pairings ❥ jake x eventual yandere!fem!reader

point of view ❥ third person, omniscient

warnings ❥ descriptions of school violence, bullying, cursing, assault, descriptions of murder, eventual smut, etc

synopsis ❥ after following his girlfriend’s bully victim to the train station one day, jake sees her as human for the first time and becomes intrigued by her. he makes it his mission to befriend her, unaware how much that would change the trajectory of his and everyone’s lives around him.

word count ❥ 3.0k

taglist: open just ask!

ONE.

“watch where you're going, you stupid bitch," soyeon, one of the popular mean girls sneered as she purposefully tripped y/n, making her fall to the ground on her already bruised knees. it's been worse. well, they've done worse; just thinking about what they did to her the week before made her solemnly look at the fresh cigarette burn marks on her arm.

she never had the strength to fight back because their group outnumbered her. she was on her own, susceptible to any and everything they decided to do. pulling her sleeve down, she shook the feeling of dread away not wanting to remind herself that this wasn't just some hell she could get out of once god told her that she passed the test of faith. it was reality. and she stopped believing in god a long time ago. he wasn't going to save her, nobody was.

she let out a sigh getting up. just push through today, it'll be over soon, she told herself. then you can go home and be okay.

but she hated home. no one was ever there. she had no parental figures, they were always out on business trips and they had no time to make more kids to keep their lonely daughter company. she hated the silence there, but it was the only thing that brought her some sort of peace lately.

after school was the worst, as usual. y/n grabbed her bag and quickly tried to make her way to the train station. she made a turn to an alley to make things quicker, but to her misfortune, the remaining people in the group of bullies happened to be waiting for her. she put her head down as they cooed for her to come closer.

she noticed a few of the boys were holding buckets filled with water. toilet, she assumed. she trudged her way toward soyeon who'd made it there before she could, only to receive a harsh slap to her face, one that made her whole head turn to the side. it left an unforgettable sting as she shut her eyes trying not to cry.

“next time walk faster, we came at the same time and it's damn annoying waiting for you. who do you think you are?" she scolded like an evil mother, looking toward some people who were behind y/n . suddenly the back of her knees were kicked in, making her fall to the ground. she winced in pain as all of the impact was on her knees which had already taken so much damage.

soyeon let her friends spit on y/n, smack her, kick her, and do just about anything else that they knew would inflict pain on her. she watched with a smirk seeing y/n be subjected to all of it. "now," she walked closer to the girl, lifting her chin to make her look her in the eyes. "the finale.. ‘cause who wants to be here wasting all day on foreign trash?" she snapped her fingers, signaling for the boys to pour the toilet water on y/n one by one. some even had pieces of tissue in them. y/n hoped that they weren't used, though she was sure they wouldn't be that kind to her.

it was embarrassing, all the laughs she heard coming from them. it was sick how much they took joy in being so terrible. "come on guys, i'm still grounded. i can't be home any later than this, my parents will kill me," y/n heard one of soyeon's friends say before she heard the boys' groans followed by several footsteps walking away from her.

she laid still on the ground, not bothering to move. it hurt too much to do so. she closed her eyes in an attempt to trap the tears that were ready to escape, as she lowly sniffled away some of the burdens she'd kept inside.

it was moments like these where her loneliness was neutral. on one hand, she was glad to be alone because being alone meant peace. on the other hand, it was just another reminder that she was just that: alone.

one student who was with the group of friends had decided to stay back. it was jake, soyeon's boyfriend. he had never personally participated in the bullying, but he didn't dare to stop it as he didn't want the same treatment for himself.

he walked over to her carefully, which she didn't notice all too much. she was still in a daze, not paying attention to the world around her. she'd usually get like this after they were finished with her. sighing, she finally let her tears slip though it wasn't really in her control by then. small sniffles filled the air as she didn't bother to mask her pain anymore. it concerned jake even more. he tapped her shoulder, making her flinch.

"are you okay?" he asked. are you okay? am i okay? was she okay? y/n let the question sit in her head, she sat there thinking carefully about it, analyzing, wondering if it was genuine, how she could answer, or if she should even respond at all.

she looked up from her focus toward the ground and into the boy's eyes. they held a look of concern as he tried to read how she was feeling. she was mesmerized, he was absolutely beautiful. but, she didn't say anything only responding with a nod as she got up quickly, not wanting to cause herself any more trouble.

she knew exactly who he was. that was the problem. she knew who he was and she didn't want to talk to him. anyone but him. anyone but him and his stupid fucking group of friends. i hate them. i hate all of them, she thought as she walked away to the train station, not sparing him a second glance.

he tilted his head and quietly followed behind her, pulling his hoodie up so as to not be seen by anyone who might know him as they made their way to the train station. he had ulterior motives for riding it today, maybe, but he could easily excuse it by saying he needed to take the train home.

when they got on the train, he followed y/n to the very back of it. it was the same spot she always led herself to. she always went straight there because it was the only empty section at that hour. it was never really with the idea to avoid people, though it wasn't like anyone would want to be around her anyways. she put her bag in between her legs as she sat down, unzipping it as she reached for the reusable ice pack that she'd recently bought for her bruises.

she sighed in momentary content, closing her eyes as she felt the coldness against her skin. her muscles relaxed and she became less tense as she moved the ice where it needed to be once each bruise had its designated care time.

jake watched quietly from the corner, seeing how calm she looked. for a second, he saw her as human. not that he hadn't before, but he was now realizing she existed outside of the treatment she endured. he felt bad.. worse than he had earlier. he got up from his seat and shortened the distance between them, sitting next to her.

feeling the slight wind that announced his presence, she opened her eyes and looked at him, feeling herself tense up again. he noticed and put his arms up defensively. "i’m not gonna hurt you,” he says as he reached into his pocket and pulled out 20,000 won and handed it to her. she looked at the money in his hand before looking away.

"for the troubles, heh," he awkwardly sat it on her lap.

“you don't need to buy my silence," she assured him, her voice holding a sadness in it. "the school won't do anything. i couldn't tell even if i wanted to," she shakily picked the money up and handed it back to him, then got up getting ready to move to a different seat. she didn't want anything to do with this guy especially given his status.

however, as she was about to walk away, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back to the seat she was in. she stiffened and closed her eyes, preparing for what he would do. a punch, a kick, a slap.. anything. she was anticipating it, but nothing happened. she opened her eyes to see him sighing and shaking his head. "just sit here. you're making me feel bad."

not wanting to disobey soyeon's boyfriend, she nodded and looked forward, trying her best to be calm. "i’m jake," he said, breaking the silence. "jake shim.” she nodded, not responding. she knew him. everyone did.

"and you're.....y/n, right?" he asked, to which she only responded with another nod. "we're in the same grade, so we're probably the same age...." he trailed off, making her look at him from the corner of her eye, trying to figure out what he would say. "let's be friends," he offered her a smile.

how could one simple sentence throw y/n off so much? be friends? was he delusional, naïve, or just willingly ignorant. sooyeon's boyfriend, her school bully's boyfriend, thinks there's even a possibility of them being friends? was he just trying to fool her?

"why would i want to be friends with you?" her words came out with more attitude than she had intended, and she almost regretted it, but he seemed to understand why she had responded in such a way. throwing his hands up, a small smile and laugh left his lips. y/n quickly looked away so as to not stare at the sight in front of her.

"i can't give any good reasons why, but i also can't give any as to why not," he responded, knowing it was a lie. the list of reasons to avoid each other was more than a handful, he knew that much.

"it would be outlandish." her sentence of rejection was short. it didn't need much word anyway because they both already knew why. he purses his lips in thought. he didn't like being rejected. even if she had good reasons to, he still couldn't quite understand why she would deny him. the silence left a blank atmosphere as y/n sank into her mind again.

jake took that moment to look at her. she was an eyesore, like the human embodiment of grief. and the more he sat with her, the more he became intrigued by the idea of her. a struggling foreigner suffering from bullying, but bullying done by the girl and friends he loved. they were worlds apart; it made him curious. he wanted a glimpse into her world.

"you're lonely," he says, bringing her back into her body again as she freezes up. "and anybody could see that you're like a really, really sad person. so why would you deny friendship when it's so obvious that you need it?" his words sting. it was the kind of internal sting that spread slowly throughout her entire body, the kind that gave her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and she wasn't sure how to handle it.

tearfully, she scoffs, turning her head away from him as she stayed silent doing everything in her power not to break down. was this his intentions? was he sent by sooyeon to further humiliate her? what could she have possibly done wrong in her past life to deserve torment even after her bullies left? it wasn't fair.

it had been only a few seconds of silence since he'd spoken, but she felt like she needed to end it. she was weak, everyone knew, but it didn't mean that he had any right to just throw it in her face like she didn't know it already. he didn't deserve that luxury. taking a silent but deep breath, she turns to him. "i’m right, right?" he chuckles lightheartedly with a smile, but it fades upon seeing her lack of amusement for it.

"i’ve made it this far without one, i’ll make it further without one, too," was all she said. of course, there was more she wanted to say. there was always more to say, but she didn't say it. even though she wanted to be rude, belittle him, or do anything to make him feel as miserable as his clique always made sure she always felt, she couldn't. in the end, he was soyeon’s boyfriend. it wasn't a fight she was going to win. so instead, she gets up and grabs her bag, thanking no god for making the train stop. right on cue, they’d reached their destination, meaning she could finally escape her troubles before she'd have to endure them again tomorrow.

he got up as well, casually swinging his bag over his shoulder. she thought of what she wanted to say to him despite knowing she wouldn’t say anything at all. she walked off of the train, not bothering to check if he was doing the same as she quickly found herself lost in the crowd, a feeling of tranquility engulfing her as she basked in the feeling of being invisible amongst the people around her.

the train stations were a safe place for her. she enjoyed everyone's complete disregard for her existence. they were too busy worrying about getting to where they needed to be to pay her any mind, so she could hide alongside them and pretend she was normal.

but the act was always short-lived, reality making its presence known the second she'd get home to the empty apartment she resided in. taking her shoes off at the door, she let her bag drop down next to her feet before kneeling to unzip it and get out the papers and books she needed to do work on. it was no use. they were all wet and the air conditioning reminded her just how disgusting she was; her clothes were still damp from the water, making her feel burdened to exist in her body.

she put her homework down on the floor, taking a walk of shame to the bathroom as she ran a shower for herself, leaving the room while the water offered soothing background noise to echo in the house.

walking over to her parents' room, opening the door as if expecting someone to be in there, but, of course, the room remained lifeless. the bed was made, and everything was where it needed to be, though there wasn't much to be in place in there anyway. her parents never had the opportunity to truly make the room their own. they just weren't home enough. and they still wouldn't be for another few weeks, in the unlikely scenario that their business trips wouldn’t get extended again. even then, they would change nothing. they never do.

she wanted so badly to walk into their room today. she still wanted to do what she could of her homework on their bed and pretend they were there helping her. it was what she did that on most days after school: playing pretend in there. but she was damp, and dirty, and gross. being on their bed in this condition meant ruining what was left of them. and if she ruined the blankets, she'd have to wash away the last thing her parents left behind of their presence.

she closed the door without a word and journeyed her way into the kitchen. maybe she would try to eat again tonight. she took a scoop of rice out of the rice bag she’d bought awhile back and poured it into a bowl to clean it. there was no need to prepare any more rice because she already had countless bowls in the refrigerator that she could just reheat from nights before, but she ignored it as she felt making everything fresh would encourage her to actually eat.

even after preparing fresh rice, soup, and chicken, her stomach still wasn't signaling any sense of hunger or even a small desire to eat. she sighed, just another meal to package and put away. she opened the fridge in hopes of finding room to put it. there was barely any at that point, but she managed. she knew she would have to clean it one day, but she had no motivation now.

showering in her condition felt like a punishment. the heat irritated her bruises, both new and old, and it only burned the rest of her skin while she washed up. it used to be something that would bother her more, but after everything she'd gone through at that point, the heat only felt like a slap to the wrist.

looking at herself in the mirror after the shower was a numbing experience. she would often reminisce about how she used to look before she started going to this new school. back in her home country, she was beautiful. accepted. loved. even if it wasn't by her parents, she was happy. now there was nothing and no one there for her, and the stress from that was apparent on her face. she no longer had the glow she used to. she no longer smiled. even now she found it hard to take care of herself. what was the point anyways?

when she finally got the chance to lay in bed, her whole body welcomed its comfort as she sank into the soft mattress, wishing it could just swallow her whole. there were a lot of simple things in life y/n came to be thankful for, but being able to sleep was something she truly loved. not being awake was all she could ask for. and though she didn't believe in a god anymore, she often found herself praying to not wake up. tonight would be no different as she closed her eyes, the air conditioner being the only sound left in the quiet house helping her drift off to sleep.

MASTERLIST | NEXT