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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 6: Retribution (NSFW!)

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. Your husband seeks justice.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04 for beta-ing! Thank you also to @evisnotok, @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, graphic violence, graphic depictions of blood and torture, graphic depictions of murder, erectile dysfunction.

He can hear you screaming the moment he alights upon the top of the stairs.

“Guards! Guards!” he roars, already running.

Bolting down the corridor, his mind whirls with terror. What will he find when he gets to your rooms? He braces himself, thoughts whirling uncontrollably. Thoughts of stained sheets and the scent of copper and death upon the air, your tear-stricken face wild and wretched with the anguish of being ripped apart by babes too small to survive, the still forms of infants in miniature, slick with blood and already greying upon the ground below you—

What he discovers is infinitely worse.

The Mallery knight is engaged in a tussle with an unknown assailant, the clash of steel ringing in his ears and reminding him of battles past. You lay on the stone floor beside a body, one of two, your face and hair and gown wet with gore. A man straddles your legs, brandishing a knife that inches its way toward your belly. Toward his heirs. You’re giving him a good showing, kicking your legs and shoving at his weight with all your might and shrieking—but you are not strong enough to sway the encroaching threat of the blade in his hand.

“Shut up, girl!” The malefactor grapples against your stubborn hands preventing the knife from reaching its target, holding it at bay. “Not ‘ere for you… just them babies in you. Hold still!”

“No!” you yell, spitting in his face. The man snarls, backhanding you. You yelp.

Daemon moves instantly, unsheathing Dark Sister and striding toward the fray with barely a second thought. The Valyrian steel slides through flesh like butter, piercing straight through the assailant’s back and up through his ribs while being careful to miss his heart.

Non-lethal, painful. I want him to feel this.

The man shouts, dropping the knife. He yanks the sword out and kicks him away from you, sneering as he watches his prey scramble through the ooze of his own life essence. He’s still alive. Daemon casts aside his sword and falls upon your attacker, taking up the other man’s blade and slicing cleanly across the jugular, just enough pressure to release a gruesome spray that wets his face and tunic. He wants this creature to die bloody.

“Daemon—”

He presses his thumbs into the cut, smiling darkly as the man thrashes and gurgles. Ichor stains his skin and fills his nostrils with the stink of metallic warmth, humanity reduced to its basest form and lashing about in its final throes—

“My Prince—ah!”

In his periphery, he catches a figure scrambling from the room through the narrow server’s passageway, Mallery falling to the ground and clutching his leg. The man below him is still twitching. He cannot let him go until he is certain he’s dead, until he has paid the price for daring to lay his hands on you.

The guards burst into the room from the main entrance, taking in the scene with shock. Fucking useless.

“What the fuck took you so long?” he growls, releasing his hold on the man below him. He’s dead. The knowledge that he has taken care of this immediate threat to your safety soothes him somewhat. And yet, not all have been vanquished. Jerking his head in the direction of the opening in the far wall, he says, “One of the attackers escaped. After them!”

They nod hastily, sprinting away with a clang. Daemon readies for the influx of more people; the Kingsguard, the servants, the nobles, his fucking brother—

“Daemon…”

Your weeping reaches his ears, little fingers brushing tentatively against his shoulder. The gentleness of the motion breaks him from his violent spiral. His gaze jerks to yours, the burning rage cooling to a simmering ember as he takes in your terrified demeanour: wide eyes and quivering lip and tears tracking through spattered crimson akin to grisly warpaint.

You swallow. “He—he—”

He is momentarily struck by fear. What if you’ve been wounded? What if your pains have started? That old urge to run at the first sign of strife rears its ugly head, but he tamps it down viciously. I am not that man anymore.

“Sh.” Pulling you bodily to him, he feels the weight of you solid in his arms and on his lap, a reminder that he has not yet lost what is most important to him.

She is safe. She is safe. The rest can wait.

He runs his bloodied hand along your jaw, down your spine, across your belly, cataloguing every iota of you as though it is the first time he has ever held you. It might have been the last. He cannot help that the movements are rougher than he’d like, frantic and desperate.

“Are you alright?” he asks, trying to keep his voice gentle so as not to plunge you further into hysterics. “The babes?”

You nod shakily, tugging his hand back to your swollen middle. And oh, what a moment to feel the thudding motions of his children, the first time he has been able to lay a palm there and experience the sensation himself. They are active within your womb, small thumps and jabs that are more delicate than he had expected—but they are alive.

Tears burn in his eyes, angry, boiling things that he cannot, will not let loose. Not now.

He bands an arm beneath your knees and lifts you from the ground—the cold stone is no place for his little niece, his sweet baby wife—reassured by the heaviness of you and his heirs all. Conveying you swiftly to the bed with hardly a care given to the large stains smearing across the covers, he supposes you shall need an entirely new set of chambers, what with the mess soaking the stone ground.

Several arrivals occur in quick succession. Four of the Kingsguard enter and move immediately to secure the perimeter, one breaking off to aid Mallery across the room by tamping the ichor oozing steadily from his leg. Good man. He’d have hated to have to slay your sworn shield for incompetence, but his performance had been admirable in the face of the odds laid before him. It looks likely that he will not be able to use the limb again, though.

The healer woman is the next to toddle in, exclaiming in dismay at the sight. Your lady-in-waiting—and oh, fuck, the body that had been beside you is the other, he realises—follows swiftly on her heels, immediately bursting into tears when she absorbs the carnage.

Ūlla picks her way around the debris in a manner that is almost comical. “Princess! Princess! Are you safe?”

One of the Cargylls—he can never fucking tell them apart—steps before her, blade pointed in her direction.

She scoffs. “Move, boy! Pah—are you ‘Princess’, then? Go away!”

As much as he’d love to see the ensuing standoff, now is not the time. It’d be best to have the physician verify that you and his heirs are well. No doubt the shrew will bring you a measure of matronly comfort that he cannot.

“Let her through,” he commands.

The knight steps aside reluctantly, allowing her to proceed onwards. Daemon moves away for the woman to begin fussing over you, for your attendant to step into place so as to comfort you. He is wrenched by the sound of your plaintive whimper when he has gone too far for you to reach.

But needs must—this is not over.

He rolls over each of the attackers lying dead on the ground with a foot, examining them with pursed lips. There’s a blotch on each of their cheeks. At first, he assumes it is no more than a discolouration of the skin, perhaps a curious disease or a sign of familial relation—but leaning closer and wiping some of the blood away reveals that they are in fact identical stars carved and scarred over. Seven points.

Mellos makes his way inside, no doubt summoned for Mallery. It is a rare occasion indeed to see him act decisively; he dithers in overdramatic fright but for a moment before moving along to his task.

Lord Cunttower himself appears then, accompanied by his bitch of a daughter with the King in tow.

Daemon sees red.

“You,” he whispers, or maybe he shouts it. He can barely hear anything over the pounding in his ears as he shoves his brother’s prized lackey against the wall, cursing his lack of a blade. “You’ll die for this.”

“Daemon!”

“Look at her!” he snarls.

Hands wrapped around the man’s throat, Daemon revels in the distressed gasps and choking gags as the lord’s face slowly turns purple. The snake tries to pull at his grip, but a pompous fuck from the Reach is no match for a seasoned Targaryen warrior. Viserys is at his back, pulling at his shoulder with his one remaining hand. No doubt that is the Hightower whore crying out from further away.

“Look at my fucking wife, Otto! Mark my words”—he hounds ever closer to see the panic and the fear in the eyes of a man so usually unshakeable—“if this is your doing, not even the King or the gods themselves will stop me from taking your head—”

“Guards!”

“Kepus!”

He is dragged back by the nearest of his brother’s soldiers, forced to release his punitive grip. Otto sags with a guttural heave, water streaming from his eyes and clutching at his neck. Alicent rushes to her sire, staring between him and Daemon with sheer distress painting her features. Her hands flutter uselessly over the bruise already blooming across the flesh, though her overtures are quickly batted away.

“What is the meaning of this?” Viserys asks, even greyer as he looks about the scene of your attack; the blood, the bodies, your sworn shield emitting a muffled howl through a strap of leather between his teeth as the Grand Maester cauterises the wound. “What—”

“They ca—came for the babes.” Your speech is slack and monotone now that the shock has properly set in.

I can’t fucking do this, Daemon thinks.

He nudges the healer out of the way and ignores her grumble to sit beside you on the bed, to clutch at you once again and remind himself that you’re here. You grip his hand for support, heedless of the dried gore flaking off between joined palms.

“Three of them,” you say, numb. “They—oh, gods. They killed Miriam. They killed her.”

“Sh.” He presses his lips to your head, the smell of the rose oil apparent even through all the blood. She’s safe. She’s safe. He turns to your present company, to the figures of the King and Queen and Hand, arranged in various poses of horror. “This was not an accident. These—these scum knew what they were doing. They made their way into your Keep. They meant to slaughter your daughter’s babes, and in doing so, murder my wife. This is treason, Your Grace, of the highest order.”

Viserys looks as though his spirit is about to part from his body, pallid and desolate in the face of this hidden menace. “But why?” he asks, a child at prayer.

Daemon scoffs at the naivete. Is his failure to acknowledge the wound he has let fester for so long really so great? Of all the people in this room, the King ought to know best that all choices have consequences.

“My daughter’s never caused harm to a single man, woman or child,” the King continues. “Who would do this?”

“Ask him.” Daemon glowers at Hightower, who is still covering the line of his neck with his own hand.

The man makes a noise of incredulity. “I have been ever loyal to your King and your House these many years, Prince Daemon,” he says, or tries to. His voice is gravelly, raspy in the way that belies a considerable trauma inflicted upon the area. He affects a moue of outrage, though the alarm lingers. “To accuse me of such a—grievous crime—as to engineer the slaying of the Princess’s babes is simply preposterous!”

“And to what cause?” his daughter asks, forcing an aura of regality. It does not suit her. She’s far too common to view as anything more than a descendant of wildling savages. “Where is the benefit to doing such a thing?”

This time, Daemon cannot help but snort aloud. He stands, passing you back into the care of the healer, who has gathered a basin of water and some rags with which to start shedding you of the layers of congealed blood upon your face. You do not need to hear this part, and so he strides closer to the trespassing forms before him.

This time, he directs his poisonous inquiry to the Hightower woman, finally laying the truth of the matter bare.

“Have you yourself not openly alleged that the Princess Rhaenyra’s sons are bastards, my Queen?” He keeps his tone deliberately light, though it is clear all can sense the danger lurking beneath each intonation. “It stands to reason that, to those who might be persuaded to believe such falsehoods, my wife would be her heir by right of precedence. And if my wife should bear a son? Well, that makes your son’s claim rather difficult to advance, doesn’t it?”

“How dare you accuse me—”

“Enough!” his brother say, hushing himself when he notices he has caught your attention across the room. His next words are spoken far softer. “Did I not say that such rumours would incur a stay in the Black Cells? I do not wish to hear speculation as to the legitimacy of my grandsons!”

“Your Grace.” Daemon genuflects.

His rage is a seething, smouldering thing, but he needs Viserys on side if he is to tear the capital apart to find this cunt and rend him into pieces. There are plenty who believe him to be an unreasonable beast when the fire burns through his veins, but he is more than just an unmoored conflagration; he’s a fucking Prince, and he knows how to play the game when the occasion calls for it.

Assuming a countenance as servile as he can manage, he appeals directly to his brother. “Close the city gates,” he begs quietly. “Give me the City Watch. Let me root out the last of these cu—these reprobates, street by street, door by door. Let me gift my wife the justice she is owed.” He steps aside so that Viserys can see straight to you, to the way you have begun to tremor despite the huddled warmth of the women who are tending to you, to your face streaked scarlet with the blood of others, to your hands clasped tightly against your belly in protection of your children. “Please. If not for me… then for her.”

Viserys may be a wretch, but he loves Aemma’s girls.

“This affront must not be allowed to go unpunished,” the King says, suddenly weary. “I give you leave to find this assassin, brother, so that we may learn who has placed a price on my daughter’s life.”

Daemon is one step closer to meting out punishment. He can already taste the death and destruction that awaits. Staring down the Hightowers, he says, “I will find the perpetrators, Your Grace. And there will be no mercy for those responsible.”

Let this be a warning to all who believe the Rogue Prince to be a tamed man. He is a fucking dragon, and this city will soon feel the flames of his wrath.

He gives Rollingford the orders to start the search without him.

“Thin build, dark hair, has a star cut into his right cheek. An old wound.” He rattles off all he has gleaned from his observations and yours and Mallery’s testimonies to the Commander of the gold cloaks. “Likely to be bleeding, probably limping on his left leg. I want him located. I want him surrounded until I arrive. No one is to touch him. This one is mine. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Ser,” the solemn soldier says, snapping to attention jerkily before striding off with his captains in tow. He is already issuing directives as he rounds the corner.

Ser. It is easy to sink into the role of combatant, doing away with titles and courtesies to embrace the mortality and mayhem of battle—but he cannot allow the bloodlust to consume him just yet.

Though you insist in a small whisper that it is not necessary, he carries you from your (old, spoiled, defiled) chambers to the King’s rooms himself. It is a temporary respite for you and your staff until the final attacker has been caught. He chafes at relinquishing you to your father’s care—it tastes strangely of defeat—but even he cannot deny that these apartments are the safest in the city, if not the Realm.

There is a self-indulgent joy that seeps through the cracks of his fury at the sight of Viserys so flummoxed by your insistence that he remain as you are bathed and dressed in nightwear, finally free of the wash of thick crimson that had crusted in your silver hair and stained your blossom-soft skin. His brother’s own bed has been stripped and redressed for your use, a surprising concession—or perhaps not. You are one of two pieces left of Aemma, after all.

Daeron had been brought to you for comfort, and you hold him as tightly to you as you had held your dolls in gummy fists as a tot, meek and withdrawn. It makes his chest ache to see you so terrified.

He uses the very last of his patience to help the healer woman coax watered dreamwine to your lips, to bundle you in tight in the bed beside your brother, to stroke at your hair and your belly and hum some half-recollected lullaby from your childhood or his until your eyes droop, exhausted and overcome.

As he rises to depart from the room—to seek his retribution—he shares a glance with the King, one that is mayhaps a beat too long to lack meaning. In it, he tries to convey what he cannot say aloud. ‘Protect her for me. Keep her safe while I cannot. Do this for me, brother.’

It is the first time in many a year that he is united in common cause with this man. A single nod, and then he exits, the Kingsguard closing ranks and barring the door from all who may seek entry.

The air is sharp with the chill of night and the stifle of smoke wafting from lit torches, the dim orange smoulder a gloomy spotlight throwing the shadows of soldiers into stark relief. Daemon can hear the cries near and far of alarmed citizens and distressed patrons as the City Watch raids homes and taverns and storefronts. The sound is intoxicating, a pulse of vicious pleasure loosening the strain in his shoulders and the tightness of his breath.

This is what he does best—bringing chaos and cruelty to his enemies’ doorstep. It’s a reminder of the fate that awaits those who dare to cross the House of the Dragon. Until this man is found, the entire city is his enemy.

“My Prince.” Rollingford falls into step beside his horse as he crosses into the Great Square, seemingly appearing from the shadows. An impressive skill. He slides down from the saddle, absently patting the mount’s flank when he chuffs at the motion. With an arched brow, he wordlessly prompts the Commander to continue. “We have guards manning all seven gates, as well as postings along the Blackwater. The harbour has been closed and the ships at dock searched, and the men are working their way through the city.”

“Good. What of the High Septon? I want him questioned. Make use of Largent.”

“The—the High Septon?” Rollingford asks. He does his best to sound carefully blank, but Daemon can hear the underlying pitch of nervousness.

“Yes, the fucking High Septon,” he snaps. “He’s here, isn’t he? Some business with the King. Tell him that the Prince wants to know why three assassins bearing the Seven-Pointed Star attempted to murder my wife and heirs earlier tonight. If he resists—bring him to me. I care not for the wrath of his gods.”

“Ye—yes, Ser.”

He doesn’t actually believe the Faith to be responsible for the attack. Those petty worshippers have become unmanned since the days of Jaehaerys, and the High Septon is far too gutless a creature to conjure up such a scheme. He also doubts any of the man’s underlings have the capacity to act without first being thoroughly vetted by the circuitous bureaucracy of the Most Devout. But it will send a message that none are safe from his wrath, one he hopes will lure forth the real culprits.

It nears dawn when the search bears fruition. One of the soldiers—Cressey, he thinks, or perhaps Hayford—brings forth a location.

“We’ve got ‘im surrounded, milord,” he says, “so ‘e’s not likely to escape. But those nearabouts all say they saw a bloodied man with a star on ‘is cheek limp inside and not come out. That was some time ago.”

It might just be a form of irony that the answers I seek are to be found once more in the whorehouses of King’s Landing, he thinks to himself.

He retraces the familiar route to the Street of Silk—straight down the Street of Sisters, left onto the Street of Flour, right along Copper Street—the sound of hoofbeats against cobblestone overloud in the early morning. It is easy to tell which of these establishments houses his quarry, the glimmer of the gold cloaks easily recognisable even in weak light.

The men part for him as he stalks along the way directly to the heavy oak door. Curious. Run-down, moth-eaten and hosting some of the most common girls in the Realm, this particular brothel had been one of the cheaper bastions of debauchery in his youth. A fuck was a fuck no matter which way it was dressed, though, so it is not as though he had refused their attempts to solicit his coin. A good Prince is a fair one, after all. The door is new, and already he can see signs of refurbishment in the scrubbed-clean stone and the pale thatching of the roof.

Daemon barges directly inside, immediately being struck by the thick clogging scent of incense and sweat and bodily fluids. Gone are the thready chaises and faded portraits and the half-destroyed staircase. Instead, the space is dark and richly furnished in deep reds and blacks, the walls inlaid with lacquered wood and gleaming with the flicker of burning braziers.

Several whores squeal at the suddenness of his importunity, turning wide kohl-lined eyes to his form from where they sit in the laps of strangers in various stages of undress about the open foyer. He scans each of the patrons critically, seeking out one who matches the description of his target.

Bald, pot-bellied, pockmarked, old, young, yellow hair, black hair… A veritable array of men soused on drink and desperation, and yet there is no sign of your assailant.

A woman moves from the shadows, her speech carrying above the sighs and moans despite the soft, lilting cadence. “Welcome to the Gilded Doll, good Ser. What pleasures do you seek this day?”

I know that voice.

“Mysaria.” His long-time paramour smiles teasingly at his shock, flicking her dark hair over her shoulders at the recognition. Little about her has changed since their separation. “I thought you’d be in Pentos.”

He had left her there in the Prince’s palace what seems like so long ago now. It is strange to think upon the version of himself who had been so afflicted by desire for Rhaenyra. Sometimes, he forgets you have only been wedded to him for a comparatively short period. There is a settled comfort in his life with you, a conviction and dependence that still surprises him. Peace is not a feeling he thought he’d ever find in marriage.

“My place is in Westeros, My Prince,” she says. She steps closer—too close. His tense demeanour does not go unnoticed, for she wisely elects to drop the carefully cultivated mask of temptation to speak honestly. “You are not the only one who has been called back to these shores by those in need.”

He scoffs. Ah, yes—I’d forgotten about her delusions of grandeur. “And you’re doing your great philanthropic work as the madam of a brothel? I suppose it’s not a terrible advancement for a common whore.”

“Not so common, perhaps.” Her crimson lips twist, the old insult stinging still. She will accept a great many indignities, but never has she abided being regarded as someone unexceptional. “My women are well-cared-for, which is more than I can say for most of the brothels along the Street of Silk.”

He rolls his eyes, already growing bored by the conversation. He’s not here for a reunion. “Such a noble cause. Effigies ought to be built for you, I’m sure.”

“What brings you here, Daemon?” she asks.

“A trio of assailants tried to murder my wife earlier this evening,” he says, afforded some measure of privacy by the collection of sounds filling the room. Though his blood is up by the promise of violence, there is none left to fill his cock—and truthfully, he does not know if the sight of whores’ tits or the wet squelch of overused cunts or the shrill performances echoing from the second floor are even enough to elicit such a reaction now. He’d much rather stare at your tits and hear your moans and fuck your cunt. “Two have been dispatched, and the last has been tracked to your establishment. You’d do well to tell me where he is.”

She stares up at him but for a moment, something unreadable in the set of her features.

“I have a great many customers walk through these doors, My Prince,” she says, brow arching challengingly. That veiled insolence had been what had drawn him to her in the first place, when she was just an exotic dancer from Lys baring her body for him and his lackeys in the Blue Pearl. So few dared to test his famed temper, fewer still who’d let him fuck them whichever way he pleased. It rings hollow now. He wonders if her defiance had always been so trite. “You will have to describe the man to me.”

He rattles off the description in a short tone, a warning that she ought not to tarry much longer lest his malice seek out the nearest recipient. Her answer is prompt, wary: “Second floor, fourth door on the right.”

He pulls Dark Sister from its sheath in a pre-emptive motion, again startling those nearby, and makes to climb the steps.

“Daemon.” She lays her hand on his arm, stopping him briefly. “Try not to destroy the furnishings. It costs a pretty coin to maintain such luxury.”

She knows me well. He nods, and then pulls away.

The surprise of Mysaria’s return is one he discards to the recesses of his mind for the time being, allowing the ire to scald in his veins as he trudges to the far quieter upper landing. The sounds of groaning and rustling are muted, almost far-off, a mere backdrop to the thunder of his heart in his ears.

So close. I’m so close.

The fourth door does not open on first attempt. He tries again. Locked. Once more. He takes a few steps back and slams his full weight into the barricade, bursting the wood clean off the hinges.

The whore inside screams in fright, clutching her shawl to her chest. ‘Tis strange to see a clothed whore in a private room, he thinks, surveying the mousy-haired woman and her dull brown eyes and too-thin lips. How drab. That she is still dressed is a promising sign, one that suggests that mayhaps she is not alone. He looks around the room for another; there is no evidence of any company.

Then, he spots the wardrobe ajar, a slight wobble to its frame—as though a heavy being has flung themselves inside. There.

“Get the fuck out,” he growls, levelling the whore with the most vicious look he can muster. She squeaks and darts out into the hallway, vanishing from sight.

His focus affixes itself once more to that sliver of darkness, within which he is certain his mark has tried to hide. He tarries, waiting to see if the other will make the first move; he cannot help the incredulity that arises when he encounters nothing but silence.

Does he honestly believe he has successfully concealed himself from retribution?

With a baring of teeth that is more a grimace than a smile, Daemon strikes, darting forward to fling the door wide and grasp onto whatever part of the man he can reach.

“Lemme go!” your assailant yells, crying out as he is dragged free from discarded gowns and thrust onto the floor.

How… disappointing. He’s already pissed himself, and Daemon hasn’t even had the opportunity to make him regret ever stepping foot in this world yet.

“I didn’ do nuffink, good ser—”

He cuffs the man across the face, a return upon the strike so callously landed across your sweet little face. It knocks more than one tooth loose, leaving him dazed and groaning on the ground, the fight abruptly beaten out of him.

“You were in the Red Keep earlier,” Daemon says, pulling the commoner upright by the hair and dealing another wallop to the nose. An audible crunch sounds out as the bone gives way beneath his knuckles, and the man moans weakly, stunned and bleeding from his leg and his face. “Your co-conspirators are dead. Tell me what I want to know, and your end will be quick.”

He matches your account exactly—dark hair, thin, and that fucking star emblazoned in scar tissue across his cheek. There is a curious pin on his lapel, an insect of some sort rendered in metal.

“I dunno what you mean,” the wretch moans, caterwauling when Daemon steps down on his fingers and grinds them into the ground. Each digit gives way with small pops, pulverising into jagged puzzle pieces no healer is skilled enough to patch together. “I wos here visitin’ my sister, and I ain’t done nuffink in no Keep, Ser!”

I’m almost glad for the resistance.

“A pity,” Daemon says. The man relaxes at the affected resignation in his tone. His mistake. “We’ll do this the hard way, then.”

He shoves the man against the wardrobe and drives Dark Sister cleanly through the meat of his shoulder, pinning him to its surface like a butterfly on canvas. His screams are piercing, surely disrupting the business taking place throughout the brothel. The scarred star stretches grotesquely as he vocalises his agony.

“Who sent you to murder the Princess? Who?!” Daemon snarls, twisting the blade for good measure. Scarlet trickles from the wound, blooming dark down the fabric of the man’s shirt. The howl that releases itself from his throat is nearly inhuman, a drawn-out choking heave that tingles in his extremities. “Talk!”

“I—I—I’m sorry, we wos offered coin—there ain’t none to be had wif the Order—”

Pathetic. Daemon had hardly needed to incentivise him overmuch and yet the scum is already spilling everything. No wonder he had run. Cowards never change their stripes, after all.

“A Poor Fellow, are you?” he asks, angling the blade up slightly and pushing in just a little further.

Daemon had suspected as much. The Seven-Pointed Star is a sure indicator that the attackers are sworn to the Faith Militant, though it is obvious that the evening’s trials had not been the work of those particular sycophants. It seems that an attempt has been made to lay the plot at the High Septon’s door—which means the architect is intelligent.

He continues his line of questioning, manipulating the hilt of his sword to widen the wound, each press shredding fresh slices into overwrought tissue. He basks in the squalling and weeping below him, the singular sound of flesh rending apart, the rich heady aroma of fear and gore. The desire to split open his guts and feed him his own entrails is tempting, but this is not the time. He needs information.

“What price was enough to make you abandon your precious Faith and risk eternal damnation, hm? Three stags? Four? A gold coin?”

The man gasps, spasming with each shift of the blade. “Three! Three, Ser—”

Three gold coins. A wealthy mastermind, then. It narrows the field considerably. Only the nobles at court would have that kind of coin to spend on a plot with a variable chance of success.

Daemon brings his foot down on the Fellow’s knee, crunching the joint beneath his steel-capped boot. With an almighty crack, the bone gives way, its owner leaning to the side to vomit. The acrid stench of sourness permeates the air, tangling with the scents of blood and piss.

He sneers, kicking the man’s leg for good measure. It splays at a misshapen angle, bent back upon itself on the ground. The jagged edge of his shinbone has pierced clean through the back of his knee, a macabre lance of pearl-white tearing through skin and muscle.

“A measly three coins to murder a girl heavy with child,” Daemon mocks. “A Princess. Your gods must be so proud.”

“Please!” The craven weeps, spitting blood and bile from his mouth. “Please.”

“Tell me what I want to know. Tell me who ordered the attack.”

“I—I—I dunno his name, Ser. He wears a hood. Calls himself the Firefly.”

Daemon nods absently in acknowledgement, his mind ruminating over this discovery. It is not an epithet he recognises. Firefly. He’ll have to conduct a careful search to find the owner of this sobriquet.

He refocuses his gaze upon the last of your assailants, the remaining member of the trio who had so callously threatened your life and the lives of his children. As pathetic as this creature is, he has been rather valuable in providing enough intelligence to further his own search. But the man has outlived his usefulness. Daemon cannot afford for his benefactor to learn of his loose tongue.

“In the name of the Princess, I—Daemon of House Targaryen—sentence you to die.”

In a single swift motion, he wrenches Dark Sister from the place where it is embedded and basks in the vile satisfaction of hearing the man release an unearthly squall. He swings the sword in a high arc, the momentum slicing cleanly through flesh and sinew and bone and cutting the shriek off at its full. Blood sprays over his armour and across his face, the wayward Fellow’s head rolling across the floor.

Daemon removes the pin from the man’s shirt and stows it away for later examination, using one of the whore’s ruined dresses to wipe his blade clean of gore. He surveys the scene. The door is splintered upon the ground, the wardrobe soiled and defiled, the room itself a painting of crimson upon lumber and metalwork, silks and leathers.

Fuck. He’s made rather a mess of things. Restitution will have to be made.

He leaves the body where it lay, having little care for the remains now he is dead. For now, the job is done. It is with a sense of relief that he retraces his steps back to the lower level of the brothel. The whores and patrons stare at him with mingled shock and fright, taking in his red-soaked armour and ichor-stained face. At the sight of him, the whore from earlier darts up the stairs. She will find her brother dead in her rooms, his life essence puddling out upon the floor and seeping into the wood.

He turns to Mysaria, fishing out a handful of coin and holding it out to her. She takes the proffered gold with an arched brow, surveying his dirtied form with an unimpressed expression.

“For the damage,” is his gruff explanation, tipping his head in the direction of the upper landing. “Unavoidable.”

The whore starts to wail her lamentations from above.

“I see.” Her feline eyes glitter dark and mysterious, lips tipped up ever-so-slightly. She had always found his aggression captivating, and it seems such a sentiment remains unchanged. He shifts in discomfort. She leans further into his space, laying a careful hand upon the line of his arm. “I hope you found the justice you had sought.”

He grunts, making no move to encourage her.

“It is good to see you again, Daemon,” she adds, looking up at him through sooty lashes. Her body presses closer, just shy of touching. He doesn’t know if she holds back to avoid sullying her gown or if she intends to tempt him into closing the space. “You would be welcome here if you should want the company of one of my girls. Or mine.”

Her breath, wine-tart and candied, puffs against his jaw.

“I don’t,” he says stiffly. He is poised, rigid, barely restraining himself from the urge to throw her bodily from him, to backhand her for daring to touch what is not hers by right. “Take your damn hands off me.”

She is as beautiful and sensuous as ever, but she does not arouse desire in him the way she had once done. How the mighty have fallen, he thinks.

Should a version of Daemon from his youth encounter him now, he would make of himself a laughingstock for the single-minded veracity of his ardour for his own niece, a girl half his age. But how could one return to consuming boiled mutton after partaking in roast venison for the first time? Mysaria had been a companion and nothing more. You are his—niece, confidant, wife, lover, mother to his heirs. There can be no other now. That she thinks she might persuade him to wet his cock in lesser cunt is insulting.

At once, her seduction ceases, the veil of allure dropping and resettling into feigned amiability. He has insulted her—but why should it matter? Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.

She smiles dryly, stepping aside to clear a path to the exit. “Then I wish you farewell,” she says.

There is nothing left for him here but the ghosts of a former life. It is easier than breathing to turn from her gaze, to cast her aside as a memory from long ago, to stride past her and leave her in the past where she belongs.

He departs the Gilded Doll without another word, mind already settling on returning to you.

You are still asleep when he enters his brother’s rooms.

“Gods be good,” Viserys mutters, hobbling over from his chair as he takes in the sight of Daemon covered in blood. What did he expect, he thinks in irritation, that I would sit down for a civilised meal with her attacker? “I can only assume you found him.”

“The last one is dead,” he says, unbuckling his baldric and setting Dark Sister, scabbard and all, upon the table as quietly as he can. Through the gauzy drapes, he spies your still form ensconced in the bed. “I got the information I needed.”

“Must I ask for it, or shall you tell me?” the King asks.

Daemon glances over at him. Dark circles bloom purple-grey under his eyes, the contrast to his blemished skin so severe it is as though he is looking at a human skull instead of a living man.

“Not now.” He suppresses a shudder at the malformed creature his brother has become. “I’d like to get this shit off me.”

The bath is warm, but he takes no joy in it. Now that his enterprise is concluded, he is left with naught but his own thoughts. If I had been there, she wouldn’t have been risked so dearly. If I’d refused to leave, she’d be safe and happy instead of fearful and desolate.

He tries to tamp down the maelstrom, scrubbing vigorously at his flesh and his hair as though to physically force the notion from his mind. By the time he is done, the water is pink, flecks of dried blood forming a ghastly film upon the surface.

All he wishes to do now is sit by you. He bypasses Viserys, treading barefoot through the sheer curtains and settling himself gently upon the mattress beside you. In repose, your expression holds none of the fright or devastation that had marred it so many hours ago. You are young, sweet, mouth slack with sleep and cheeks plump and rosy from the heat of the coverings over you.

His eyes burn again. I’ve failed to protect her. Stroking your wild silver hair back from your temple, he trails his fingers along the line of your jaw, over the curve of your lower lip, your throat.

“She has not awakened,” the King says softly behind him. “The boy’s gone to his lessons, but—well, I thought it best not to rouse her.”

“Good,” he murmurs, hand wandering below the sheets to feel the swell of your belly. There is faint movement, and relief blooms anew at the liveliness of the babes within your womb. Tap. Tap. Tap. He had almost convinced himself that it had been a delusion conjured up in his maddened state. “She needs to rest.”

You stir faintly, and he brings his palm to your face once more. You lip insensately at his thumb, easing back down into unconsciousness. A creak to his left makes him think that Viserys has sunk into the chair beside the bed. He can feel the stare boring into him, though he has little desire to entertain whatever it is that has his brother so absorbed.

“When you sought my daughter’s hand,” the King begins, “I assumed the worst.” He knows that. “You are not the sort of man capable of providing the care she needs: patience, attentiveness, placidity… devotion. Someone who would regard her as the treasure she is. Yes, when you asked for her, I thought all manner of abhorrent things, even if you were the one she chose for herself. I was so certain you would destroy her.”

So little trust in me, as always. There is a point to this spiel, a mellow timbre that suggests the aim is not to remonstrate—but to hear how lowly his brother thinks of him is nonetheless cutting.

The King huffs a laugh. “Imagine my surprise, then, to see her so… happy with you.” Daemon stills for a moment, then carefully resumes caressing your cheek, smoothing over the contour of your chin. “She is a new person to me now, and I regret that I was not able to grant what it is she needed to best thrive. I have many regrets… but I do not regret conferring her upon you,” Viserys says. “I was wrong, Daemon. You make a fine husband to my girl. And I am glad she can give to you what I never did.”

Oh, brother.

There was a time when he wanted nothing more than to earn his brother’s approval; when the attainment of such was a far-off dream, one that would have required him to unmake and reforge himself anew so that he might finally earn what ought to have been his all along. The denial of it had made him bitter and angry, a hot-tempered rake of a being that had terrorised nobles and commoners alike with debauchery and hostility and brutality. It is ironic that having the man finally—finally—proclaim that longed-for praise carries none of the weight he once imagined it would have.

His worth is no longer shackled to the whims of an ailing King. Perhaps it is unhealthy or even unfair to place the care of it in your hands—but for all his poisonous ambition, he knows his is not a nature meant for standing alone. The second son of a second son, he has been bred and built to seek purpose from those designed for a higher calling than he. How he had railed against his fate, once! And how very poetic it is that he has found himself so beholden to you.

He does not need Viserys anymore. But he nods and thanks his brother nonetheless, pays little mind to him as he departs from the room, and waits for you to rouse.

It normally takes time for your faculties to return to you after your eyes first open, but it comes to no surprise that consciousness strikes you with full force after the evening’s events. Your eyes snap open and you jolt, casting about for a half-moment before alighting on the form of your husband. He adjusts himself so that he reclines against the headboard, allowing you to easily wiggle your way onto his lap.

Fretful and fragile, a baby princess seeking protection in the arms of her big, strong uncle. Moisture wets his clean shirt, your face buried against his chest and little fingers clutched to his sides like you are afraid he’ll vanish. He pets over your spine and breathes you in.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, breaking the silence.

You shake your head, voiceless. He’ll not press you yet, not now—but there will come a time in the near future where you’ll have no choice but to recount the attack. He needs as much intelligence from as many involved as he can seek out if he is to determine the identity of the Firefly.

You are small and quiet and slow-moving as the day passes, wanting little else than to cling to him and doze. He doesn’t know what to do with this version of you. He is helpless to conceive of a way to break you from this strange trance. Guilt and fury and exasperation mingle like noxious fumes inside his body, pressing against his chest cavity and constricting around the organ there like a bloodied fist. Each hushed whisper, each tenuous tremble, each lamenting little-girl rebuff of all save him only serves to spur the tumult within.

“Is… Are they all gone?”

You finally string more than two or three words together, sat upon the edge of the bed in your new chambers. They are nice enough, he supposes, though he’s not particularly enthused by the prospect of being so close to Viserys and the Hightowers. For a moment, he thinks you are speaking of the attendants that had flitted in and out of your presence throughout the afternoon, but the uncertainty of your countenance suggests otherwise. His stomach drops.

“Those—those men?” you clarify, voice cracking.

Daemon lays Dark Sister back upon the desk and tosses down the cloth he’d been using to work away at the stray crusts of ichor, returning to you.

“Yes,” he says, sinking down upon the mattress.

You lean into him, warm and real and alive. Alive. “I was so… frightened. I thought I was going to di—”

“Don’t.” He shakes his head. I cannot hear it, cannot abide even the thought of it. “Don’t say it.”

You pause, staring up at him, nodding when you take in whatever expression has affixed itself on the planes of his face. He jerks slightly when you push yourself up on your knees and bring your lips to his, hot and wet and sweet. It is ingrained into the foundations of his very self to press into the kiss, to cradle your jaw in his hand and feel the throb of your pulse feed into his skin, his cock twitching in his breeches. There is no pleasure to it, but instead a disconcerting agony that prickles along his shaft and cools the fire that ought to stoke itself.

He draws away, suppressing the tremor that threatens. “What are you doing?” It comes out more abrasive than he’d like.

“Please?” you ask, mouthing at his lower lip, desperate and frenzied. “I—I just want to feel something good again.”

He understands that need. Hells, it’s a feeling that has fuelled many of his own debauched eves across the brothels in King’s Landing and the Realm beyond. Though he cannot fault you for the urge to drive away the memory of those who had nearly carved your babes from your belly (I wasn’t there, why wasn’t I there), his body is refusing to heed your wishes and rise to the occasion.

It tears at him to tilt back into you, to crowd against you and take your mouth with his own, to press his tongue to yours and pull the hem of your shift up. He drives you down into the sheets, nipping at your throat and shoving a finger then two into your grasping cunt, feeling the way the silky walls catch and ripple eagerly as he hooks into the high soft sponge of you, listening to you gasp. You writhe and moan below him, tugging at his pants and taking hold of his cock, and it begins to burst to life in your capable hand. He looks down at you and his mind flashes to the way you’d looked beneath that man, red-stained and terrified and scrabbling to save your own life, and he cannot—

He lurches away from you, from the memory of what had nearly happened. I wasn’t there. You try to pull him back down, but he shakes off your touch. “No. Stop, sweetling.”

“Why?” You pout, reaching for his shaft and making a soft noise of confusion.

Oh. Whatever blood had fought to stiffen him up has dissipated, leaving him limp despite your best attempts to coax it to rise.

“I said—” He bats your hands away, suddenly wrathful. Stumbling off the bed, he stows himself away and fumbles with the laces, whirling on you. “You almost died, and you want to fuck?” he asks, grinding his teeth and snarling at you. “What in the hells is wrong with you?”

He regrets it as soon as he’s said it—even more so when he sees the bewildered tears begin to collect along your lower lashes, lip quivering and looking so, so small. Why wasn’t I there to protect her, she could have di—

The room feels like a cage, like iron bars squeezing tight against his flesh, he has to get out, he has to get out—

“Daemon. Daemon!”

He flees the trappings of your apartments, past the Kingsguard manning the doors to the bedchamber, the hall, Maegor’s Holdfast, leaving you there upon the bed alone.

Scarcely even realising he’s left his blade behind, he moves with purpose throughout the Keep. He knows not where he’s headed, only that he must find a safe haven where he might begin to pull together the edges of himself that are fraying to bits, threatening to send him crumbling.

It hurts. It hurts unlike anything he’s ever felt. The anguish only serves to wind him tighter, a maimed creature lashing out at the world for its suffering.

His steps lead him aimlessly around his childhood home, and he indulges the wanderlust. He avoids the main thoroughfares, not wishing to encounter the absurdity of courtly gossip on his day. The journey takes him past the Great Hall and the Small Council chambers and through the servants’ passages, down to the scullery and the royal cellars. He pilfers a carafe of wine from the kitchens, imbibing periodically as he trudges through hallways and up flights of stairs. Eventually, he makes his way to an old sanctuary from his youth, a lone balcony in an abandoned portion of the Holdfast overlooking the courtyard and, beyond, the Dragonpit.

Daemon leans against the edge and stares blankly at the horizon, taking steady draughts from the jug and letting the drink numb the sharp stabbing pains of his thoughts. The wine loosens him, slows the racing of his heart, and time finally starts to run leisurely again.

She might have—She nearly—

“Princess said you ran from her.”

Fuck. He ignores the healer woman as she shuffles forward, joining him in the dimming light. Her eyes bore into his side profile, but he won’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her.

“Said you were angry,” she croaks.

It is the truth, but it is still unpleasant to hear.

“How is she?” he asks. It is relatively easy to assume she’s ventured forth in search of him after making her customary rounds to her sole charge.

He hopes she can hear the words he does not say. Are my children well? Will they survive this?

“Good. Babe both good, too.” He despises how unlike herself she is being, how gentle and kind her tone is. It is not the way she speaks to him usually, and he wants at least one thing to remain normal and logical and sane around here. “You are very, very lucky,” she adds.

He grunts. He doesn’t feel it.

She sighs, thumping him on the back. “You are rude boy. But you are good to her. She need you now—no more hiding.”

“How?” It takes him a moment to realise it is he who has spoken, a rustle upon the breeze. That damned wine. He can no longer control the torrent that he has kept tamped down and locked away, the dogged attempt of a man long accustomed to outrunning all weakness. “How can I just—pretend?”

“Pretend?”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he tries to put into words the venom that is eating away at his insides. “That I’m not fucking—terrified.” Daemon hisses the term as though it has personally offended him.

To finally say it aloud is both a bizarre release and an epiphany of sorts. He’s overcome with the curious urge to laugh at the realisation.

Fear. How common of him. But it rings true nonetheless, and the rightness of the admission settles in his bones. How can he not be afraid? There’s an ever-present threat to your life somewhere in this place, a place that should be safe and happy and home for you. Someone has marked his children for death before they are even allowed the chance to breathe air on their own, to open their eyes and see what exists outside the safety of their mother’s womb.

And you are a Targaryen woman. In any other context, this makes you superior, a diamond nestled in amongst the coal. But he cannot help but recall those names once more, the names of your forebears who had undergone the toilsome task of childbirth and met their end there.

Alyssa. Daella. Gael. Aemma. Laena.

He will not survive your death, should it come. With the ever-expanding heft of the babes inside you, the possibility that he might have to face such a dreaded reality looms closer by the day. There is not a fucking thing he can do about it, either. There’s no physician or liniment or spell or prayer that he can avail himself of to keep you alive, to keep you with him should your body fall to the conquering force of childbed.

The woman—Ūlla—hums consideringly. “Fear is… natural. Human,”

He finally turns to look at her. Her countenance is warm, sympathetic, a tilt to the head that belies something other than the deep-seated vexation he had been sure was all she’d felt for him. She takes his hand, and he lets her. All at once, he is a boy again, clutching onto his lady grandmother as his mother’s pyre burns gold in the morning light.

“We all fear something,” she says. “It is stupid to try and push it away like it never happen. Do not waste time to master your fear, or you will forget to live. To fear is to love, boy—and you love her, yes?”

He nods. Gods help him, he does.

She smiles, squeezing his grip. “Then the rest is for later. Go to her—love. And let yourself fear. It is okay.”

The sky is darkening to deep amber by the time he is ready to return to you. He takes the long route back to your new chambers, concealing himself from public view as much as he can, for he does not wish to incite the rumour mill of King’s Landing to pass judgement on his dishevelled state.

You are almost exactly where he left you, though you’ve settled back against the pillows with a book, appearing for all the world as though it is an evening like any other. It isn’t. When you see him standing at the door, he fully expects you to rail at him, perhaps to cry or even avoid him.

Instead, your lips twist compassionately, eyes impossibly soft, and you put the tome aside. “Come,” you say, patting the space beside him.

And how can he refuse?

Daemon clambers onto the mattress, shuffling into the open space of your arms and collapsing there in your embrace. The hard bulge of your belly pushes against his chest, a reminder of everything pure and real and necessary, everything he has fought for. What I would die for.

He cannot speak his apology aloud. It sticks to the roof of his mouth, coagulating in the liminality between his body and the air. Cursing himself for his inability to perform something so simple, he buries his face into your breasts, breathing in the smell of you, the feel of you, safe and whole and alive. His eyes burn.

“It is alright, kepus. Sh.” Your palm strokes the back of his head, trailing between his shoulder blades and up again in soothing rhythm.

My darling, forgiving girl. You are everything to him, and you are here.

The tears finally fall.

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lovelybrooke · 8 months

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Yandere Elden Ring x reader Concept

This has been in my drafts since June so I'm posting it now, so I no longer have to look at it.

Also, I tried with the old English, okay? Cut me some slack.

Edit from the future: check out this blog for more Elden ring stuff @whitewitchqueen

Masterlist

Your mother always called you a dreamer, your head in the clouds, to distracted to really be aware of the world around you. How could you? War ravaged the Lands Between, and your life with your mother was not exactly the best.

You were extremely poor, and your mother was afflicted with the scarlet rot. As you aged, your mothers condition got worse, until she was immobilized, blinded by the rot that was killing her. From dusk till dawn, your mother groaned and begged for death, but it never came.

You mother wasn't alone in her suffering. You, a young twelve-year-old, was racked with quilt for your mother. After she became bedridden, you took on her work, and attempted to help subside the pain. No matter how much you worked, she only continued to get worse. It didn't help that whenever you went to sleep, your mind was filled with dark thoughts that made you sick. Kill her, they said, kill her and you will be free.

You never listened though and continued to take care of your dying mother. Eventually, your mother grew unresponsive, but thankfully still breathing. During this time, the voices and dreams became worse, now they were ragging on during the day, filling you with dread. They were often urging you to murder your mother, but on rare occasions, they were filling your head with visions, nothing concrete, just jumbles of colors and indistinguishable words, but it didn't help with your concentration.

It was a cold night when your mother died. It wasn't sudden or dramatic, she was simply gone. You didn't feel any pain, never cursing the world for taking her from you. You were simply happy her soul would be welcomed into the Erdtree. Her death did rattle you though. For so long, your life revolved around her, and now she was gone, and you don't know how to continue without her.

You finally allow yourself to cry when you bury her in a simple grave right outside the shack you called a home. You fell to your knees, tears racking your body as you hold yourself tight to find some sense of comfort. Your there for a while before you lay your body down on the grave, your nose runny and face wet as you cry quietly to sleep.

You didn't know where you were when you awoke. Wait, you weren't awake, you were dreaming. Your body felt strangely light and warm, but everything around you felt so real. You felt someone else's presence around you, calling out to them with a small hello. There was no response, but the strange feeling didn't go away, in fact it only got stronger, the warmth nearly consuming you. The light around you was blinding, practically burning you as you pushed yourself to wake up.

You were breathless when you actually awake, sweat rolling down your face. It's morning, and your covered in dirt. However, what's more concerning are the small burns on your arms. It filled you with confusion, but you past it off as old scars. As you slowly stand up with a small wobble, you gaze at the world around you. You sigh, as you fully take in your situation. Your mother, the only person you ever had, is dead, and you are alone.

You walk back into your home, your face expressionless and unmoving. The house is eerily quiet now that it is devoid of the painful moaning of your mother. You trudge to your room, jumping when you come face to face with a doll. Its skin was a light shade of blue and it was wearing mages clothing. It doesn't move at the sight of few, but the sight of it is enough of a worry. You move slowly towards it, picking it up, you move it around to inspect it, dropping in surprise when it speaks.

"Thou dreamer, who are you?" The doll's mouth doesn't move, but the feminine voice surrounds you completely. You don't answer, too fearful to open your mouth. "It does not matter." You hear her say. "Tell me, how does thou enter the land of dreams?"

"I don't know." You whisper, the doll remaining motionless. "Sad." The voice says, going quiet for a minute. "Find me, dreamer." It finally says, "At the Belfries in Liurnia." The voice finishes before the doll disappears in a blue light. Liurnia? Liurnia was days away from your home, you couldn't possibly make it there. You shake off the voice as some strange dream, moving to change into some less dirty clothes. You planned on traveling into the Capital to look for better work, now that you were supporting yourself.

Leyndell was much busier than usual, Queen Marika marriage to the Champion Radagon causing people all around the Lands Between to travel to the Capital. Merchants, finger readers, even worriers, they were all gathered at the Golden Captial. But for you, it felt like eyes were constantly on you. You felt paranoid, scared, and you desperately missed your mother. But you barely got the chance to take a breath before the sound of cheering enveloped your senses, completely overwhelming you.

From a distance, you could see a glimpse of blond. It was brief, only for a moment, but it was enough to get the crowd around you to start singing praises again. It was loud, so, so loud. You head was spinning, and in middle of Lyndell Capital, you fell unconscious.

The way you felt in your dream can only be described as motherly. Worm hands enveloping you from all directions, you felt safe. You wanted to pull the feeling inside of you and never let it go. The feeling made you miss your mother, causing tears to roll down your face like you were a baby again. In an instant, you awoke, the heat of the tears still stuck to your face.

"Oh, my poor, sweet child." There that feeling was again, that warm, motherly feeling. It felt like sweet honey, it filled you with glee. But as you turned your head to look at the voice, the glee was replaced by dread. All-consuming dread as Queen Markia the Eternal carefully stroked your tear covered cheeks, comfort and kindness echoing in her voice. You wanted to back away, but her presence was like a magnet, pulling you in.

Before you even spoke, the Queen beat you too it. "You don't have to worry, my dear. For I will keep you safe. Stay with me." With every stroke of her fingers, you were drawn back into the corners of your mind. The last bits of your consciousness knew she was messing with you, with your memories, with your mind. As her grip slowly got tighter you could feel yourself slipping away, until eventually, you were a shell of yourself. Ready to be molded by the Queen herself, and whatever other forces may be.

You awake suffering no dreams, no dark premonitions. It was a peaceful awakening. But everything around you felt off. The room you were in was vast, the bed was too comfortable, the clothing on your back was soft, you felt different.

Your body moved on its own, towards an unknown destination only your legs knew. You wanted to stop, but it was like your mind was separate from your body. You couldn't make decisions for yourself. Eventually, you stopped in front of an elaborate door, for what reason you knew not. You slowly brought your hand towards its intricate carving, the door opening before you could make contact. "My child, you're awake." The Queen knelt down, grasping your hands, "It is wonderful to see you again." You shake your head, nearly entranced by the golden glow in her eyes.

"Who are you?" Your words were airy, scared even. "Where am I?" The Queen smiled at you, not faced by your questions.

"Oh, my dear dreamer." Her words were bright and warm. "You are finally home." You don't question her further, your mind swarming too fast for you to properly think. "Come now, your father would like to see you."

Dreamer. You've heard that before.

---

A/n: I needed to get this out of my drafts, sorry if this sucks.

#yandere x reader #soft yandere #platonic yandere #elden ring x reader #yandere elden ring #elden ring

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viisator · 10 months

Text

After the little mermaid turned into sea foam

Pairings: Nishimura Riki X F!Reader

Genre: Historical Fiction, Fantasy, Fairytale.

Warning: none.

Description: After the little mermaid turned into sea foam, when the Prince she loved woke up in the arms of his new wife- what did he ever think? What happened to him? Did he ever think of her?

Reminder: Pov shifts between First person(Ni-ki) and Third person. I also encourage you to read the fairytale The Little Mermaid first if you have not read it yet so you can enjoy this fic more.

Not Proofread

Word count: 696 words.

(This fanfic is inspired by the classical fairytale "The Little Mermaid" by Hans Christian Andersen)

++ This fanfic has been sitting in my drafts since my favourite Disney classic, The Little Mermaid by Disney was released! And right after finishing the movie, I immediately read Christian Andersen's and while reading, I couldn't help but imagine Ni-ki as the Prince....so...yeah! Have fun reading!!++

Read the original story by Hans Christian Andersen

• • • • •

The time I woke up with my wife in my embrace and felt her hot breath. The last evening at the wedding rewound in my head.

Everything was perfect, the cathedral was gleaming with all the surrounding lights; and Reia, the girl in my arms shined the most. But I could see somewhere, somehow in the side of my eyes, I saw her there, eyes bloodshot and lips trembling.

My heart ache as I ignored her hopeful longing stares. Her hand quietly trembled at her sides, stopping the urge to reach and grab hold of me...my dumb foundling, whom I thought was the maiden who saved me laying dead at the beach. I wanted to hold you and tell you one last time. But you are not the one.

When I embraced her at the deck, on our way to the marriage, I told her she'd always be the one, that I'd rather choose her over the Princes in my arms. I know how it felt; to cry but unable to shed tears. Her tight embrace resembles the touch of the sea that's still fresh in my memories, while her lips are the sweetness of roses.

Up until now I still have the thought that maybe, just maybe she was; the one who saved me and caught me in the depths of the sea, the one who swum with me up to the shore, the one who placed her warm lips on my forehead, and the one who sang to me with her most handsome voice- just maybe.

But I know it wasn't her, it wasn't my dumb foundling. It was she, the Princess in my arms.

The girl in my arms, the princes of Blue Islands, the girl who was taught in the church, the girl with skin so delicately fair, and the deepest ocean blue eyes, the one who sang so beautifully- but her palms, the way her soft palms held me, it wasn't the girl who saved me in the depths of the sea.

I stood up from my wife's embrace, Reia, and sat down, looking around, I noticed a metal reflecting the morning light caught my eyes, it was a dagger laying on the cold floor, with its handle curved in an ocean shape.

I went out of the room and goes up to the deck, where the cold morning air hit my face. It smells like the sea, it smells like fresh seaweed just like my dumb foundling.

But she's nowhere to be found. Where is she? The girl who danced with me the best, the one who can express her feelings through her eyes, the one who was at my side, the one I know who loved me truly-

The Prince, Niki, called out crews that are inside the ship to search and look for the little mermaid, he ordered them to dive into the depths of the sea, and he asked them where they last saw her. His mind was all over the place wondering, searching and longing for the little mermaid's expressive and lovable gaze, her warm gentle touch, her graceful dance, her soft hair... her warm lips.

My dumb foundling...where are you? Just for a minute, that is all I ask, I want to call you and show yourself to me. Let me see and watch your gaze upon me. The elegance of your dance drew me to adore you more than before. Just for a minute, please, I want to see you and hold you before it's too late.

I wanted to, but I could not, after all this time, I know I did not love you.

But as dawn neared, his confused wife stared and waited for him silently at his side as he clench the silver dagger in his hand staring deeply at the ocean's horizon. He felt his heart clench, he lost her, the girl who loved him the most.

Niki's tears run through his warm cheeks. He should have looked at her when he felt her gaze last evening, he should have listened even though she could not speak, he should have asked her name even though she couldn't say it, and he should have stayed; beside her, with her never shedding eyes.

And now, he stares at the dark waves wondering if she's there, wondering if she's alright, hoping that she's fine, because maybe he does, and Niki does from the start know that it was her who saved him from the strong waves on his very birthday. The one who lay him under the hot sands of the beach. The one who sang him awake.

His dumb foundling. He loved her quite much.

Series Masterlist

Enhypen Masterlist

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loverboy-havocboy · 1 month

Note

Hi! From the WIP ask game, would you elaborate on / gives us a share of the "omegaverse pack" ? :D

i gave the gist of this one here - but i'm happy to expand on it (with what little i have haha)

~ 1 hour later ~

you sent me on a spiral, bestie. i opened this ask to answer it an hour ago and have been ironing out a real outline/first draft since then. so now you get more.

also, i think i forgot to mention on the first post that this was born in @babygirlbridger's dms and fed by her freak brain <3

outline snippet:

Boost sequesters them away, but Wolffe comes to their quarters to check on them and what he finds is the three of them curled up in one bunk in just their lower blacks. Boost is holding both of them against himself because the only thing he can really offer is skin-on-skin contact. There’s nothing he can do for their heats. But they’re in a shitty nest Boost made for them with their combined three pillows and blankets. Comet and Sinker look like hell - their skin is flushed and shining with sweat, their curls stick to their foreheads, and the strength of the omega scent in the air nearly knocks Wolffe on his ass as soon as he steps into the room. The situation he walks into has Wolffe’s scent flaring, his own hormones and instincts rushing to take over, but he holds himself back because as soon as Boost sees him he’s out from under his batchmates - standing between them and Wolffe. Wolffe is like a shark smelling blood in the water and Comet and Sinker immediately whimper when they hear him growling, "What's going on here?” Boost tries to block his view of them, but with the scent in the air it’s painfully obvious what’s going on - not to mention, as soon as Wolffe’s scent thickens, the omegas are whining and weakly pulling at their lowers, begging for the alpha to help them. Boost is cycling back and forth rapidly between snarling at Wolffe (“I’ve worked so hard to protect them and I’ve lost everything, I’m not losing them too. You’ll turn them in over my dead fucking body.”) and trying to calm Comet and SInker, telling them to be quiet and lay still. Boost’s protectiveness is in overdrive - he’s never felt this amped up in his life. He’s going to protect his batchmates even if it means fighting Wolffe off with his bare hands. He’s shaking with the effort of it. It’s engineered into his DNA to back down in the face of an alpha AND a commanding officer, and Wolffe is both, but Comet and Sinker are also written into his DNA and they’ll always win out over any other instinct, even if Wolffe’s scent flaring threatens to bring him to his knees.

He steps further into the room, but doesn’t go for Comet or Sinker. He stops at Boost - comes up so close he’s almost chest to chest, nose to nose with the man, and brings a hand up to his cheek. Boost can’t help but push into the touch with a choked whimper. Wolffe murmurs to him, “It’s alright. You can rest now, pup. I’m here, I’ll take care of you - all of you. Please trust me, Boost.” The thing is - Boost does trust Wolffe. He kept a level head while they were sitting ducks in a field of debris and bodies, he calmed all of them and helped them keep focused. He believes Wolffe will take care of them. That’s all it takes for him to finally fall to his knees, head on Wolffe’s thigh. Wolffe runs his fingers through Boost’s curls and shushes him gently, then looks over the two omegas whose eyes are glued to him. His instincts scream at him to take them - to fuck them and fill them and make them his. But he fights the urge because he knows they’re out of their minds with need. They can’t really know what they want - if they really want him to touch them or if they’re just desperate to be touched. But then Sinker finally manages to get his lowers off and fucking presents for him, thighs shining with an abundance of slick and shaking with the effort of holding himself up and fuck, that’s a sight. Pressure on his codpiece - torturous against his already hard cock - draws his attention downward, to where Boost is nosing at it tentatively. “Help them, sir, please,” he beseeches mournfully, “I can’t help them.” Comet and Sinker whimper in agreement.

draft snippet:

so. yeah. :)

@brokenphoenix99 @insertmeaningfulusername @babygirlbridger pspspsps

#wip #my works #cloneshipping #omegaverse #ask game #ask havoc

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lazerswordweilder · 2 months

Text

What, those aren’t in the same universe- yes they are. <<<the thoughts running through my head when I made a crossover of Marvel, Star Wars, Danny Phantom (Dannys stays in Amity and never leaves though, he literally just happens to become a halfa) and DC.

(Its important to note this was written in 2024)

A fact known to Anakin and Anakin alone is that Obi-Wan was reincarnated to take part in Star Wars. He was born in the year 1849 on earth, it was the earth we exist on today, only the future differs. His name was John Kyle, an archeologist who is a retired medic from a long forgotten war but also had unofficial diplomatic and fighting training from various tight spots. Years ago John found a child lying in the desert.

Anakin however has simple been alive all those years. He was born in a desert to a human mother captured by scientists ahead of their times, the experimented on her, and he was born from it. He lay on the desert dying for years, his unwelcome powers keeping him alive and suffering, this sparked his hatred, of the desert, of the sand, of the scientists. The only thing he remembered were his mother’s dying words “Anakin, you’ll- you’ll be so great, you’ll walk the skies.” as she succumbed to her wounds after giving birth, at least he remembers his name Anakin.

Anakin grew up under John, John becoming the father he never had. By the time he was 20 the war had ended but it scarred him, he never forgot the screams. By the time he was 25 he had stopped aging, blaming the scientists and not explaining his past to John out of fear of rejection. By the time he was 34 and John was 52 John thought he had connected the dots, his apprentice had stolen an artifact they’d both been hunting for and it had carried an ancient plage or power that slowed him down from aging! One day while exploring a volcano it turned active, John saw his chance and pushed the boy in and ran.

Anakin burnt alive, his anger roaring up inside of him the same time a natural portal to the ghost zone opened up in the volcano. Anakins eyes turned fire red, the blood in his veins turned to lava, his rage burnt hotter than the lava ever could. Anakin becomes an oxymoron, even beyond the fact he’s half alive half dead, he died in lava yet his weakness is water (guy never learnt how to swim, after being held underwater and nearly drowned he never really got over it), all ghosts hate what killed them and have weaknesses to it, Anakins death is his power. He takes on an apparence which is basically what he looks like normally but with fangs, sometimes his eyes reflect light or glow though, and when he gets mad his skin heats up, turning charred and what should be exposed flesh turns into lava below the charred skin, also his hair starts to turn to flame. Anakins obsession is revenge and his core is permanently stained with rage.

By the time Anakin gets out a grip on his powers World War 1 starts drafting with the year being 1914, Anakin (despite technically being dead) immediately decides that’s a good idea for blowing off steam and also a way to get actually military experience to murder John with. He hacks a comuptor and signs himself up, putting in his photo, his medical stuff, experience, and everything else on the form, then as he stares at the name box he remembers he’s meant to be dead, he choses a fitting name, Achilles. Achilles wrath matched Anakins rage, Achilles heel matched Anakins weakness to water, and hopefully Anakin will be able to bring the name Achilles some more modern glory.

He gets his dog tag and as sits in a cart heading to war with the rest of his team, Anakin runs his finger over the ingraving in it, careful not to melt it, Achilles. As bordom sets in he remembered other stories of ancient greek, more specifically Aphrodite Areia, Areia was an epithet meaning war like and it seperated Aphrodite Areia from her more commenly known version Aphrodite. He supposes he needs one to if there are to be two great Achilles, in his head he starts referring to himself as Anakin Achilles.

After 4 years at war and another year spent wandering the contry Anakin comes back to where he knows John is just to find out he died of old age around the time the war ended at 68, despite this being quite impressive despite modern medican Anakin promptly decides to go jump into another volcano. It is like a warm bath. But it cheered Anakin up- seriously, who knew volcanos were so nice when you weren’t burning alive?

After this he grabs the blackest clothes he can find and knows will be easy to move in, some fabric which he wraps around his face from nose to chin, tucks his dog tag safely into his clothes, and walked into the nearest bar he knew had shady dealing going on. He promptly intoduced himself as an assasin looking for training and gets pointed to a table full of tough looking people.

Two years later he’s been an assasin apprentice for years, under someone he thinks is called Ra Ah Ghoul. Anakin serves the guy for another 4 years despite thinking he’s kind of an asshole, then runs away. He’s learnt enough to avoid most of Ghouls traps and makes it out with a minor stab wound, he doesn’t really have organs anymore so he’s not worried.

He does take a moment to sit on someones roof top and stare at the stars, he thinks back to his first memories and remembers with a small laugh, the one you give when you’re shocked and in awe and a little breathless but happy, he knows his full name now, his birth name, Anakin Skywalker. He thinks fondly about it and feels like a child for the first time in years, staring up the the stars with the last thing his mother gave him, his name, just for a moment Anakins rage is fully forgotten.

Suddenly he feels to small, he looks down a sees the chubby hands of a baby, he actually physically blinks at that. He can work with this, his life is over due for a bit of normal anyways, he stores his dog tag (the only thing he has attachment to) inside his rib cage using a helpful bit of intangibility and floats down to the door step. He can hear a young, kind, childless couple inside.

Anakin- now named William, danced with his wife, Julia Lotis. He was so truely smitten with her and for the first time in so long he loved the domestic life style, Julia had finally quited the rage always simmering in his core, she was his Angel. He brought Julia in for a kiss and admired her, her long chocolate hair, her warm brown eyes that seemed like cozy fires during the winter rather then his uncontrolled rage. He swung her around in a circle and reached out to catch her when her eyes went wide, he caught her lifeless- pulseless- breathless- body and stared.

He stared at her for a long time, trying to hold back the cracks in his core, but it was like reading a book when the ending was so obvious. He conculded he was going to kill everyone within the city once he got out of shock, Anakin dropped his Angel to the floor, moving to the cupboard on autopilot, he grabbed his darkest clothes and put them on, the knifes he had hidden away just in case were quickly hidden in the folds of his outfit, he pulled out his dog tag, letting it’s reasuring weight lay heavy on his chest.

He walked all the way to Gotham, he didn’t even move as it hailed and stormed, as the ground shook and trees collapses. He walked to Metropolis, it was 1975, anyone who knew anything knew the Justice League was looking for new hires, he wasn’t looking for a job but if he could get to one of the interviews then he’d be immediately be recognised as a threat and subdued.

He stormed into the daily planet building where he knew at least Superman was holding interviews, he scared everyone out of the elevator with a death glare and walked straight into the room he could hear Superman talking in, he pushed open the door “Uh, interviews are over.” Superman abruptly paused, probably taking in Anakins disheveled and disassociating self, Anakin ignored the knife that dropped to the ground “Are you- here for an interview?” Superman asked. Anakin glared at him and jumped Superman as red over took his vision.

Anakin woke up in a cell, a wary Superman stood in front of him dripping his lava “If- you could’ve just said you had fire powers.” Superman said, Anakin sagged down into the chains and Superman looked at him for a second before realisation hit him “You weren’t here to show us your powers, you’re here so we could stop you.” Superman was suddenly no longer hesitant “Sounds like a hero to me, I think we’ve got your powers down, but if you want a spot in the League I only need your name.” It doesn’t take him a second to answer “Achilles.”

By 2002 it was doomsday, for the third time this month. The hero thing certainly wasn’t boring, and various other heros had helped Anakin gain an appreciation for technology, he was a technopath. Any

This is getting way too long, also I accidentally queued it so I’ll just reblog with more.

#crossover #lazerswordweilder writes #danny phantom #dp #dpxdc #dc #marvel #Star Wars

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iheartchv · 1 year

Text

Imagine...

You've known the turtles and their friends for a while. You have feelings for a certain turtle, and he's aware of that. He has feelings for you, too. You both are adults, you know what you want, and know the hardships that are to come. Shredder has risen in power, his army many, causing an apocalyptic war between mutants and humans. Since then, you and your turtle crush hasn't had any time to be together. Duty came first. Sure, you talked briefly over police speakers Donnie had rigged, but that wasn't the same as actually talking face to face. One thing he also told you, because Splinter had told his sons....

⛩⛩⛩⛩⛩⛩⛩⛩⛩

"Ninjas are forbidden to love..."

"I know. You've said this before..."

He saw the sadness, the loneliness, in your eyes. He never wanted to make you feel that way. He sighed deeply and made you look at him.

"That doesn't stop my heart from thinking about you though."

He told you that he was going to join a resistance group that has stayed hidden from Shredder and his goons. He was going to war. You had tried arguing with him, telling him it was dangerous.

"What if you never come back? What if something happens and we never see each other again?"

He was silent for a short moment, and finally said,"Even if our paths never meet, or you get over me and move on, just know that... no one will ever treat you, love you, for the beautiful goddess you are. Any man would be lucky to have you to treasure and hold."

Your heart pounded so much it hurt to breath. The thought of losing him was too much to bear. You cared for him too much.

You started again,"I'll never meet someone like you again. You're my man," you confessed.

His heart hurt, as well. He wanted to be happy, more happy than what he was feeling right now. He wanted to tell you that he was going to come back and always be by your side, but he learned to not keep promises that he wasn't for certain to keep. However, hearing you say that you loved him warmed his soul that dreaded the war ahead.

He couldn't help it. His heart, his entire being was consumed by you. "Y/N..." he barely whispered. He kissed you so sweetly, so slowly, wanting to memorize the taste of your lips. His arms wrapped around you, wanting you so close. He needed your warmth, your love right now. He needed you.

"I want to spend every minute we have together. And right now... I want to make love to you." He paused for a second. "Do you want that?"

His eyes... oh, you couldn't resist the tenderness in his eyes. There was life again where there was once something dull, dead. Since Splinter's passing, he hadn't been himself. But the eyes staring back at you was the ones you missed. Your heart swelled with love for this turtle man. Yes, you wanted him, in the most intimate of ways.

"Yes, I want that. Make love to me. Please..."

He kissed you more passionately this time while laying you back onto your bed, with a mission in mind. And that was to love, touch and kiss every inch of you.

⛩⛩⛩⛩⛩⛩⛩⛩⛩

So this turned out to be a bit longer than I wanted, but... I'm just exercising my brain and looking through my drafts to finish before moving on to my inbox ( it wont take long ) Hope you liked it c:

Tag list:

@turtle-babe83 @tmntspidergirl @leosgirl82 @angelcatlowyn @annaliaandtheturtles @pheradream15 @exovapor @cowabunga-doll @bluesakurablossom @crazedauthor @darksaphire2002 @foreignbrunette @greenprincess @half-shell-bo @lady-maria-the-wolf225 @moonlightflower21 @narwals14 @nikitaboeve @nittleboo @raphaelsrightarm @southernblossoms @thelostandforgottenangel @white-masked-beauty @roxosupreme @kawaiibunga @captain-kinda-trash @angelicdavinci @thelaundrybitch @yumefuusen @sivy-chan-blog @artsolarsash @turtlebeaa @crazedtmnt @raisin-shell @sacredwarrior88 @leosgirl82 @egg-on-the-run @ashleighclark98 @dilucsflame33 @tkappi @post-apocalyptic-daydream

If you'd like to be tagged, let me know c;

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt x reader #tmnt bayverse #tmnt 2016 #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2003 #tmnt 2007 #tmnt 2012 #donnie #leo #raph #mikey #xreader #x reader #turtlesmakemehappy #tw: maybe some angst

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ayayabaroque · 1 year

Note

tanginamo hilig mo mag procrastinate kahit aabi mo mag rerelease ka ng fic nung December 20-26

POSSIBLE WARNINGS FOR THE DARK(ISH??) THEMES AHEAD???

+delusional scarapoots, he sees you as both his mother figure and a romantic(ishh) interest hahahahahaha borderline insane but same ngl

Qhat if ano

Hear me out

Genshin SAGAU but Scaramouche never met his old mortal friends etcetc...

Time travelling shit

But wait, theres more

May sense of creepiness iykwis

Darling takes care of him throughout the time Ei supposedly abandoned him, but aftr he becomes a harbinger you suddenly leave for no reaspn

He misses you and hes mad at u for leaving him

Imagine the shock when he finds out that you returned.

Or, an impostor of per se

in the attempt to make the so-called 'God' he worships as of now, he k-words the 'impostor' (which is u btw and now you hate him since you're a vengeful person and by you i mean me)

Oh the horror he has on his face when he saw your gold blood seeping through your lifeless body.

He's constantly hearing a faint ringing in his head telling him—

"Sinner. Sinner. Sinner. SINNER."

In the desperate attempt to cling on to whatever life you had, he hugged your — now dead — form tightly, while pressing his cheek against yours for any source of warmth.

"Your Grace, please don't forsake me, for I have sinned against you—

...

"Please Your Grace, wake up!

...

"If you so wish to torment and torture me so be it! Just please, wake up!

...

"I-I won't do it again, I promise— I'll murder the true impostor at your command, please—

...

"I understand I am a disappointment, but please don't leave me! You're—

...all that I have.

"Mother...

My mother... You...

You are my true... mother, not Ei, not anyone, only you.

You are special to me.

You won't leave me too, right mother?"

Scaramouche coddles your dead, rotting corpse closer, rocking bad and forth as it settles in his mind that you're dead now. You're gone.

He doesn't accept the fact you're gone rather, he stares at you lovingly, kissing you endlessly as if you were under a curse.

He's aware of what he's done, he chooses not to face it. He didn't sin against you, he was with you here right now. He didn't kill you, you're in his arms, looking at him lovingly and with care. He wasn't the reason you died, in fact, you didn't die at all!

"My creator, my life, my darling, let us go home.

I shall patch up your wounds immediately.

After that, I shall lay with you in bed, seeking your warmth as I always have.

As I always would.

And as I ever will be."

As he fulfills his promise of murdering the impostor at your absent command, he is expectant of praise from a cold, rotting corpse.

"Oh mother...

Please tell me I've done you good.

Please, praise me again and tell me you won't leave me.

That I am your good boy.

No one else's.

Yours.

Mother.

My love.

You will always be."

i fucking wrote this at 12:55 i havent inhaled much sleep so fuck u if you laugh at this

Sincerely, Prince

btw wheres my christmas gift i asked for genesis crystals and you gave me a fuckcij rubber duck./lh/j

i dont want whatever the fuck you're on Prince stop writing your creepy ideas at midnight adik ka ba Prince? I'm also sorry I haven't been writing a lot, I promise I'll post the shit in my drafts soon. Much love and whatever else is left of me, Niecass. p.s: You're not getting another Christmas gift. The rubber duck gift set for children is all that I can afford.

#ayayacantwrite #genshin impact #genshin #genshin sagau #tw yandere #yandere genshin au

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marvelslut16 · 2 years

Text

Grief

Pairing: Billy x reader (technically) but it's mainly Max x platonic!Reader

Synopsis: The reader helps Max through her confusing grief after Billy's death by reveling bits and pieces of her own twisted relationship with him.

Word count: 1.7k+

Warnings: Swearing probably. A lot of talk bout death. Wishing death upon someone. Toxic abusive relationship. Angst. Some fluff. But I mean mainly angst. Grief.

A/N: I've had this idea since the end of the third season, but since the fourth season dealt a lot with Max's grief it helped me flesh out this one shot. I'm embarrassed to admit that I cried while writing this. Also I had this fic finished for like two months but didn't know what to name it so it's just been sitting in my drafts, I decided to give it a shitty name before second guessed the entire thing and never posted it.

“So whatcha’ listenin’ to?” you ask the redhead as you plop down on the edge of the picnic table.

You aren't surprised when she doesn’t respond, instead turning her body away from where you're sitting. You sigh, shifting to lay across the length of the tabletop, you may as well try and get some sun while you sit with Max. The redhead continues to ignore you until you hear her walkman click, signaling that it’s time to flip the cassette.

“Why are you here?” she finally asks.

“Because your friends are worried about you, I’m worried about you,” you sit back up, leaning your forearms on your legs, feet resting atop the bench next to Max. “It’s been over two months Max, and you aren’t talking to anyone.”

“Well I still don’t want to talk,” she states matter of factly, rewinding her cassette. You can hear two songs play through her headphones before she sighs and looks back at you. “What will it take for you to leave me alone?”

“Tell me what you’re listening to,” you hope that she’ll be more likely to talk if you don’t start by asking her how she is.

“Kate Bush, running up that hill is my favorite song,” you hum looking down at your hands.

“Ya know, my friend has that same cassette. She played that song for me the other day, it immediately made me think of him.”

“How could you move on? How are you so okay?” her voice equal parts desperation and anger, you can’t bring yourself to look at her when you respond, afraid she’ll be able to see how much you’re hurting.

“I’m not okay, and I haven’t moved on. My friend thought I was crazy because I immediately burst into tears at the song. I haven’t been back to the pool since he died. I buy his cigarettes and light them, I never smoke them, I just want to smell them-smell him. I wear his earring everyday, and I go to bed every night clutching his stupid jean jacket. I’m not okay, and that’s normal, but I can’t spend every moment wallowing because it won’t change anything,” you don’t even realize your crying, not until tears are falling out your forearms.

“I hated him,” Max admits, reaching over to hold your hand.

“I know,” you laugh wetly, you’d grown close to the girl over the year you had dated Billy, and she wasn’t good at hiding how she really felt. “He treated you like shit, it makes sense.”

“You don’t get it! He loved you while he made my life a living hell, it’s different. There were times when I wanted him to die, and I just feel so guilty.”

“Max, there’s nothing wrong with feeling like that, he was horrible to you and you just wanted him to leave you alone.”

“I wanted him dead, and now he is! What kind of person does that make me?” she pulls her hand away from yours, throwing it in the air in exaggeration.

“New Year's Eve. Some Senior was having a big party to ring in the new year. I didn’t want to go, I had begged Billy to just stay home, we could pop Jiffy pop and ring in the new year with you since your mom and Neil were going out. But he forced me to go, so I got all dressed up for him and he ignored me almost the entire time we were there. Tommy H. and Carol stole him away the moment we walked into the house, none of them even tried to involve me in their conversation.

I ended up spending three hours leaning up against the wall in the living room before some guy from my history class came over to talk to me. I spent the next few hours talking to the guy since we were both alone, and some gorgeous leggy brunette was flirting with Billy. And he was flirting right back. Right before midnight Billy finally noticed I wasn't hanging all over him and waiting for him to give me attention anymore. He saw that I was talking to a guy and would have beat him to a pulp for it had I not stood in between them.

Instead of starting the new year off with a kiss, we started it with a huge fight. He calmly pulled me out of the house, but as soon as we were in his car and driving away he was screaming at me. He was berating me for flirting with some other guy, even though I wasn’t the one flirting at that party, he was. He just kept going on and on about how I embarrassed him by talking to the guy and thow I defended him, when all I was trying to do was keep Billy from a useless fight that could land him in jail.

I remember, vividly, wishing the alcohol would get to him and he would swerve off the road and into a tree. I didn’t want to die, I didn’t want him to die, I just wanted him to shut up. I thought that if he hit a tree he would just stop yelling at me for a little bit, and hopefully forget about how mad he was.

If you think you're a bad person for having normal thoughts, then I must be the world's worst person.”

“That actually happened?” Max’s expression is unreadable.

“I wish it hadn’t” you reach up to and anxiously run your fingers over Billy’s spiked earring that’s dangling from your ear. “To this day I feel guilty for thinking that, because I never thought he’d actually die, not this young. I figured I’d never feel this much guilt for thinking those things because we’d be broken up long before he’d die. But it’s normal for both of us to feel guilty about our thoughts we had in horrible moments with him, and it’s okay that we both feel those things. So long as we never act on them.”

“Thank you,” Max squeezes your hand, and you can tell by the look in her eyes that what you had said actually helped her.

“I should be the one thanking you, I just got a lot off my chest,” she laughs lightly, starting to look guilty again.

“You really don’t think I’m horrible?”

“If anyone was horrible, it was Billy. He treated you like shit most of the time, he liked to beat people up, he almost cheated on me multiple times, and he was a little racist,” you grab her hands and wait until she looks you in the eye. “It really is okay for you to have had those thoughts, and it makes sense that you’re conflicted and you feel guilty now. But you are honestly the furthest thing from a horrible person, Max.”

“Thank you,” tears start to prick at the corner of her eyes as she pulls you in for a hug, hiding her face in your neck.

“And for what it’s worth, he cared about you more than he’d ever like to admit. Yeah he despised you at first because he blamed you for the move and for how Neil treated you so much better than he treated him. But Billy grew to care for you, and he wanted to protect you. First night of summer break you were late coming home, you lost track of time with Lucas, Billy was so pissed when you got back at the house, but it was because he was a nervous wreck when you were late, he was worried something had happened to you. That obviously wasn’t the right way to express his feelings, but he was never good at that.”

“He loved you,” Max responds, voice breaking from her tears.

“I’m not sure he could love, I don’t think he’d ever let his walls down enough for that.” you pull away, giving Max a watery smile. “But he did probably hate me less than he hated most people.”

“Stay right here,” Max frowns before running off to her trailer. Standing awkwardly in the middle of the trailer park you look around, Aerosmith is coming from the Munson’s trailer, but the rest are silent. Everyone else is either at work or, more than likely, passed out drunk somewhere in their respective trailers.

Max comes running out of her trailer a few minutes later with a little white box clutched in her hands. When she gets back to where you’re standing she thrusts said box into your hands.

“What’s this?” you look at her in confusion, fingers playing with a torn corner of the box.

“I found it in Billy’s room before we moved. It was under a stack of Playboys, he probably knew you wouldn’t look under there,” you let out a little laugh, because Max was right, that probably was Billy’s thought process.

You gasp when your eyes land on what's inside the box, gold wiring twisting to spell out Billy attached to a matching gold chain. You had told him once, aftering seeing some freshman with her boyfriend's name on a necklace, how badly you wanted one, even if it was disgustingly cheesy and over the top. “I can’t believe he remembered,” you murmur. More to yourself than to Max.

Taking out the cardboard piece the necklace is resting on you notice a polaroid below it. Billy’s boxers are sitting low on his hips, barely even on him, his happy trail is gone and in its place is a fresh tattoo of your first and middle names running across his pelvic bone. The polaroid is dated 6/28/85. You think back to the week before he died, when he refused to swim, didn’t try to get in your pants once, and told you he had something to show you, something he never got around to doing.

It hits you like a freight train, Billy loved you, in his own twisted way. He would never say those words to you, but he got your name permanently inked on his skin to let you know that he felt the same. Your knees buckle as the weight of the realization comes crashing down on you, you're thankful that you're still standing so close to the picnic table that you slam onto the seat and not the ground. It’s Max’s turn to comfort you as you let out a sob, a new wave of grief washing over you as you realize just how much you meant to him and what you truly lost.

#stranger things #stranger things imagine #billy x reader #billy hargove x reader #billy hargove imagine #max x platonic!reader #max mayfield x platonic!reader

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cream-and-tea · 2 years

Text

[ID: a picture of a group of peaches lying in a pile with a faint border around the edge, white text in the centre reads CREAM-AND-TEA while smaller text below that reads reintro/navigation. END ID]

hi! hello! salutations! my name (at least on the internet) is creme (she/her please and thank you), and this reintro has been... a long time coming, to say the least. let’s get some quick facts out of the way so i can talk about my over abundance of projects!

i tend to write character-driven stories, complicated relationships of all kinds, queer/nerudivergant characters (hey, write what you know), fucked-up magic systems, and basically everything i touch ends up having SOME kind of fantasy element (whether intentionally or not)

i also write poetry! but that tends not to get posted as much bc of just how personal it is to me

i’m pretty active on here but i'm trying to get better at actually Posting My Writing, i do have some stuff up (mostly from my main wip Lay Me Down) but that’s something i’m working on

(i’m working on… a lot)

i’m currently studying journalism and creative writing in university!!!

i’d love to be published one day (primarily with my poetry and maybe a novel) but first i have to actual finish something lol

i am literally up to read/follow anything. anything at all. i do have stuff i look for and some genres i read more than others but if something has a premise i like/tropes i like/a cool vibe/anything remotely interesting at all i tend to jump on it

i love love love being tagged in tag games even if it takes me fucking forever to do them lol

aaaaand i think that’s mostly it! now onto the main event (aka all my stories i couldn’t shut up about so i had to put them under the cut):

LAY ME DOWN.

[ID: an opening between two trees surrounded by ferns and leading into darkness, with text across it that reads LAY ME DOWN in white letters. END ID]

BASICS. drafting/outlining. fantasy/horror, dark academia (sort of). third person present tense, dual POV. book one of the gravespeaker trilogy.

PREMISE. On an earth overtaken by a infectious supernatural forest: a runaway with the ability to see the dead, a star student with far worse than blood staining their hands, the ghost of a murdered girl with a score to settle, and a failed prophet who knows far more than he thinks, must work together to unravel the mysteries and secrets of a deadly library at the end of the world that is just as much prison as it is salvation (that is… if they don’t kill each other first).

CHARACTERS.

Agnes-Maria white [17 and too good for this place. she is made of bruised skin and bleeding flowers, a girl half dying who will do anything to live.]

Pallas [17 and exactly where they think they belong. there is nothing safe or kind or soft about them even though they want to be, both the knife and the open wound.]

Nina Martin [18 and longing to leave. she is an echo of someone a different girl used to be, and death is only the beginning.]

Fiver [25 and looking for something better. he exists as an ichor-toned lie and wishes to scrub the residue of it from his skin, someone desperate to break the chains of the past around his neck.]

TAG. wip: ghost story

comic sans intro

playlist.

pinterest board.

TAGLIST (ask to be +/-). @vellichor-virgo @transmasc-wizard @houndmouthed @muddshadow @just-wublrful @corkywantstowrite @shrunkupthejams @andromedaexists @caninemotiff @lungs-and-gills @lychniscitrus @phantomnations @onomatopiya @deer-in-headlights-stare @arctic-oceans @redbloodprose @definitelynotclayface @cannivalisms @atthenian @dallonwrites

BURN THE STARS

[ID: a photo set in a dark space where a young person stands, face upturned, eyes closed, as their arms reach up, hands cupping an orb of light that casts a golden glow in the space around it. the text across the centre of the image reads BURN THE STARS in white letters. END ID]

BASICS. planning (seriously in the very early stages of planning). sci-fi fantasy. third person past tense (for now), four major POVs (for now). book one of a planned duology.

PREMISE. Exiled from one of the galaxies seven holy ruling families and poisoned with magic she doesn't understand, Apollinaires self-destructive spiral is interrupted by an event that leads her into the path of a sharpshooter with a taste for vengeance and a fervent medic pursuing knowledge no matter the cost. Meanwhile, in the heart of a massive rotating space station known as the Rings, wearing a stolen face and longing for home, reluctant assassin Anandi Alva plans to finally bring the star-spanning church to its knees. While within the palace both a fallen warrior and a girl-king strive to remember what means to be human.

CHARACTERS.

Apollinaire Sibel-Marie Gloria Alphonsine el Belrose, eldest daughter of the house of the seventh saint [the unchosen. the eldest daughter. god-cursed and roiling in flame]

Danny [the trickshot. the wanderer too far from home. saltbitter and stormy-eyed]

Silas Ambose [the “healer”. the seeker of truths. broken heart still beating and trembling hands]

Anandi Alva [the assassin. the tortured idealist. silken tongue and a thousand masks]

Rill [the executioner. the punished. steel bite and starstreaked blood.]

Glorian Apollinaire Alphonsine El Belrose, the first mourner, he who bears the sword and cries with the tears of a thousand people, aka “Alphie” [the chosen. the youngest child. golden crowns and redrimmed eyes]

TAG. wip: burn the stars

pinterest board.

TAGLIST (ask to be +/-). @just-wublrful @transmasc-wizard

MISC PROJECTS

[ID: a backdrop of soft, glittery peach fabric. the text across the centre of the image reads MISC PROJECTS in white letters. END ID ]

aka “things i’m not actively working on but constantly ping-pong around my brain on a day-to-day basis”

SALT BIRDS. low fantasy/slice-of-life audio drama. outlining. follows the lonely keeper of a seaside graveyard when one of the bodies she fishes from the ocean ends up being very much alive. With nowhere else to go the teenager she finds washed up on her shore must stay with her and the two must find a way to live with each other, despite the secrets both are keeping.

guilt, redemption and forgiveness. facing the unknown. stagnation and apathy. isolation. the ocean is real scary you guys (but also cool).

ONE DOWN AT DEVONS MARSH. urban fantasy with heavy litfic elements. planning/sporadically drafting. follows twins Friday and Oliver Walker as they attempt to understand the curse that dictates one of them will die on their seventeenth birthday while also navigating their relationships with each other, their family of witches, the town they live in, and the friends they meet along the way.

family (blood and otherwise). complicated platonic relationships. coming of age, faeries and witchcraft. weird small towns. fate and free will. death and grief. oops! this one is all about MY specific high school trauma!

SUNDOWN LAND. soft fantasy/roadtrip. planning. follows Shrike, a runaway thief slowly dying from a magical disease, and Ariel, an artificial construct who's maker has recently disappeared, as they journey through the ruins of their wartorn country in search of a mystical place both know from a popular childrens story.

finding closure. coming to terms with childhood abuse. generational trauma. personal autonomy. fantasy vs reality. discovering and defining identity. places being personified. it can be a pinocchio retelling if you squint reeeealllly hard.

ALL FALL DOWN. superhero. rewriting and replanning. follows hero and villain duo Tatum and Umbra as their city of New Victoria is plunged into chaos following a series of increasingly violent attacks. forced to work together and battling their own inner demons the two and their rag-tag group of friends are drawn into a much larger conspiracy that could unravel their ideas of themselves, each-other, and the foundation of the very world they live in.

enemies-to-lovers. gray mortality. the dangers of black and white thinking. what makes someone a villain and what makes a someone a hero. found family. the dangers of obsessive hate and revenge. heroes who choose to save the world. healing and recovery. heist bullshit.

GO TO #creme does a writing if you want some examples of my scribblings

GO TO #creme does an art if you want to see my gay little drawings

GO TO #creme does a tag for a look at the tag games i’ve done

GO TO #*stares in podcast rambling* if you want a taste of the OTHER things i obsess over constantly

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cupidsdescendant · 1 year

Text

"Roses won't bring you back"

okay. I know I said I hate Spy but I've been listening to La Vie en Rose from Bioshock and....my heart has been aching to write a sad French drabble. Listen to the song while you read! You'll get the best experience. promise ;)

youtube

“Dead people receive more flowers than the living ones because regret is stronger than gratitude.”

You believed that you were in a loving relationship with him. Yes, he had a reputation and the gossip had made you believe he was immoral, but he was a charmer and he caught your heart like a fish on a wire. You didn't know during the entire relationship that was filled with sweet kisses, slow dances during the sunset, and promised tenderness there was another woman. She sat on her rococo chair and gazed at the glistening lake that had stars sparkling off the reflection and the moon piercing through her heart, knowing that at a time like this, he was still out there and not home. The clock ticking had reminded the other woman that he wasn't coming back. The smell of his cigarettes faded, stronger smells taking over and she realized she became an afterthought, a memory. An experience. You never knew that she existed and when the rumors had spread around town the ache in your heart doubled. You weren't just backstabbed by him, you also backstabbed an innocent woman without even knowing. Spy had packed his bags and never came back. He knew what he had done was wrong, but he didn't care too much about the feelings of the people around him. Years of assassinating and killing people it didn't mean much to him whether someone would weep themselves to sleep. But when Spy had gotten a letter from your father, begging him to come home he knew something was wrong.

There you were in your casket. Family and friends lined up to give their condolences to your husk. He anticipated his turn as he let his cigarettes turn to ash in the men's restroom, For the first time in years you would see him without his balaclava or see him in general. His eyes outlined the blue tiles of the floor and he imagined your face again. Your smiles and your lips, every intimate moment you had with him, the secrets that escaped your mouths. With the last draw of his cigarette, he crushed it, took a deep breath, and grabbed the bouquet of roses. His apology for everything. They were deep red and smelled delicate. The floral scent followed Spy with each step to the doors where the service took place. The door creaked open and he stuck his head inside to find everyone staring at him. Their faces changed emotions once they realized the man in front of them. Judgment lingered as he walked down the aisle. He wanted to cry out that he was sorry, that he was stupid and young, all he wanted to do was tell every single soul that knew what he did "imsorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry. "imsorrysorrysorry" for lying to your family "imsorrysorrysorry" for lying to your friends "imsorrysorrysorry" for breaking his promise

He could get on his knees and apologize to everyone in the room except you. He can give everyone around him an explination and tell his side of the story but it will never be you. The person that deserved to know everything.

He'd lay the bouquet on the corner of your casket and stared at your life-less body, allowing guilt to take over. He couldn't bury his past any further, it struck the bottom of its grave, so the only thing he could do it bring his skeleton out and take responsibility. Spy knew it would fall on deaf ears but with a final whisper "Je suis désolé mon amour. les roses ne résoudront rien." (I am sorry my love. Roses won't fix anything.)

he let your soul rest. Again, this was just a little drabble <3 Hope you lovelies enjoyed it! I have a lot of works in the drafts but I just had to get this out of my system lol. Have a good day!

#tf2 fanfiction #team fortress 2 #team fortress 2 spy #spy x reader #tf2 spy #tf2 x reader #tf2 imagines #tf2 headcanons #team fortress 2 fanfiction #tf2 fanfic #spy team fortress 2 #tf2 x you #team fortress 2 x reader

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greenlakegalpals · 1 year

Text

had this in my drafts for a good two years now, figured id might as well post it. not sure if ill finish it or upload the first part of it

alex is hesitant, she hasnt been in the lab in a very long time. hadnt bothered either with her mom being strict about being interupted while working. the lights flick on as she decends the stairs. it looks the same ashe she remembered it, a big chemists lab with desks cluttered full of papers and dial up computers covered in sticky notes. giant machines and lab equipment buzzing and humming. theres the section her dad would always be found working at so thats where she went first. it took a bit but luckily her parents where meticulous and organized when it came to their materials.

she finds a bunch of silly looking objects. lead glasses with the rims thick and squared ridiculously. snorts, her dad was a dork. gets what she needs n prepares to leave when she drops a lead disk and it rolls between a rolling car and desk.

she goes to reach it n notices something weird abt the legs of the desk. marks on the floor. alex is curious. moves the desk to the pathed marks. behind the desk is a divot on the wall. alex runs her hands on it and it pops open.

theres a box inside.

the desk is put back. lights turn off. alex leaves the lab.

days later alex is on her laptop, bunch of tabs open. kind of distracted cus kara perched on by the window sill, sketch book in hand. shes been feeling much better physically, keeping herself occupied with things. and also wearing these horrendously fluffy blue ear muffs alex had modified with the lead pieces. it does wonders for dulling karas senses but nothing on *not* making her stargirl look less of a cute dork.

also having those pretty eyes glance up at her every often has her blush bashfully. and kara knows it by the smile she fails to hide. alex huffs, rolls her eyes fondly. goes back to mulling over her laptop. fingers tip tapping against the case of a small box. hears kara shuffle and ask what shes up to n alex hums, nuzzles the arms snaking around her shoulders. kara giggles softly, lays kiss on her crown. alex grins up at her.

it happens in slow motion.

one second kara is looking at her with a smile so soft it overwhelms alex with the need to kiss her. the next, kara drops to the floor with a shriek.

alex explodes from her seat, her knee knocks everything on her bed to the floor in haste. shes holding kara and checking her frantically. kara whimpers in pain, breathing raggedly for moment. the light of their room catches on karas scrunched face, its a split second but alex sees it.

kara reassures her shes okay now, doesnt know what happened. her face is pale and drawn so alex settles kara onto her bed with piles of blankets and pillows and karas plushies. digs out the emergency snickers bars. her stargirl lights up and a bit of color returns scarfing it down. alex snorts, the sound hollow in her ears.

she tells kara she'll be right back, picks up the mess knocked to the floor. the box she'd idly flicked open lays shut. deposits it in her jean pocket. says she'll be back with drinks.

halfway to the kitchen alex has her phone open. two tickets are bought.

kara falls asleep exhausted and dead to the world with her ear muffs on. it gives alex a chance to pack and gather up every saved dime and change, even the emergency cash her parents set aside. with that done, shes alone with her thoughts in the dark. she plans.

kara is back at school now, so should alex, she ditched after leaving the first bell, knowing kara and her dont see each other till lunch. its the only time she can do this.

alex feels detached the whole ride to the house. her mothers car is parked. her hands are cold.

alex counts the steps she takes. theyre loud in the quiet of the living room. feet like heavy lead past the kitchen. the static in her ears is loud. defeaning.

lab lights are one, quiet as she can she decends.

her mother hasnt noticed her yet. back facing alex, unaware her daughter stands behind her.

alex pulls out the little vial from the box. sets it down on the metal table. it glows a bright unatural green.

"you poisoned her."

the effect is instant. eliza wirls around violently, startled. she sees alex and immediatly readies with a questioning disapproving look when the words process. alex watches her mothers face split in a myriad of emotions. shock, realization, guilt. then a mask settles over her mothers face, alex idly notes its the same one shes wearing too.

#writing #kalex #not sure if ill finish it maybe someday #kara danvers #alex danvers

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pbaintthetb · 8 months

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I wish you would write a fic where JGY gets into more Back to the Future Shenanigans! I remember your first BttF fic and it was a lot of fun :D

Maybe LQR can take the role of Doc Brown in this au xD

Heh, in the original draft LQR was indeed going to be Doc Brown, anyway ask and you shall recieve!

If i get the energy to clean this up a bit I might actually post it on my ao3 as a continuation of the original one shot ('A necessary evil') but for now have at, hope it' satisfactory

(also the last little section is the end once JGY is back in the future but I liked it and wanted to add it on)

Jin Guangyao wanders around the streets of the seedier districts for a while until he catches a guy getting a little friendlier with a woman than the woman appears to want. A handy garotte takes quick work of that problem, and Jin Guangyao decides to reward himself with the shitstain’s coin purse.

He tells the woman not to mention it as she stares blankly ahead. He sighs, she keeps staring blankly and Jin Guangyao sighs again.

The wall is cold against his back as he slumps down against it, closer but not within easy touching distance of the woman, and he waits. Turning up at Gusu in the dead of night probably wouldn’t make a good impression anyway. It’s fine, he’s got nothing better to do.

With sun breaking the clouds so do words the woman’s lips.

Jin Guangyao cuts her off with a harsh “don’t mention it.” before proceeding on his way. He’s not got a sword to fly on anymore, which means he needs alternate transport to Gusu. But Guangyao has money now- and he’s done more with less.

/////////////

[LQR-title] Guangyao utters smoothly, politely, “May I have a word?” Lan Qiren turns, and Jin Guangyao can get a better look at him. There’s not even the slightest hint of grey in his beard, his face is largely free of wrinkles. This is a Lan Qiren in his prime and the thought of it makes Jin Guangyao straighten up even further. He hadn’t thought that possible.

“Is there some problem with submitting your requests through the usual channels?” Lan Qiren asks, eyes just as unforgiving as they’ve always been. A stickler for rules and regulations, a man after Jin Guangyao’s own heart, and a damn problem right now.

But also the only way home, Xichen’s uncle, and a man who Jin Guangyao generally respects because he has been generally respected in return. So, not a problem that can be dealt with in some of the easier ways. Although, Jin Guangyao has probably done enough of that since coming here and now he’s managed to unbirth himself.

Ooops.

“My name is Jin Guangyao, and I’m from the future.” It feels wrong to lay out his cards so openly and completely. It feels wrong to expose himself for the world’s scrutiny to see (and he hasn’t even got into his deeper secrets). It feels wrong not to cage and half-speak and to twist. But Lan Qiren won’t appreciate any of that. And Jin Guangyao needs his help, which means if this doesn’t come out now it will come out later and Lan Qiren would be disappointed by his lies.

Lan Qiren raises one imperious quivering eyebrow at him, and Guangyao lets himself believe- just for a moment- that he might get back home, back to Xichen-ge and his home, and even Qin Su. A woman he can’t bear to look at due to sickness and guilt but also still loves with a sort of platonic simplicity borne from true respect.

“And I suppose you’re somebody very important in this future who shall handsomely reward me in some- thirty years? Or is that too soon?”

Jin Guangyao gapes. Then remembers it’s unbecoming and puts you on the back foot.

“Well, I suppose I am yes- and I can- and it’s only twenty-odd years, actually.” He coughs and rightens himself, “But I really do need your help Lan-[title], you’re the only one who can help me.”

Jin Guangyao’s plea is met with the loudest snort he’s ever heard Lan Qiren make, a louder snort than he frankly thought the man was possible of making, and the quick flurry of robes of a man making an escape.”

“I can prove it!” he begs, and Jin Guangyao hates begging. Hates men who make him beg and always, always, makes them pay for it. But he likes Lan Qiren, more or less, but he’s making him beg.

“Oh really now?” Lan Qiren’s words are short and sharp, and he doesn’t hesitate or alter his quick gait in the slightest. Jin Guangyao estimates they have mere minutes until reaching the gates to Gusu and Jin Guangyao is barred out.

“You’ve got the wrong generational name for somebody important in the Jin sect in twenty years time, sonny- if you’re going to impersonate a great sect you should learn how their customs work a little better.”

He can’t help it, Jin Guangyao feels his ears burn. The insult of a name is as fresh as it ever was, and now it’s not only declaring to the world that he isn’t a real son, now it’s barring him from ever being able to get home. His temper and his pride and his common sense are all battling, but maybe he picked up more from Nie Mingjue in his brief time by the man’s side because all that comes out of his mouth is spitting venom.

“I’m a bastard,” he growls out, “Is that what you wanted to hear? And my pathetic excuse of father is going to think he’s so funny one day when he finally acknowledges me for the blood I shed for him and gives me that joke of a name. It’s an insult, and everybody knows it and I don’t need you, [Qiren-title] to tell me too.”

He could kick himself, he’s definitely blown it now. Nobody wants to help a bastard, not even righteous noble Lan- not unless they know them. Xichen hadn’t found out Jin Guangyao was a bastard for a while into their friendship and-

Lan Qiren stops in his march towards Gusu and turns around once again, peering intensely at Jin Guangyao’s face, his eyes.

“Let me entertain this idea for a moment,” Lan Qiren starts slowly, “Have you got even the faintest shred of evidence that could support the notion that you truly are from twenty-years time?”

Jin Guangyao blinks, Jin Guangyao breathes, Jin Guangyao buckles down.

“In twenty-eight years time you finish building your magnum opus, evidently a time machine but you didn’t tell us that at the time. According to your nephew, you got the idea from watching ants march-” (Jin Guangyao really hadn’t gotten that at the time though he thinks he’s starting to get it better) “-and the way they appeared to seamlessly weave themselves in and out of a singular line. He thinks you were lying.”

Jin Guangyao looks at Lan Qiren’s face to assess how he’s taking this information, but it’s studiously blank. The Lan and their ability to shut off their emotions.

Well, Jin Guangyao is just going to have to dig harder.

“I think you probably actually wanted to explore the possibility of diverging timelines, perhaps to see if there was one where your brother didn’t lock himself into seclusion.”

Lan Qiren goes blanker still, so Jin Guangyao knows he’s getting somewhere.

“However the machine didn’t work like that- not unless you wanted to create those timelines yourself, so you gave it off to Xichen to dispose of- who gave it to me to dispose of because he had to deal with-” how to best describe the problem better known as Nie Huaisang’s tears? “-an unrelated delicate issue. I didn’t know what the machine was- and there was an incident, leading me to be standing in front of you here today. Sir.”

Lan Qiren’s assessing gaze has gotten no easier to bear, but Jin Guangyao is well adjusted to bearing heavy burdens in all forms. He keeps his posture taught and face respectful.

“Well, you certainly know how to talk like the son of a Sect Leader, Jin Guangyao.” Lan Qiren’s lips purse. “If I take you into the Cloud Recesses you’re going to have to go by a different name, I hesitate to allow lies, but in this case it may actually be for the best.”

If Jin Guangyao were any less guarded he’d grin. As it is he inclines his head in gratitude.

“You can call me Qin Xichen,” he allows, the name he’d given his mother rolling out easily.

Lan Qiren doesn’t visibly react to the name and Jin Guangyao isn’t sure how he feels about that.

“And we’re going to have to change your clothes, otherwise we can probably pass you off as a visiting rogue cultivator in need of some assistance easily enough.”

That’s when Jin Guangyao feels his whole body go faint again, that feeling outside the brothel, and collapses forward onto the ground.

//////////////////////////////////

“So there might be something else I forgot to mention,” he admits, when he wakes up in a comfortable bed in a small room. He doesn’t recognise it- which would be odd because he’s been all over the Cloud Recesses- until he remembers he hasn’t been there before it burnt down.

So, maybe not that surprising.

“Really?” Lan Qiren asks, quite acerbically really and Jin Guangyao wasn’t aware that the man who raised Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji was capable of producing this much subtly buried snark. But today is a day full of surprises.

“I-” Jin Guangyao coughs, Lan Qiren keeps glaring at him, well, he may as well admit it. “I may have interrupted the- the uh-” he coughs again, this is hard, “I may have unintentionally prevented my parents from engaging in coitus.”

Lan Qiren keeps staring at him with his dark eyes; Guangyao shrinks back.

“I interrupted them when they were about to have sex, because I wanted to talk to my mother.”

Lan Qiren is still staring.

“They were going to bang and I stopped it! Ok?! What about this is so difficult to understand? Are you just trying to shame me [title]?”

Lan Qiren has gone red now, and the other man is coughing so Guangyao feels a little better.

“I understood you the first time, young master,” Jin Guangyao preens- he can’t help it. He preens. “I don’t understand why this means you don’t exist, surely your parents engaged in- surely there wasn’t only the one opportunity, I mean.”

Ah. He sees the problem, and he doesn’t. He wets his lips.

“I recall mentioning that I was a bastard.” Jin Guangyao does not trail off, he does not look away. He refuses to be shamed for what he is, he refuses. Lan Qiren called him a young master, Lan Qiren treated him with respect and that cannot be taken.

(And if a smaller part remembers that Lan Qiren has always been perfectly respectful to him, before his inheritance, before his acknowledgement, always approved of his and Xichen’s friendship then…)

“Oh, I see.” Lan Qiren rubs his beard and Jin Guangyao doesn’t burn under the accusation. “Well, far from it to be me to suggest having an affair-” the older man spits out the word, “But as you are currently alive in front of me, to forbid you from arranging such circumstances, would be an evil I couldn’t condone. A necessary evil, if you will.”

A necessary evil, Lan Qiren couldn’t be more correct. His poor mother having to be in the presence of his father.

But Jin Guangyao does not want to die. He’s done too much, made too many hard choices to lose it all here. To lose it all like this.

“I supp-” whatever Lan Qiren supposed was cut off by the sound of the door creaking open and a small bundle of white rushing in.

“Uncle!” the small bundle exclaimed. Jin Guangyao watched, amused despite himself, as the ever distinguished Lan Qiren was attacked at the legs by a small child.

Said small child looks up at him.

“Who’re you?”

“Qin Xichen,” politeness has the words rolling out of his mouth.

The boy squints at him.

“Nobody’s allowed in Uncle’s room.” There’s no question there but the suspicion in his tone marks it as one all the same. Jin Guangyao isn’t sure what to say, but Lan Qiren is shepherding the kid out.

“And that includes you, Lan Huan- where have your minders gone?”

Lan Huan. Lan Huan. Jin Guangyao watches the boy and reminds himself why there is no room to fail on getting his parents to… interact.

***

“You know I looked through all the brothels in the [name] area for prostitutes with the surname of Qin.” Lan Qiren’s statement is simple.

Meng Yao can’t look at him.

He stands in his mother’s tomb. Lan Qiren clasps his shoulder.

“You have too much shame.”

#mdzs #bttf #jin guangyao #lan qiren #fic #ask game #tumblr fic #wip

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i-am-still-bb · 1 year

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Fluffuary 2023 - Day 18 - reunion OR caretaking

Fili Dead Batteries AU - Tumblr / Ao3

Ao3

A/N: This comes immediately prior to the series namesake story. Not particularly fluffy.

“Fili! Your phone’s ringing!” Bofur nudged Fili’s boot.

Fili fit the wrench to the bolt, but didn’t turn it. “Can’t it wait?”

“It’s Thorin. I’ve already sent it to voicemail twice now and he just calls back. You know how he is”

“Yeah, I know,” Fili sighed. “Just answer it. Let me get this undertray off,” Fili started loosening the bolt again. When it came free the plastic undertray dropped down and he had to hold it in place with his forearm while he loosened the other bolds. “Hey! And hand me that oil drain pan, would you?” He held his hand out hoping that Bofur had heard him. He could hear Bofur talking on the phone.

The drip pan was placed in Fili’s outstretched hand.

“Yeah, I’ll tell him,” Bofur was concluding the call as Fili rolled out from under the car, the creeper’s wheels protesting as he did so.

“What’d he want?” Fili asked, wiping his fingers on a rag.

“He needs you to take the property tax for the garage to be paid in person.”

“What? Why?”

“Something about it being two weeks late already and him being busy.”

“And it has to be done today?”

“It’s Friday, and on Monday it will be three weeks late.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten in trouble with the number of times that he’s forgotten to pay the taxes on this place.” Fili shook his head.

“It helps that he’s got your mother to remind him,” Bofur replied with a grin.

“She gives one hell of a reminder that’s for sure.

“Just let me finish this oil change and then I’ll take it.” Fili lay back down on the creeper and, oil filter in hand, started to pull himself under the car again.

“I’ll get someone else to finish this. It’s already 3 and it has to be taken to Lake Town.”

“That’s 45m away! It can’t be paid here?”

“I’m just the messenger. I’ll tell him that you’re on your way.”

“My way where?” Fili shouted at Bofur’s retreating back.

“He’s at his place and he’s got the check with him!” Bofur shouted back. He heard Fili swearing before the office door shut between them.

—

Fili had walked through the office door at 4:57pm. The clerk was sitting on the edge of his desk staring at his watch, counting down to 5pm. His whole body groaned even though he did not make a sound when he saw Fili.

A few words were exchanged and Fili was out the door.

The pavement had been baking all day in the late Spring sunlight and it was making Fili regret his long sleeved shirt, especially while wearing his helmet. His bike roared to life when he turned it on. It was a sound that drowned out most thoughts. And once on the road the noise of the tires and wind drowned out the rest of them. He never watched them time when he was on his bike. He knew when he needed to be someplace and he knew how long it would take to get there, but once he settled onto the seat he did not worry about it.

The drive between Lake Town and Pais was a straight road with slight hills and valleys. It gave Fili plenty of time to watch the golden brown fields or glance to his right to see the outlines of mountains still capped in snow.

It also meant that he saw the disabled vehicle long before he passed it. He watched one car, then another, and then a semi truck that buffeted the car and it’s driver who was standing on the passenger side with its draft, pass the rusted Civic.

It gave him plenty of time to decide to stop to offer his skills or his cellphone or even a ride to the driver.

He slowed down passing the car before pulling off onto the gravel shoulder. Fili dismounted, put the kickstand down, and pulled off his helmet. He tucked his hair behind his ears before hanging the helmet from the bike’s handlebars.

He heard the driver’s voice as soon as he removed the helmet and his heartbeat stuttered..

No.

But then he turned and saw the driver’s face. And…

Fuck.

Fili would know that face anywhere. He stood straighter, his hair was shorter with bangs that fell forward when he ducked his head. His clothes were fitted in a way that would have made the him from 10 years ago squirm and fuss even though there was plenty of ease. But it was still Kili.

Fili snorted to cover his discomfort and break the expression he felt start to settle in place as soon as he saw Kili.. “Long time no see, short stuff.” A statement that hasn’t been true since they were 14 and Kili grew three inches one summer.

Because what else could he say after all these years?

I missed you?

I hate you?

I love you?

#fluffuary2023 #bb writes #dead batteries au

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froggieluvsu · 11 months

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Growing up with a Slyterin

Cedric x fem slyterin reader

(This was a draft i forgot i had i contuined it and tell me what you think)( Also ik cedric’s family woukdnt do that but i js need some drama 😭😏)

The diggory and y/l/n house were always neck to neck with each other. The Diggory household was always showing off how perfect Cedric was while the Y/l/n house hold would show off there prefect Yn. So when both children got into Hogwarts they were always trying to top everything which ended up making them rivals. Cedric became a prefect so Yn became a prefect, Cedric became popular so Yn became popular, Cedric was chosen for the triwizarding cup so Yn was not. Of course she was upset and felt even more pressured by her parents to be the best . It was to much for her. She just wanted to relax and be her so one day during the holidays she sneaked off into the local garden a place you wouldn’t be caught dead in but it calmed you down. And you had a couple minutes until your violin lesson that you hated. So just laying down and feeling the flowers around you noticing some animals by you hear a voice say. “ You know I’d never think a slyterin like you would ever know about this place”. You sit up shocked and turn to see the person you hate the most Cedric Diggory. “Hello Diggory aren’t you suppose to be training for the triwizarding thingy ” you say with a annoyed face. “Nope, I’m a pretty ambitious person but trainings is a bit to hard for my liking” he replied looking at the flowers on the ground near where yn sat with a smile. “ I can understand, no matter how hard I try my parents still keep putting so much pressure on me I just couldn’t deal with it so I came out here”. Now with silence filling up the air Cedric spoke up . “I know our parent want us to be rivals and everything just because there rivals I don’t really like it”. “ I just wish this rivalry didn’t get pushed onto us , who knows could’ve been good friends”. Yn didnt think terrible of Cedric, they guinely thought of him as a good guy. “ Yeah i guess your not too bad yourself diggory” you say standing up. Cedric js gave himself a chuckle as he watched you adjust your hair then he noticed a flower on top of your head. He reached for it as you were confused on what he was doing. He picked up the flower and put it in your hand. “Thank you” You said inspecting the beautiful sunflower. Cedric checks his watch and realzies he has to go at that moment. “Hey i gotta go help out my father I always do at 2” He says. “ Oh well good-bye cedric see you around” You respond. He just waves as he walks off. And as you stare at his figurge as he leaves you realize an imporant detail he said. If you rember right he said he helps his father at 2 and as you looked at you phone to check what time it is you knew you were screwd.Your violin lessons start at 2 and it was 2:05 . So you run off hoping your parents dont realize you are late and you have just made friends with the “enemy”.

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deadendsave · 1 year

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Delilah Hodges’ Journal (2)

1: Our camp was raided by looters in the middle of the night. They came out of nowhere, catching us all off guard. My parents told me to stay in our tent no matter what, so I did. It felt like hours had passed until the gunfire finally stopped. I heard footsteps approaching our tent so I held my breath, thinking it was one of the looters.

2: Thank god, it was just my parents. I was so relieved to see them alive. They told me most of the looters were dead, but the ones that managed to escape ran off with half of our camp’s supplies. My dad said we needed to leave the camp because they could come back with more people at any time. Mom told me I should try to sleep before we left, but i was too scared to.

3: The next morning my parents and I gathered all of our things, ready to temporarily leave our home behind. My dad suggested we go to his brother Todd’s place until everyone figures out where to setup a new camp. He said it would only take us a few days to get there on foot and that we’d stay in contact with the rest of the survivors through radio signals.

4: I’ve never met Todd. My parents rarely mention him. All I know is that he’s mad at my dad over something he did years ago. I asked dad how he knew his brother was still alive, and he told me it was because Todd was too stubborn to die and he’d never leave his bar behind.

5: My mom grabbed my shoulders and told me to keep my eyes closed as we walked out of our tent, but I couldn’t resist the urge to look. I really regret opening my eyes. Bodies, everywhere. Some were looters, some were people I’ve known my whole life. The summer heat had made their bodies decompose faster, I’ll never forget that smell. It made me sick. My knees buckled and I couldn’t walk for a minute, it was just too much. But my mom guided me forward and told me we had to keep going.

6: We found an abandoned house and dad made sure it was secure before we settled in for the night. Luckily my mom had brought some sheets with us, so we didn’t have to sleep directly on the decaying mattress. I’m laying here with my parents tonight. I’m too scared to sleep alone. I’ve never been this far into the outside world. I feel like we’re gonna get attacked by the sick or looters at any time.

7: I barely slept last night. The creaking of the old house and the howling wind outside made it hard for me to relax. I kept imagining thinks moving in the shadows. I just couldn’t stop thinking about what I saw leaving camp. I really hope my uncle is still alive, apparently he has actual food. My dad made me eat a squirrel for breakfast (which tasted disgusting by the way)

8: We made it to Todd’s. He’s alive, but he wasn’t too happy to see us. He told us we had to leave but then some lady named Linda told him to let us in. Him and my dad got into an argument immediately. Something about dad stealing his favorite shotgun and supplies and leaving him empty handed. My dad told him what happened, and they we needed a place to stay for a little while. Todd was amused. He said that was the first time my dad’s ever been desperate enough to ask him for help, and that he knew our camp would “go to shit.” eventually.

9: Todd’s kind of an asshole. I mean, I’m not surprised. He is my dad’s older brother. He told me I wasn’t allowed to touch anything because I’m probably a thief like my parents. Linda hit him on the shoulder and told him to be nice. He apologized, but it was very insincere.

10: My mom told me about how Todd and Linda became a thing. Linda was married to Todd’s best friend John, but he got bit early on into the outbreak. He was trying to save their daughter Maddie. She was the same age as me. They also had a son, he was 20. Zack got drafted into the military to fight the sick. Nobody knows if he’s still alive or not. That’s so sad. Linda seems really nice. But it’s kind of weird to get with your dead best friend’s wife, Todd.

11: I took a real shower for the first time today. It was amazing. The water was so warm, nothing like the bucket and river water I was used to. I didn’t know how to turn it on, so my mom had to show me. When she turned the faucet on, the water was so loud that it startled me. But it felt so nice after I got used to it. It was the most relaxing thing I had ever felt. People in the old times really got to do this everyday?

12: I can’t sleep again. I try really hard to not think about what happened at our camp, but it’s impossible not to. During the day, I’m pretty good at blocking it out. But as soon as nighttime hits and it’s quiet, it’s all that runs through my head. I can’t stop seeing their bodies when I close my eyes. Every loud noise makes me feel like I’m alone in our tent again.

13: I tried to tell my mom about how I’m having a hard time sleeping at night, but my dad interrupted me. He said that I’m not allowed to talk about what happened and that I need to learn how to move on and stop being so soft. I started getting upset. “They were our friends. I should be able to talk about them.” My mom walked me outside and tried to calm me down.

14: Today, dad and Todd took me to the river. I’ve never gone fishing before. I was so bad at it, I couldn’t catch anything. Dad was getting frustrated with me. Todd surprised, he actually said something to him. He told him he needed to lay off and give me a little bit of a break because it was my first time, I just needed to practice more. I was a little shocked, since Todd’s been mostly standoff-ish towards me.

15: THERE’S AN OLD BOOKSTORE BESIDE THE BAR! HOLY SHIT! Linda said her friend Margaret used to own the place and I could take whatever I wanted. I was so happy. So many terrible things have been happening these past few years. I had forgotten what it felt like to be excited. But there’s so many books! I wanna read them all.

16: My parents have been trying to contact our friends from camp since our first night here. It’s been nothing but static noise so far. It’s been a month. We’ve already lost so many people, I hope they’re all okay.

17: The food, the water and electricity, the bookstore, it all feels too good to be true. I’ve been enjoying myself out here so far but I can’t help but be terrified that something bad is about to happen to mess it all up. I used to not be so anxious, I just wanna feel like myself again.

18: I really miss Quinn. I know she’d love it here. I wish she could’ve experienced all of this with me. I had a dream about her the other night. We were kids again, playing hide & seek just like we used to. I was happy. I felt at peace. It felt so real, when I woke up and realized it was just a dream I couldn’t help but cry a little. I just miss her so much, it hurts.

19: So weird how the sick are hardly around this area. Todd and my parents have taken a few out, but that was only when they were on the other side of town and ran into some that were hiding in buildings.

20: My mom and Linda have been teaching me how to sew. I fixed up a few holes in my clothes. I poked myself a few times with the needle, that sucked. I think I like seeing though. It’s honestly kind of fun. I could see this being a new hobby of mine.

21: Todd’s been warming up to me a lot. He’s still grouchy, I think it’s mostly just his tone. He’s been nice to me though. I walked with him down to the bar, he talked about what it used to be like when it was full of people drinking and dancing. I can tell he really cares about the place. He let me listen to music on a jukebox. I had no idea what it was at first.

22: After months of silence, someone from camp finally contacted us. I was so relieved to hear Quinn’s Dad’s voice over the radio. Mr. Taylor said they found a new location to setup camp but they haven’t cleared out all the sick yet, and there’s a lot of them. He said they could all really use my parents help securing the place.

23: I don’t want to leave Todd and Linda. They’ve been really good to me. The thought of leaving so many books behind also hurts my heart a little. I do miss all our friends though, I’m so conflicted. My parents are packing up all of our stuff. I just wish we could stay here a little bit longer. I’m worried about the sick being so close to the new camp location.

24: My parents let me sleep in late. It’s our last day here. Nobody’s in Todd’s apartment, I guess they’re all outside. I’ve been walking around up here getting one last good look at the place. I probably won’t be back here for a really long time. I’m gonna scope out the bookstore again just to make sure there’s no more books I wanna grab before we leave.

25: I started to hear music downstairs so I walked down to the bar to join everyone. Linda was holding a box of nails while Todd was busy fixing the wooden boards on a the windows. “Hey, have you guys seen my parents?” Linda put the box down and turned the music off. Her and Todd just looked at each other. They were acting so weird, like they didn’t know what to say. Then Linda broke the silence. “Honey, go sit down real quick.” after she said that I had a lump in my throat.

26: I plopped myself down at one of the tables and Linda pulled up a chair next to me. She was about to say something, but Todd butted in. “Uh, Delilah… I’m not really good at these sort of things, but your mom wanted me to give you this.” He handed me a of paper and awkwardly patted me on the back.

27: “Dear Delilah, leaving you behind is one of the hardest things your dad and I have ever had to do. I want you to know that we’re doing this to protect you, not to abandon you. If I had told you beforehand, you would’ve put up a fight to come with us. I don’t want you to get hurt. Taking you to Todd’s with no backup was risky enough. We’re lucky nothing bad happened. Todd and Linda will be taking care of you. I trust them to keep you safe. As soon as we can, we’ll come back for you. Next time we’ll bring more people. I promise we’ll come back.” - Mom

28: After reading my mom’s note I felt choked up. “Sorry, I just- I just need a minute.” I walked out of the bar to get some air. I couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t really happening, they wouldn’t leave me. What the fuck? They didn’t even say goodbye. What if something happens to them? Honestly, if it was just my dad that left I wouldn’t be surprised. But my mom? Why would she leave me?

29: I waited 4 days and then tried to contact my parents through the radio. I did that everyday for weeks. Months. Nothing. I’m so scared something happened to them. I’m gonna keep trying.

dialogue note, bar jukebox:

Lilah: Todd, what is this thing?

Todd: That’s a jukebox, haven’t you seen one before? Your dad’s really let you miss out on a lot of shit.

Lilah: Trust me, I know. And no, I haven’t, What does it do?

Todd: It plays music.

Lilah: Woahhh, really?! Can we try it out?

Todd: Sure thing. Let me show you how it works.

*The End of the World by Skeeter Davis starts playing*

Lilah: Well, that’s ironic.

#delilah #millhaven journals

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