#unity deciding what it did

[raspberrykraken]

On the flipside I am glad I experimented with Unity but probably not going to go back to it with their stance stance even if they change their mind as companies will do when faced with an overall bad move.

Godot is super cool and there are other game engines out there that also aren't free that people have used to create games like FNaF being created with ClickTeamFusion. I wouldn't trust the newest version of RPG Maker since its been taken over with Unity but thats just my personal opinion. All this is my personal opinion.

Also I can't wait until Blizzard, who made Hearthstone in Unity, turn around and ask whats up. And I understand Blizzard is overall not favored right now either but they aren't an indie company. As much as people like to pretend they are anytime they get any criticism for their choices.

[cregansdingdong]

ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘʟᴇꜱꜱ.

Cregan Stark x fem!reader | no use of y/n | warnings: NSFW, p-in-v penetration, outdoor sex(does a tent still count as outdoor?), swearing, Cregan has a breeding kink, semi-public?, slight brat taming, classic doggy style, ass slapping, f!receiving oral, Cregan’s gonna eat her out from the back which is truly the highlight here; so. this has been festering in my drafts for well over two months. Good luck. poison ivy by hemi moore

Hot stuff under the cut. 18+ only. I'm not responsible for the content you choose to consume. ty.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

“Are you going to explain yourself or do I have to ask why you’re speaking to me that way in front of my men?”

“In what way?” She murmurs, snappily adjusting the furs beneath her, staring above at the roof of their tent. Cregan watched in partial disbelief—and partial irritation—at the sight of his wife going to bed despite their disagreement. It wasn’t often that they argued, and especially not on account of her publicly disrespecting him. The Hunt was meant to celebrate the unity of the North, among other things, and yet she’d been cold to him most of the late afternoon and early evening. They were meant to be setting an example. He couldn’t understand what he’d done to agitate her in the first place. “I’m not going to play this game with you.” Cregan huffs, setting down his cloak on the back of a chair. “Why have you been so cross with me today of all days?”

“I haven’t.” She counters smartly, tone filled with an attitude he wanted nothing more than to fuck out of her. “You’re being childish.” He grunts right back, earning a glare from his cross little wife. If he hadn’t been so ticked off, he might’ve actually laughed at the way her eyes narrowed in his direction—like a pup about to pounce. “I’m not a child.” She snaps, turning to adjust her pillow as he removes his boots. He snorts at that. “You’re behaving like one. Now are you going to resume your wifely duties and speak to me or must I tuck you in and read you a story?” He could’ve done without the mocking, but both their tempers had risen by that point, overspilling and soaking their marriage bed like a tempest.

She ignored him completely, reaching to blow out the candle at her bedside, rolling over to face the wall of the tent, linens and furs pulled up to her chin. As much as he was irritated with her refusal to communicate, he wasn’t going to sulk until she decided to give him the mercy of her words. Cregan continued to undress down to his small clothes, joining her under the covers despite their mutual fuming. It was an agreement they’d reached at the beginning of their marriage: angry or not, their bed was shared. Non-negotiable. He was especially thankful for that condition now—the ground did not look very comfortable if she’d decided to banish him like a hound. He faced her back, arm thrown haphazardly over her middle. Admittedly, he needed to feel her there to get a proper night’s rest. She allowed it.

The tension had seeped into their tent, clearly choosing to remain even with the terms of bedtime they’d set in place. She was still angry, he was still puzzled. Even with her back against him, Cregan could still sense her irritation. It hung in the air like a dark cloud, refusing to disperse. He’d never thought being married would sometimes feel like a storm in his own home. But the Wolf of the North was not a man to back down from a challenge. And it was becoming clear to him that his wife wouldn’t talk unless he spoke first. So he does. "You can’t keep behaving this way,” He starts, his voice gravelly but low. There's about a minute of tense silence between them before her attitude-filled reply breaks the quiet of their tent. “And why not?”

A frustrated sigh leaves his lips as he shifts in the bed, arm still loosely wrapped around her waist. “Firstly you’re my wife. Secondly, the hunt was meant to celebrate the North. And thirdly…” His voice trails off, his jaw clenching. He’d already said too much for his liking. Cregan was never one to give too much away, and giving an explanation for his emotions had never been a strength of his. But with her…there was a part that he couldn’t help but be honest with her. She wouldn't judge him even on his worst days. “Because I don’t like it when you’re angry with me.” His words were heavy with sincerity, which only irritated him more. The Wolf of the North was not supposed to feel so exposed to his little dragon wife’s moods.

For a moment, he thinks he's gotten through to his stubborn wife. "...we can discuss it tomorrow. I want to sleep." She grumbles into the dark. “You want to ignore it tomorrow, you mean,” He retorts, arm still refusing to remove itself from her waist despite the rejection. Cregan lets the argument drop for now, however. But only because he can tell for himself that she's not going to give way to his stubborn badgering that night. He grunts in annoyance, shifting so that his chin rests on her shoulder. “Unbelievable.” He mutters to himself. Angry or not, though, they were going to cuddle. It’s the smell of her hair that pulls him into a steady rest, his chest pressing against her back, his arm still slung over her middle like a claim. For some reason, even in his sleep, he still needs to feel her near him; a possession of the body and mind. The two of them adjust a little, the usual marital squirming in order to get comfortable. Peace even in the chaos of their argument.

On the other hand, his wife could not find sleep even if she had a map. With him snoring lightly behind her—something that always put her to sleep—both irritation and guilt chewed away at her reserve, leaving her restless. It persists. An hour passes, then two, and still, Lady Stark was wide awake, bothered and guilty. The snoring continues through the night, the Northern Lord blissfully unaware of her warring emotions. But even unconscious, he could sense the battle for sleep. The Wolf of the North stirred beside her, his arm now fully thrown over her torso, hand resting against her ribs. Cregan was in no way a light sleeper, but as her frustration grew, he seemed to be silently disturbed from his sleep. His eyes flutter open with a tired hum, his chin buried in the warmth of his wife still. He’s quiet for a few long moments before mumbling in a groggy voice, thick and raspy. “You’re still awake.”

“I can't sleep.” She mutters. It's clear that the heat of their argument had ceased to a smolder in the while she had reflected into the dark. "Probably because I'm still upset." She sighs. "And I'm a little cold...and..” As she speaks, his initial tiredness starts to clear. “And?” He prompts, shifting again to lift his head in the slightest.  His hand rubs against her stomach, trying to share any semblance of his warmth with her. “...I feel…worked up. I'm annoyed but…roused.” It's laced with a begrudging admittance and Cregan opens his eyes in disbelief, suddenly more awake at her mumbled words. A rush of heat rolls through his body, his heart skipping a beat. It always does. The thought alone never failed to stop him in his tracks. His hand stills against her stomach for a moment, considering how to respond. “Well, my love, it sounds like you've had enough of keeping your anger a secret. You can tell me no matter what. Even if it's childish and silly. I'm your husband.”

"You didn't eat breakfast with me this morning." She blurts, finally revealing what had made her so irritated all day. "You gave me a kiss and then you just ran off to eat with Torrhen Manderly. Didn't even invite me.” He pauses in his caresses, a low hum leaving his chest. “That’s what caused your little temper tantrum?” He murmurs, tone still somewhat drowsy but now a bit exasperated. Affectionately, of course. He can’t fight the small smile that’s formed on his lips. A temper tantrum over him eating with the second son of the Lord of White Harbor and not inviting his sweet wife. It was such a small thing, but for some reason, it makes his chest feel tight. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in a morning meeting with House Manderly,” he mumbles in response, pulling her closer, his hand once again tracing patterns across her waist.

"I'm not, but I'm interested in sitting with you.”

The corners of his mouth twitch even more at that. A quiet huff of a chuckle leaves his lips, and he moves his chin to rest on her shoulder, warm breath lightly fanning on her jaw. “So I’m to invite you to every little meeting I have now?” He murmurs, teasing and still somehow half-drowsy. There's a very light dusting of indignation in her tone as she answers. "...not all of them, I'd be bored to death." She huffs. "But today was about unity. I didn't feel very unified with you.” He grumbles under his breath in mild disagreement. The Hunt wasn’t all about unity, it was about celebration. Of the North and of the Starks. Unity amongst the Northmen was an important facet of the feast, but it was not the entire point. But he didn’t want to argue about that, especially not when she was still so irritable with him. “You should’ve just come by and sat yourself down then. Torrhen would've liked your company, and of course I had no problems with having my beautiful wife beside me.”

"And intrude? That's embarrassing." He could hear her pout from a mile out, at least. Cregan’s chest vibrates against her back with a low laugh. “And throwing a little fit all day isn’t embarrassing?” He muses, nipping at her shoulder. "...it's more dignified than begging.” She grumbles. One of his hands suddenly moves from her stomach and up to her jaw. In almost an instant, his wife was putty in his grasp once more. He turns her head, pressing a kiss against the corner of her mouth, his tongue suddenly swiping over the skin—almost like he needed a taste of her. A low, gravelly murmur leaves his chest. “There’s no part of you that has to beg for my attention. But I’m not sure it’s dignified to pout all day over me having a morning meeting, my sweet Lady Wife.”

Before she could say something smart in return, Cregan dips his face into her neck, unable to stop himself from taking a greedy bite. She makes a small noise from the back of her throat—a mewl that sends the sleep far, far away from his thoughts. He smiles against her skin when he feels her tilt her head for more. “Sensitive little thing, aren’t you?” He teases, taking advantage of her movement to press another open-mouthed kiss against her neck. “Pouting all day for my attention, and here you are, melting at it now.” In the quiet of the tent, he can hear the low, shaky exhale release past her lips. “I'm sorry…for being impolite to you with your men present.”

“An apology?” His voice holds his amusement, and he continues his trail of kisses up her neck, until his lips are hovering right next to her ear. “Now that is a new one. I’m sure some snow from beyond the Wall will start falling within the hour if you’re apologizing to me. Not something you make a habit of doing, my sweet wife.” He felt her smile just a little, and he mentally counted down for whatever joke she was about to tell him. “At this rate, I'm sure Winter is fleeing.” His nose brushes up against the skin behind her ear, and he lets out a barely stifled laugh. “That’s blasphemous to say in the North…but funny.” He pushes himself up on his forearms above her, looking down, eyes suddenly filled with barely contained heat—as was his usual disposition. "Still annoyed and roused?”

"Not annoyed. Just worked up." She murmurs, tracing the outline of his shoulders in the dark. He hums in acknowledgment, stomach warming at her confirmation. “You want me to tire you out? Make up for this morning?” His voice is still thick and gravelly, a testament of his deep sleep and the hunger that now had him captivated. Her response came out in a quiet ‘mmhm’, reaching for him through the dark. In one swift movement, Cregan flips her onto her stomach, chuckling at the noise of surprise she releases. Furs and linens thrown back, his hands glide over the skin of her thighs, gently raising the hem of her delicate shift. It was a slow, deliberate action, and he didn’t need to see her face to know how much she was anticipating his touch. As her nightgown rose over the curve of her ass, he could feel the goosebumps forming beneath his palms. “Arse up, face down.”

She shivered at the command. Simple, yet drowning her in want. How could she ever deny her Wolf of the North? With a near-silent grunt of effort, she raises herself on her knees, lowering her upper-half down onto the pillows. The hem of her shift pools at her mid back, exposing herself to her husband just the way he loved it. “Perfect.” He murmurs, his hands gripping the flesh of her ass like he couldn’t wait to take a bite out of her. “Look at you. Fighting me all day, and yet here you are. All but begging for me to unspool you. I should make you beg, but you’re quite lucky I don’t have the patience, wife.” Just as she thinks she’s going to feel his hot tongue, a hand comes barreling down on her rear, a loud, searing spank that was probably heard from the next tent over. Her gasp was barely stifled into the pillow.

His tongue dipped slowly between her folds, a measured pace that nearly made her lose her breath. He always knew how she wanted it. Back and forth, savoring her like her juicy cunt was his last meal in the living world. With every languid stroke forward, the tip of his tongue nudged her twitching pearl in a toe-curling rhythm. Her noises only urged him on further. He slurped up her slick like a man starved, wordlessly encouraging her movements as she rocked back against his tongue. Eyes shut, face contorted in bliss, he could only picture what she looked like in his mind’s eye. He was too preoccupied with his meal to bother to light any candles. Not that he needed them, anyway. He knew her body as if they shared a soul. His wife was unable to piece together a single word, reduced to a puddle of whines and squirms.

“All day.” He reiterates. “Talking back to me. I accept your apology, but that does not mean you’re entirely free of the consequences, pup.” And then, another. Harder than the last, and most certainly stinging. Another. Another. He was merciful enough to distribute his spanks evenly, and with every bloom of hot pain, she felt herself grow more and more eager for a release. “Please–” She mewled, on the verge of patheticism. A sixth sear spreads over her left asscheek. The rest of her plea remains locked in her throat. “I’ve had enough of your pretty mouth speaking against me.” He murmurs into the dark, hands massaging the hot skin with an air of tenderness. “Understand?” Head spinning with lust, she can barely form a coherent word. “..Y-yes.” That seemed to moderately satisfy him, and Cregan finally leaned his face down, spreading her for his pleasure.

“I’ll never tire of your sweet taste.” He rumbled against her, fingers digging into the supple flesh of her ass like he was afraid she’d run off. Not that she ever would, but the feeling of her in his hands was grounding—a reminder of who he was and where he was between every dive of his tongue. He was drowning in the tang of her. Every lap of his tongue drove her an inch closer to her peak. “Cregan—Cregan, I can’t.” She cried, on the verge of desperation. If he’d had her sitting on his face instead, it would’ve been much easier to keep her from wiggling, but she couldn’t help herself not to writhe against his mouth and nose. And frankly, he was too hungry to separate himself from her for even a moment in order to change position. No. Not even a snippet of patience. He needed her to release.

“Yes, you can.” Cregan grunts against her soaked cunt, although it was less than coherent—something about the idea of getting caught made him eager to please. With all the pretty noises she was making for him, he couldn’t bring himself to attempt to quiet her. Not that it mattered. He doubted anyone would dare interrupt the Lord Paramount of the North and his Lady wife. And yet, someone walking by? Hearing the private way she cried out for her husband? Thrilling in every sense of the word. The thought alone made his blood pump, and his teeth lightly nip at her sweet pearl. More like a graze, really, but her reaction seemed otherwise. She squeals into her pillow, a throaty, rabid sound that nearly makes him peak. She was coming. And he had the absolute pleasure of lapping up all her delicious juices right from the source.

He couldn't make himself wait any longer after that. Cregan pawed at his small clothes until he was entirely bare behind her, feeling his beautiful wife tremble as he aligned his twitching cock. There was no other sensation in the living world that mattered to him more than the way her walls stretched to accommodate his size. Absolute perfection. Nothing but bliss. A noise of pleasure rumbled from his throat as he sunk into her soaked cunt. Inch by murderous inch, the Wolf of the North felt his sense of reality fade into the background. Much like an animal focused on dragging their kill home, Cregan was fixated on drowning himself inside her to the hilt. No matter how many times he'd experienced that exact sensation, he would never tire of his perfect Lady wife. Not even if she'd throw a tantrum every day for the duration of their marriage—so long as he got to kiss her goodmorning and fuck her goodnight.

“There we go…” He grunts, laying himself over her back as he eased his tip deep inside. Pulling out and back again was a torturous, toe-curling feeling, but the little mewls she whined into the pillows made it worth every teasing drag of his hips. “This is how it should be.” Cregan pants, his nose pressed against the back of her neck. “You, enjoying your fulfilled cravings, and me, balls-deep inside my woman. I hate fighting with you—but I love fucking that attitude right out.” Her thighs trembled as he rutted into her ass, an incessant, fervent type of rhythm that only came out when she truly frustrated him. And she certainly had; all day long, in fact. But his vixen of a wife couldn't bring herself to regret a thing. She knew what she was going to do in the next Great Hunt.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

[shortnspidey]

PROTECTOR BY DEFAULT

Bucky Barnes X Fem!Stark!Reader || WC: 5.7K

SUMMARY: After bringing you up to speed on everything that’s happened, and with the weight of the world now resting on his shoulders, Bucky decides it’s finally time for you to meet the New Avengers.

WARNINGS: Thunderbolts* spoilers! Angst, Fluff, Talks of depression, grief, mental illness, and anxiety, platonic new avengers x reader

A/N: Based on my Collateral Hearts series but can be read as a standalone! Although it could technically be a part two for this fic! This was supposed to be short, but I got carried away like usual! 🫣 Another purely self-indulgent fic since I haven't stopped thinking about Thunderbolts* since seeing it in theatres! Hope y'all enjoy! <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ series masterlist

➩ bucky barnes masterlist

It felt strange being back, surreal, even. The towering silhouette of Avengers Tower had once symbolized hope, unity, and legends. Now, rebranded as the Watchtower, it loomed above the skyline like a ghost of a different era. The architecture hadn’t changed, but everything else had. Hell, even Bucky being part of The New Avengers was something you still hadn’t fully wrapped your head around. A part of you kept waiting for the world to snap back to what it used to be.

As you stood silently in the elevator, the soft hum of machinery and the sterile glow of overhead lights did little to calm you. The numbers on the digital panel ticked upward, each one sending another ripple of anxiety down your spine. Bucky’s hand in yours was the only thing grounding you. His grip was firm, fingers slightly calloused but warm, a subtle tether pulling you away from the mental spiral that threatened to take hold. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to.

His presence alone was enough to remind you that you weren’t walking into this alone. You were still gathering your thoughts, trying, and failing, to find some semblance of composure, when the elevator dinged sharply, slicing through the silence like a blade. The doors parted with a soft hiss, and the cool air of the lobby hit you all at once. You held your breath. Bucky stepped forward first, his body language shifting subtly as he sensed your hesitation.

Without looking back, his thumb brushed gently across your knuckles in a silent gesture of reassurance. You followed, one reluctant step after another, heart pounding behind your ribs like a war drum. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, grateful, if only momentarily that the space was empty. You weren’t ready to see anyone yet, even if you knew everything about them on paper. "You okay?" Bucky’s voice was low, gentle, pulling you back from all the memories crashing into your chest.

You blinked, realizing your shoulders had tensed, spine rigid as a board. Your eyes had drifted to the bar, now sleek and modern, its shelves conspicuously empty, all traces of liquor gone. Yet in your mind, it was still stocked with expensive bottles and louder times. Laughter. Sarcasm. Your father’s voice. You gave a small nod, not trusting your voice to hold steady. A lump had already formed in your throat, hot and heavy. If you spoke, it just might burst. That fragile quiet shattered as footsteps echoed across the marble floor. You instinctively turned, posture tense.

Hazel eyes met yours, sharp, curious, and brimming with wariness. A familiar face, even if you had never met her in the flesh. “Y/N, this is—” Bucky began, his voice hesitant, a trace of something unreadable in his tone. But he didn’t need to finish. “Yelena Belova,” You breathed, recognition crashing over you like a wave. The blonde’s eyes widened, brows knitting together as confusion flickered in her expression. “Natasha.” The name escaped you as little more than a whisper, and yet it carried the weight of a thousand unsaid things.

It clawed at your throat and dragged water to your eyes with merciless precision. Her name was still a wound. “She talked about you all the time,” You managed, your voice thick. “She loved you so much.” Something shifted behind Yelena’s eyes, like a veil lifting to reveal layers of grief, guilt, and something else...something softer. She blinked rapidly, then tilted her head as recognition seemed to click into place. “You’re the little girl,” She muttered, her accent thick and familiar in a way that tugged at your chest.

“She talked about you too. Tony Stark’s daughter.” She paused, her tone softening. “Said she trained you like her own little widow. That you were strong. Fearless. She kept a picture of you in her wallet, even though she always denied it when I teased her.” Your breath hitched, the knot in your chest pulling tighter. Natasha said it aloud any chance she could get, but now you had confirmation. Proof of her love tucked away in the form of a photo. The thought made your knees feel weak. Yelena stepped forward slowly, as if careful not to startle you.

Her eyes held a glimmer of something raw, vulnerability masked behind her usual bravado.“She loved you too,” She confessed, voice quieter now, almost reverent. “Said we’d get along.” You smiled through the ache. It was the first genuine one you’d felt since stepping back into this tower. Before your nerves could betray you, you gently untangled your hand from Bucky’s and closed the distance between you and Yelena. Your arms wrapped around her in a hesitant but earnest embrace. You felt her stiffen, an instinctual pause, but then, something softened. Her grip tightened, her hold grounding.

You clung to her like a lifeline, both of you seemingly drawing strength from the other. “It’s so good to finally meet you, дорогая.” she murmured into your shoulder, her voice wavering just enough for you to hear the emotion behind it. Hearing Natasha’s nickname in her voice, so similar, yet different brought fresh tears to your eyes. You buried your face in Yelena’s shoulder and held on tighter, hoping she’d feel what you couldn’t say. “She’s a keeper, Barnes,” Yelena drawled, pulling back just enough to glance over her shoulder at Bucky.

Her expression sharpened with mock seriousness, though the corners of her mouth twitched. “Don’t screw it up, or you’ll have to deal with me. You laughed, an unfiltered, real laugh that surprised even you with how naturally it came. “I don’t plan on it,” Bucky reassured her, raising both hands in a playful surrender. His lips curved in that crooked little smirk that always made your heart skip. “Message received.” Yelena gave a curt nod, before turning back to you with a gleam in her eye, mischief and challenge dancing in equal measure. “We should spar sometime,” She suggested, rolling her shoulders.

“See if you really live up to your reputation. But don’t think I’ll go easy on you.” You arched an eyebrow, a grin tugging at your lips. “Natasha never did. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”Yelena’s smirk widened as if to say good answer, then she took a step back, eyes still assessing you with that blend of curiosity and silent approval. Before either of you could say anything else, a deep voice echoed down the corridor, thick with a Russian accent and zero regard for volume.

“Lena!” Yelena groaned immediately, dragging a hand down her face and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Oh no,” She muttered under her breath. “Why does he always do this…” Heavy footsteps approached from the direction of the eastern wing, and a moment later, the large figure of a man rounded the corner. You recognized him instantly, broad-shouldered, gray in the beard but still moving with the lumbering energy of a man who had never truly grown out of his prime. “Have you seen my—” He started, trailing off as his eyes landed on the three of you gathered near the lobby.

His gaze jumped from Bucky to Yelena to you, and then his whole face lit up. “Alexei Shostakov,” His eyes practically sparkled at the sound of his name coming from you. “Y/N Stark!” He boomed, beaming with wild enthusiasm. “The Winter Soldier’s lady!” And before you could react, before you could even blink his arms were around you. With shocking speed and strength, Alexei hoisted you clean off the ground, pulling you into a bear hug that knocked the breath right out of you. Your feet left the floor, spine popping under the sheer pressure of his embrace as you let out a muffled oof against his shoulder.

“It’s so good to meet you!” He exclaimed, rocking slightly as if that somehow made the hug friendlier instead of terrifying. “Alexei!” Yelena barked, springing into motion. “Be careful! Don’t break her!” She grabbed at his massive arm, trying to loosen his grip. Alexei grunted and reluctantly released you, setting you down gently, well, gently for him. “Lena, I’m simply saying hello,” He protested, waving a large hand toward you with a look of exaggerated innocence.

“She’s fine. All limbs accounted for. Heart still beating. Good bones!” You stumbled slightly, catching your breath with a startled laugh as Bucky steadied you by the elbow. "It's nice to meet you too." You smiled matching his enthusiasm. Yelena shot her father a glare sharp enough to cut glass, then turned to you apologetically. “Sorry. He gets excited.” Before Alexei could get out another word, another voice called out, this one feminine, and laced with barely contained exasperation. “Alexei, what did we say about using your inside voice?”

Her voice had that steely edge you recognized from the briefing files. Ava Starr. Before another awkward silence could settle, a new voice chimed in from behind Ava, laid-back and cocky in the way only one person could pull off. “Yeah, man,” John Walker coaxed as he approached, shaking his head and giving Alexei a sidelong look. “You scared poor Bob half to death. We’re supposed to keep him calm, remember?” Alexei rolled his eyes dramatically, muttering something in Russian under his breath. As the group entered the lobby fully, the shift in atmosphere was palpable.

You felt it before you saw it. Three new pairs of eyes turned to you in unison, each gaze heavy in its own way. Curiosity. Surprise. Maybe a bit of judgment. “Y/N,” John’s voice broke the moment. His tone held genuine surprise, and not the unwelcome kind. “I hear congratulations are in order.” His smirk widened as he shot a glance at Bucky. “Still don’t know how you managed to pull it off, Barnes. You’re one lucky bastard.” Beside you, you felt Bucky go still for a beat. The quiet tension that coiled in his shoulders was familiar, defensive, but measured.

Then, you watched a slow smirk curled on his lips, the kind you’d seen more than once before. “Walker.” He all but growled, voice laced with warning. You stepped forward, intercepting the brewing testosterone with a neutral nod. The clipped politeness in your voice was enough to stall whatever innuendo was seconds from spilling out of Bucky’s mouth. Redirecting your focus, you turned to Ava, her arms crossed tight against her chest, posture rigid and eyes sharp. You offered your hand nonetheless, your tone respectful but firm. “It’s nice to meet you, Ava.”

She hesitated. A brief flicker of uncertainty passed through her eyes, trust didn’t come easily to her, and you didn’t expect it to. But she reached out, her grip strong. “Likewise.” She replied simply. Her voice held no warmth, but there was no malice either. You took it as a neutral win. Just behind her, standing somewhat apart from the cluster, was Robert Reynolds. Bob. He looked entirely out of place. An oversized hoodie draped over his tall, lean frame like a security, the sleeves almost swallowing his hands.

His hair fell in messy strands around his face, and his eyes, flicked up just long enough to meet yours. “Hi Bob.” You offered him a small smile and a casual wave, nothing too energetic, just enough to let him know you saw him. That he mattered. His gaze didn’t hold. He dipped his head quickly, before he turned slightly, half-shielding himself behind Ava. You didn’t take it personally. Bucky had told you enough. About what Bob was. What he’d endured. What he could become if things went sideways. The fact that he was even standing in the room, surrounded by strangers, was a miracle in itself.

“Don’t stand there, come in!” Alexei boomed ushering you deeper into the tower. “This is your home too, don’t be shy!” You smiled politely, the corner of your lips curving upward in amusement as his voice echoed off the high ceilings. Bucky gently placed a reassuring hand on the small of your back, the warmth of his touch grounding you as you stepped further into the room. The space looked different now, though the bones of Avengers Tower still whispered through the marble and steel. Yet the walls were no longer adorned with Stark-tech.

Instead they were filled with mismatched frames, tactical maps, and, strangely enough, a vintage Soviet flag hanging proudly near the corner. A large couch wrapped around the central area, oversized and broken-in, surrounded by oddball furniture that didn’t match but somehow fit. Each step you took brought back echoes of the past. They lingered, not as ghosts, but as memories, vivid and bittersweet. Bucky gave your side a gentle squeeze before stepping away. “I’m going to make sure Alexei hasn’t burned lunch again.” He whispered lowly, already following the scent of something suspiciously smoky wafting from the kitchen.

You chuckled softly, then turned, scanning the room until you found a place to sit between Yelena and Ava, both of whom were locked in a silent mutual tolerance that, somehow, felt like their version of friendship. You sank into the plush cushions, glancing at them with a playful gleam in your eyes. “You girls have plans this weekend? My best friend Kate and I usually grab coffee. You should come.” Ava raised a brow, while Yelena cast a quick, unreadable glance in your direction. “Kate Bishop?” She asked, her tone laced with curiosity.

Your eyes widened slightly, but you nodded in confirmation, already making a mental note to ask how she knew about Kate. “We could get out of this tower for a few hours,” You continued, grin spreading as your voice dropped in mock-conspiracy. “Get away from all this testosterone?”You winked, and a low sound rumbled from behind the kitchen island. You didn’t even need to turn around to know it was Bucky, biting back a laugh. A second later, he disguised it with a perfectly timed cough. “We can hear you, you know.” John called out dryly from where he leaned against the far wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

His tone was flat as ever, but the twitch of his jaw suggested he was used to being the punchline. “Wasn’t exactly a secret, Walker.” You quipped back, shrugging innocently. That earned a genuine laugh from Alexei, who clapped his hands together with childlike delight, pointing toward John mockingly. You were almost certain you heard the faintest huff of amusement from Bob, seated half-curled in a beanbag by the bookshelf. It was gone just as fast as it came, but your heart warmed all the same. Progress was progress. Yelena snorted beside you reaching behind the couch to give your shoulder an approving squeeze.

Ava leaned in slightly toward Yelena, voice low but not quiet enough. “I like her already.” You smiled, then looked up, sensing the familiar weight of Bucky’s gaze. Across the room, he leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms folded, cerulean eyes locked on you. That quiet intensity softened as you met his stare, the corners of his mouth twitching into something small and private. The look said it all. Told you so. Maybe this team wasn’t the Avengers. Maybe it didn’t have to be. It was something new. Something rough, imperfect, but full of potential. And maybe, just maybe… it could be home.

Sometime in the middle of the night, you stirred beneath the sheets, restless and uneasy. The room was stuffy and quiet, save for the gentle rhythm of Bucky’s breathing beside you. Careful not to disturb him, you quietly slipped from the bed. The soft glow of moonlight filtered in through the curtains, as you padded silently down the hallway toward the kitchen. You flicked on a small light above the stove, its warm yellow hue illuminating the familiar space.

The hum of the kettle filled the silence as you turned on the burner, hoping a cup of tea might soothe whatever it was that kept you from succumbing to sleep. But then, you felt it, an a subtle shift in the air. You weren’t alone. "You can come out," You called softly. "I could use the company." From the shadows beyond the doorway, a figure emerged, slowly, cautiously. You watched as Bob stepped into the light, his shoulders tense. His eyes flicked around the room but never quite settled on you.

“Can’t sleep either?” You asked, your voice softer now, touched with the kind of quiet understanding that didn’t demand answers. He nodded almost immediately, a curt, vulnerable motion. His eyes dropped to the floor, lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks. The gesture wasn’t dramatic, but it carried a weight, like even admitting the truth was something shameful. You offered a small, knowing smile and turned back to the stove. The kettle began to hum, the first quiet bubbles nudging the surface with gentle insistence. “Want some tea?” You asked over your shoulder. “Always seems to help me sleep.”

He hesitated, the silence stretching for just a second too long, then gave a slow nod. Smiling to yourself, you rifled through the chaotic mess of tea bags shoved into the cabinet: chamomile, lavender, citrus blends, your fingers settling on a familiar green-and-white packet. Eucalyptus. Cool and calming, the kind your mom used to swear by. “My mom,” You began, pulling two mismatched mugs from the shelf and dropping the bags inside with a soft rustle. “Always made me tea when I couldn’t sleep.”

The water hissed as you poured it, a stream of warmth into the ceramic, instantly coaxing the scent of minty leaves and woodsy herbs into the air. You slid one mug gently across the counter to him. “She always said she’d sprinkle sugar in it, just a little to make all the bad dreams and thoughts go away.” You smiled at the memory, cupping your own mug between both hands. The heat soaked into your skin, comforting, anchoring. You swore you saw a twitch in the corner of Bob’s mouth, but it disappeared as quickly as it came, like a flicker of light swallowed by shadow.

“Thinking back to it now,” You thought aloud, letting out a small breath of a laugh. “It was probably all the placebo effect in full force.” You took a sip, the eucalyptus sharp and soothing on your tongue, feeling it trace a warm line down your throat. Across the counter, Bob mimicked your movements, less fluid, more tentative. When the tea touched his lips, something in him seemed to ease. His shoulders, which had been drawn up as if expecting impact, slowly sagged downward. His posture softened, like a held breath finally released.

“Thank you.” He murmured, his voice no longer brittle but still so quiet it could’ve been missed under the low hum of the kettle. “Nothing to thank me for, Bob. I’m happy to help.” He paused, eyes flicking toward you before returning to the tea cradled between his palms, like he was trying to absorb your words through the warmth of the mug. The silence stretched between you, not cold or awkward this time. Then, finally, he spoke. His voice barely a whisper, edges rough with hesitance. “H-How come you’re up this late?”

The question was simple, but his body betrayed how difficult it had been to ask. His fingers curled tighter around the ceramic, spine going ramrod straight almost as if he was expecting reprimand. He didn’t meet your eyes. The tension returned to his shoulders as though part of him still lived in a place where curiosity came with consequences. You took your time answering, glancing around the room with a soft exhale. “Feels weird being back here,” You admitted, voice tinged with something bittersweet.

You walked over to check the kettle out of habit, even though it had gone quiet, and refilled your mug to chase the chill creeping into your bones.“My dad and I had a rocky relationship,” You began, stirring the tea slowly, watching the leaves swirl in lazy circles. “But in the five years after the Blip… we got close. Worked through a lot of our differences.” You paused, the corners of your mouth curling into a wistful smile as the images swirled through your mind. “He wasn’t perfect. Hell, I wasn’t either. But we tried.” You turned to face Bob again, leaning gently against the counter.

“Being back here just brings all of that back." Bob looked up then, his expression open in a way you weren’t used to seeing. Vulnerable. Unfiltered. Like your honesty had offered him permission to be something other than afraid. “He left me with the best mom I could ask for, and two annoying siblings who drive me absolutely insane, yet I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Your voice cracked with a breath of half-laughter, half-sorrow, the words tinged with affection and weariness. You let out a slow breath, the kind that trembled slightly at the end.

As if your lungs couldn’t quite carry the weight of what you were feeling. The tightness in your throat pulsed, stubborn and raw, and you blinked up at the ceiling in an attempt to keep the water gathering on your lashes from falling. The kitchen light, dim and soft, refracted slightly through the moisture, making the world blur around the edges. “Still, being back here… the memories just resurface.” Bob didn’t speak right away. He just sat there, his figure small and still, the mug clutched tightly in both hands like it was the only thing grounding him to the present.

His fingers trembled slightly, knuckles pale under the strain. But then he nodded, once, slow and deliberate. Not out of politeness, but understanding. Real, lived-in understanding. The kind that doesn't need words. “C-Can I ask you something?” He didn’t look at you, his gaze dropped to the steam curling up from his mug, as if the question might vanish there if he spoke it too loudly. “You can ask me anything, Bob.” You replied gently, keeping your tone low and even, not with pity, but respect. Your fingers twitched slightly against your mug the instinct to reach out strong, to offer comfort, but you stopped yourself.

Not because you didn’t care, but because you did. Because you knew what Bucky had told you, about how touch could feel like danger, not reassurance. Bob’s lips parted, then pressed together again. He swallowed, throat bobbing visibly. “Since you’re… y’know, a therapist,” He began, voice breaking on the word like it tasted bitter. “Do you honestly think I can be fixed?” The question hit the air like a weight. No lightning crack or dramatic silence, just something heavier than gravity. Something that pulled the world down with it. Your heart broke for the man in front of you.

Not because he was broken, but because somewhere along the line, someone had taught him to believe he was. That he was a burden. A ticking time bomb people had to "deal with" instead of help. You exhaled slowly, the words forming not from your training, but your gut. “Bob…” You set your mug down carefully, the ceramic making a soft clink against the counter. “You don’t need to be fixed.” He flinched subtly, but you saw it. His shoulders curled in like a child bracing for discipline. His eyes squeezed shut, head bowed low like the words physically hurt to hear, or like he simply couldn’t let himself believe them.

“I know you’ve heard the opposite, probably more times than you can count,” You continued, voice soft but steady. “And yes, I’m a therapist. But that doesn’t mean I get to decide who you are or what’s wrong with you.” You stepped forward, just one step, slow and quiet so as not to startle him.“There is nothing wrong with you, Bob. You have my word, and I will never abuse that title to pick you apart. I don’t see something broken that needs mending. I see someone who’s survived. Who’s still surviving.” His breath hitched, mug trembling in his hands.

You saw the way his knuckles whitened, how his jaw clenched tight, like he was holding back the storm he thought no one could handle. “You, Robert Reynolds,” You deliberately used his full name, grounding him in the truth of his identity. “Have endured abuse. Manipulation. And yet, you’re still here. Still trying. Still fighting. Still protecting people who don’t even know what you’ve given up to do it.” You took another step, until you were standing just a breath away. Slowly, you turned your hand over, open, palm facing up offering, not imposing. An unspoken gesture of trust. A choice.

“You don’t have to carry this alone. We’re here. All of us. For the low lows and the high highs. And all the weird, confusing, terrifying middle ground too.” Bob didn’t speak. Not yet. But something in him shifted. You saw it, the way his shoulders lost their rigid line, the way his breathing began to even out. Slowly, hesitantly, his hand moved. A flicker of indecision paused him halfway. Then, with a trembling exhale, he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours. It was the lightest touch. Barely there. But it was real.

It was his choice.

And that choice meant everything.

“You’re really good at this.” Bob’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. Yet he offered a timid smile, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough. He opened his mouth again, brow furrowing slightly as if struggling to find the right words, but you held up a hand gently, already knowing where his thoughts were headed. “Don’t thank me,” You repeated softly, your voice threaded with sincerity, anchoring him. “I’m your friend, Bob. Anything you need, don’t hesitate to talk to one of us, okay? Promise me.”

You felt the faint pressure of his fingers curling, a tentative squeeze. It wasn’t strong, but it didn’t need to be. It was deliberate. Trusting. “I promise.” You gave his hand another squeeze, grounding him in the moment, a soft smile lingering on your face. That quiet connection was enough, until the soft, familiar sound of bare feet pattering against tile broke the stillness. You turned your head toward the doorway, footsteps light and rhythmically uneven, someone just roused from sleep.

"Having a tea party without me?" Yelena’s voice drifted into the kitchen, low and gravelly with sleep. She stood in the doorway, rubbing one eye with the sleeve of her oversized T-shirt. You turned, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Just helping out a friend,” You replied gently, not missing the way Bob’s shoulders tensed slightly at her presence, then slowly eased when he realized she hadn’t come with judgment, only curiosity. You didn’t elaborate. That part was entirely up to him. “That tea certainly worked,”

You yawned, the fatigue catching up to you like a tide slipping over your bones. “I’m feeling awfully drowsy.” You rubbed your eyes, the pressure a soothing dullness against the sleepiness building behind them. “Goodnight, guys,” Casting a glance toward Bob and giving him a tired but sincere wink. You leaned over to squeeze Yelena’s hand, her fingers instinctively curling around yours. “Bob, I’ll leave you in great hands.” At that, he managed a faint but genuine smile. With that you padded quietly out of the kitchen and down the dark hallway back into you and Bucky’s shared bedroom.

As you slipped beneath the sheets, the cool cotton brushing over your legs, Bucky stirred instinctively. Even in sleep, his body sought yours. His arms found you with practiced ease, one flesh, one vibranium pulling you into the familiar cradle of his chest. The metal of his left hand met the bare skin of your back, a soft gasp escaping your lips at the contrast: sleek, chilled steel against the warmth of your body. But it wasn’t jarring, it was soothing, anchoring. “Where’d you go?” He murmured, voice thick with sleep, slurred at the edges. “Missed you.” He breathed, the words muffled as he nuzzled into the hollow of your neck.

His breath was warm and slow against your skin. A smile bloomed across your face. You turned in his embrace, your legs tangling with his beneath the sheets, the warmth of him sinking into your bones like a balm. Your hand rose to his hair, fingertips weaving through the unruly strands, soft and tangled from sleep. You gently tugged him closer, not that he needed the encouragement. His blue eyes fluttered open, half-lidded with exhaustion but filled with something else, something steady.

“Couldn’t sleep,” You whispered, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheekbone. “Didn’t want to wake you.” He exhaled slowly, that familiar sound of understanding and quiet guilt mingling together in his breath. At your confession he simply pulled you tighter, burying his face against your neck, the kiss he pressed there slow and reverent. Right over your pulse. You turned your face, noses brushing in the dark, and met his lips in a kiss that was chaste only in its simplicity, not in what it meant. It was soft and slow, an exhale shared between two people who’d known war, grief, loss, and still chose love.

Your hand rested over his heart, where the beat thudded strong beneath your palm, and his settled at the small of your back, anchoring you to the here and now. His touch was steady, un-rushed. After a moment, his voice returned, low and hesitant, slicing through the silence like a thread unraveling. “It is weird, isn’t it?” His blue eyes stared into yours, their usual steel tempered by something softer, uncertainty, maybe. The kind of look someone gave when they were afraid of the answer, but needed to ask anyway. “A little,” You admitted, shrugging one shoulder against the pillow, your lips twitching upward.

“But… it’s not entirely horrible.” He raised a brow, a silent prompt for you to go on. “Yelena, Ava, Bob, Alexei. They’re lovely.” You paused, choosing your next words carefully, trying to find the right balance between honesty and humor. “Not sure how you willingly work with Walker and his ego though.” That made Bucky snort, the sound low and warm. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, lips brushing the curve with a smile tucked against your skin. “This new team will take some getting used to,” You confessed after a beat, voice more thoughtful now. “But it’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

You watched as his brow furrowed, a crease forming between his eyes as he turned the thought over in his head. That familiar flicker of self-doubt crossed his face, so quick you might’ve missed it, unless you knew him like you did. “It’s just…” He started, his voice quieter now. More exposed. “I’m not Steve.” Even the way he said the name carried weight. The silence that followed was thick with things unsaid. The shadow Steve Rogers left was long, and Bucky had spent years trying not to live inside it.

“Half the time I don’t know what I’m doing,” He admitted, eyes drifting downward. “And they willingly follow me. What if someday I make a mistake, one I can’t fix? One that costs someone their life?” You reached up, cupping his face gently, your thumb brushing along his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your touch, and your heart ached for the man in front of you, still haunted by ghosts he could never quite outrun. “You’re right,” You agreed watching as his expression flickered with disappointment, just for a brief moment.

“You’re not Steve Rogers.” His face fell slightly, a muscle in his jaw tightening. But before he could pull away, you continued, your voice unwavering. “You’re James Buchanan Barnes. War hero. Soldier. Congressman. Leader.” You leaned in closer, pressing your forehead against his, your eyes locked onto his with fierce conviction. “And most importantly… my future husband.” You saw the breath catch in his throat. His hand tightened slightly at your back, as if grounding himself in your certainty when he couldn’t find his own. “I don’t need you to be Steve,” You whispered.

“I just need you to be you. And that’s more than enough for me and everyone else.” His lips trembled into the faintest smile, and when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t chaste, it was filled with silent gratitude. A thousand unspoken thank you's pressed to your mouth like prayer. He held you there for a long while, breathing you in like a lifeline, like he could gather up every ounce of warmth you offered and store it in the cracks he still carried. When he pulled back to see your face, his gaze wasn’t burdened by the weight of who he had been or who he thought he had to be.

It was clearer now, tinged not with regret, but something steadier. Something lighter. The silence that settled was different now. Not the silence of things unsaid, but of things understood. The kind that comes after a storm, when the world stills and you realize you’ve made it through. His arms wrapped around you once more pulling you close until your heartbeat found his. Your bodies fit together in that quiet way only love makes possible, each curve and line a map of survival and second chances. You finally let your eyes fall closed, resting your head against his chest, the steady rhythm beneath your ear grounding you.

Not in the past, but in the present. In this fragile, extraordinary now. The weight of old ghosts hadn’t vanished, but they no longer ruled the room. They faded into the background, overtaken by the smell of eucalyptus still lingering faintly from the tea, the warmth of the blankets drawn over both of you, and the comfort of simply not being alone. Outside, the world slept. Still healing, still aching, but alive. Moving forward. And in that quiet space between what was and what would be, there was something neither of you dared to name, but both held onto nonetheless.

Hope.

There, in the dark, wrapped in each other’s arms, it flickered steadily, guiding you both into whatever came next.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

Remember you are NEVER alone! Do not hesitate to ask for help if you are struggling with your mental health, reach out to your loved ones, check in on people who have been too quiet, and always remember to be kind because you never know what other people may be dealing with! 🤍

Mental Health Help Hotline: (833) 317-4673

[floatyflowers]

You are the daughter of Sauron and everyone is obsessed with you as they are obsessed with the rings.(Part 1)

"Everyone was aware that falling in love with you was madness, given your father's identity. Still, no one minded as long as they could have you by their side."

Morgoth/Melkor

He is obsessed with you as much as he is obsessed with the Silmarils.

Doesn't care if you are the daughter of his servant, he wants you.

Despite your refusal of Morgoth's advences, Sauron encourages you, and wanting to please your father, you decided to try and please Melkor.

"Your soul and body are mine like those silmarils"

He crafted a necklace made out of one of the Silmarils, gifting it to you as a token of your unity.

Thankfully, the Valar captured him after the battle of Wrath, however you already left him before the battle.

Maedhros

You met him while he was in Thangorodrim, getting tormented by your father.

At that time Morgoth was imprisoned in Angband, so you were free from his obsessed jealousy.

However, after seeing the handsome red-haired elf for the first time, you decided to take care of him and try to free him, feeling sympathy and gulit.

After freeing him with the help of his cousin Fingon who had to cut off his hand to free him, Maedhros tried to convince you to escape with him, as you handed him the Silmaril Morgoth gave you.

"Come with me, you will find peace away from your father's clutches"

And you did leave with him when you realize how awful Sauron is.

But your decision is like falling into another trap.

As Maedhros appeared to be the same as Morgoth in causing violence.

Celebrimbor

After discovering what Maedhros and his brothers have done to their kin, you fled without a second thought.

And as years passed, you kept yourself hidden wandering alone, until you met Celebrimbor whom you find his knowledge remarkable.

You thought of leaving when you discovered that he is the nephew of Maedhros, but his generosity tempted you to stay, and you did.

Honestly, you thought you found peace with him in the safety of his home, but that was never the case, Celebrimbor was possessive and refused to let you leave.

He crafted special rings to keep you safe from danger, and also to keep you in love with him.

"Your pain, your pleasure, your every thought belongs to me. You're mine to command and possess."

Celebrimbor thought he owned you, until Annatar 'Sauron' came into the picture and corrupted Celebrimbor into making the rings.

Sauron/Annatar 'platonic'

Sauron didn't realize how much you meant to him until you ran away.

He almost went insane and never stopped searching for you.

So, when he encountered Celebrimbor, he didn't expect to see you, and deep down it steered horrible jealousy at the sight of you, his only child, happy with Celebrimbor.

Adding to this, he noticed Celebrimbor's obessesive behavior towards you and how he tried to keep you away from his sight.

What is more amusing to Annatar is that you didn't discover his disguise.

So, he decided to reveal it to you.

"How sad that you don't remember your father, my sweet child"

You warn Celebrimbor about your father before handing him the rings he made for you and leaving.

Elrond

You knew Elrond since Maglor, brother of Maedhros, was the one fostered him and his twin brother, Elros.

So, seeing him after so many years surprised you and what made you feel shy is the fact that he invited you to stay with him at his realm.

You decided to take on his offer because you didn't want to keep on wandering in the middle earth after you did for many years.

Actually, you came to his realm after his wife decided to leave to the Undying Lands.

And Elrond is the only one who felt like he wanted to marry you but he decided not to act on it to not frighten you.

Especially after everything you told him about others 'locking you up' and 'refusing to let you leave'

Actually he witnessed how his foster Uncle treated you, so he understood where you are coming from.

"Do not worry, Nin meld, you are safe here with me, I promise to protect you from any danger."

[transhuman-priestess]

Every few years there’s a shift in the discourse where someone decides that there’s a group of queers who aren’t “really” queer and for reasons unknown decided that they will focus all of their discourse on trying to discredit that one group.

It used to be “straight passing” bisexuals. Then it was “Theyfabs” and “transtrenders”. Then it was “hetero aces.” Now it’s “transmisogyny-exempt” people. And the thing you find every time is that the people writing angry multi-paragraph screeds about how these “invaders” are “stealing resources” or “silencing people” but they can never actually point to more than one or two examples, at best, of this happening.

But if you repeat something enough with a strong enough conviction in your voice, people will pretty much always be willing to think you’re right, even when you aren’t.

This is the basis of fascism. Exclusionary rhetoric is fascist. No one is immune to this thought process. You have to actively work on avoiding it.

“Did you just call me a fascist because I’m concerned with TME people silencing trans women” i mean, yeah. I did. Fix yourself, and I’ll be willing to talk to you again. I won’t apologize for what I said, mind you. But you can always fix yourself.

I used to think like that. I used to talk about how you “need dysphoria to be trans” and how bi people can “pass as straight” and how trans men “take up our space.” And I was wrong about all that.

There’s enough space in the queer community for everyone. We are always stronger when we understand this. Please, look towards unity rather than division. Fix yourselves.

Being wrong doesn’t make you a bad person. Changing your views is not evidence of weakness. Your friends will still live you if you change. Please.

[mesetacadre]

I think it's fair to say there is interest in an explanation of trotskyism from a marxist-leninist perspective. Information on what exactly Trotsky did and what trotskyism is nowadays is complicated to come by unless you know a trotskyist willing to be straightforward or someone involved in organizing with these types of communists. So instead of answering these asks without much prior research or preparation, I decided to wait until I was freer, without too many academic and political responsibilities. Full disclosure, the portion of this post on Trotsky himself is essentially (though not completely) a summary of Moissaye J. Olgin's Trotskysim: Counter-revolution in Disguise, which gets into the basics of trotskyism as well as Trotsky's actual position on his contemporary issues, such as the Chinese revolution, or the CPUSA which I don't get into here but I highly recommend reading. The second portion, about modern trotskyism and how it got to be present in the countries that it is, is shorter and more based on my own experiences organizing with trotskyists as well as reading what they have to say, and conversations with much more knowledgeable comrades of mine.

What is trotskyism?

Succinctly, it is the form of left opposition to marxism-leninism that has enjoyed the most spread, spearheaded by Leon Trotsky and his criticisms of the USSR.

Trotsky himself, despite what his self-aggrandizing History of the Russian Revolution leads one to believe, was never a bolshevik, much less a leninist. The second Congress of the Russian Social-Democratic Labor Party¹ (RSDLP) of 1903, which sought to establish the bases of what would become the bolshevik party and the CPSU, saw the start of the menshevik-bolshevik split, on the issue of what the party should become and how it should be organized.

The bolsheviks, already lead by Lenin, defended the principles of organization that were later systematized into democratic-centralism. These principles were the freedom of discussion until the party decided by a majority vote during a Congress, Conference or other organ for discussion, a position on any issue. After this, unity of action should follow, and the comrades who held the minority opinion, even if they still disagree, should submit to the collectively agreed-upon position, and act on that line an all party matters. This is to ensure that the party of the proletariat, representing the interests of one class, is not divided, and is able to express that single will. Otherwise, its action is crippled by unending debates kept alive by a minority. Consequently, these principles also lead to the intolerance towards fractions within the party.

Trotsky, who aligned himself with the mensheviks, opposed these principles, instead advocating for a complete liberty of individual action of comrades in the party. He called Lenin "the great disorganizer of the party" over this. This is the first great pillar of trotskyism, a rejection of democratic-centralism in favor of the creation of endless cliques and fractions within the party, which he did multiple times within the CPSU until his expulsion.

The second great pillar of the trotskyist opposition that arose before the October Revolution was of defeatism regarding the peasantry. Especially after the defeat of the 1905 revolution, Trotsky was convinced that a successful revolution in a country such as the Russian Empire, where the peasantry was a majority and usually held reactionary positions due to various economic determinations², was impossible because these reactionary elements would inevitably overthrow a worker's dictatorship. While already an excessively defeatist position among other communists, and certainly not a bolshevik position, this belief did not change whether it was 1905, 1915, or 1935. Up to the end, even once the USSR had beaten the armed intervention of 14 armies and had transformed the peasantry by eliminating the class of kulaks and collectivizing agriculture, Trotsky's opposition to socialism in one country relied on the perception of an insurmountable reactionary class constantly on the edge of an overthrow. This is what the "permanent revolution", a term that when used by trotsky has nothing to do with the same term used by Marx and Engels, actually means. A defeatism so deep, that only the practically simultaneous and global victory of the proletariat is possible, all without party unity!

This also negates other leninist positions such as the weakest chain theory, crucial to understanding imperialism, or the necessity of a communist party altogether. Since socialism in one country will inevitably fail, Trotsky told workers that an armed insurrection once the conditions was right was pointless, and that they should instead work for a "worldwide revolution", something that's in practice impossible because it would necessitate a synchronization of the conditions necessary for a revolution in every single imperialist country at once. Unequal development is an unbreakable rule of the imperialist stage of capitalism, and the notion of a worldwide revolution or even a revolution among a significant portion of imperialist countries was already refuted by Lenin in 1915.

So how did Trotsky reconcile his defeatist dogmatism with a living and thriving proof against it in the form of the USSR? As the third great pillar of trotskyism, he insisted by every possible avenue that the USSR wasn't actually socialist, the reasons for which changed constantly. Some issues were already recognized by the CPSU and worked against, and Trotsky exaggerated them. He expressed concern about the Central Committee replacing the party itself, he expressed concern about bureaucratization, the NEP and its lack of collectivization, the excessive speed of collectivization in the 30s, and other criticisms which, when taken together, show only contradiction and a single consistent position: that any attack against the USSR was legitimate.

And it's not like he was being ignored in the USSR, he simply always chose the most incendiary and anti-leninist methods for criticism. In the 13th Congress of the RCP(b) of 1924, among other things, the resolution that was approved recognized many flaws in the party coming out of the NEP, but that these issues weren't actively dangerous and could be solved: bureaucratization in some areas, excessive departmentalization, some influence of bourgeois elements. This resolution was passed unanimously, which included Trotsky. Immediately after the Congress, he published a pamphlet called The New Course, in which he lambasts this Congress and the entire party as having degenerated. In this pamphlet he also places students as the "barometer of the revolution", instead of workers themselves. His only proposal to that Congress was one to allow "freedom of groupings", meaning the freedom to form fractions. Once again he pulled the same stunt in the 15th Congress of 1926; he publicly subscribed to a resolution that explicitly banned such fractions, and directly afterwards published more pamphlets that directly opposed the resolution that he subscribed to! This is not a man who levied fair criticisms and was shut down, he was someone who held minority positions, anti-leninist ones, and refused to admit it, to the point of plotting against the USSR.

But how come Trotsky, during his better known times in exile, claimed he was the true Leninist and that he opposed the Stalinist degeneration? This is the greatest example of a tactic he used constantly. To always seem like the rational critic, and to pass his opposition as one coming from another bolshevik, he always shifted the perspective of his criticisms. In the times of Lenin, Lenin was the "great disorganizer", and the "leader of the reactionary wing of the party"³. But once Lenin died, he became the most loyal foot-soldier of Leninism, crusading against the Stalinist corruption. Then it was Stalin who became Trotsky's devil, effortlessly transposing his criticisms of Lenin to Stalin, and shifting his perspective from that of a menshevik, to that of a true "bolshevik-leninist".

This tactic was used constantly. For instance. when he was still within the ranks of the party, he completely opposed the principles of democratic-centralism, but once he was in exile and had to criticize the Communist International, his issue suddenly became only that the bolshevik form of organization was being hastily applied to different contexts. Then, he really had no issue with democratic-centralism. When he talked of the possibility of a revolution in the US, then all his worries of an insurmountable reaction dissolved, instead becoming an optimist who believed that, actually, there would be no real significant class who would oppose a revolution in the US, and that therefore the USamerican workers should carry out a revolution "without compulsion". The very same person who over the course of decades insisted on the dangers of a counter-revolution apparently believed the workers of the USA had no opposition to fear. This was, rather, simply an opposition to the Communist International's analysis of imperialism, as Trotsky placed the most revolutionary potential in the countries where capitalism was most developed, the imperial core, the very same mistake Marx and Engels committed, except only 70 years prior and with no good framework with which to analyze imperialism. If Trotsky was truly a leninist, then he utterly failed at even beginning to understand anything about the theory regarding imperialism.

I think this is a good enough place to leave Trotsky be, and talk now about trotskyism beyond Trotsky.

Trotskyism, especially in its analysis of imperialism, is very attractive to the imperial core communist. It appeals to multiple sensibilities like individualism, an aversion to revolutionary discipline and work, and impatience. By putting the emphasis away from the party of our class and onto the group of individual ideologues, each with their own cliques and mini-parties, by completely disregarding the possibility of a revolution outside the top of the imperialist pyramid, and by also disregarding the possibility of a revolution until the instance of a total global victory, it is no wonder most trotskyists nowadays are found in the imperial core. This is, with the exception of a portion of Latin-American countries, which I think deserves its own explanation.

Latin America in the 20s and 30s was a continent⁴ of very differing levels of development of capitalism and the proletariat. When many European trotskyists left to Latin America for various reasons, it's no coincidence that they ended up mostly in the urban centers of the most developed countries, such as Argentina and México, where Trotsky himself ended his emigrations after exile. It was exported to places that had a significantly developed proletariat, places which up to that point lacked a culture of multiple communist parties, like Europe had, and places with a strong unionist movement. Other countries like Colombia, Ecuador or Perú, whose worker movements were more significantly indigenist and/or decolonial, along with not meeting the other conditions like Argentina and México, were less ripe for trotskyism.

The condition for a lack of a multi-party environment was important because the trotskyist opposition to the USSR collected all the "orphaned" communists who opposed the sections of the Communist International in each of their countries, especially after the Moscow trials of the late 30s which expanded the opposition to marxism-leninism internationally, as well as with other events like the Hungarian intervention after WW2. But besides this very specific phenomenon, product of a set of very specific conditions which, outside of the imperial core, were only met in these specific countries, the basis of trotskyism as an imperial core opposition to marxism-leninism remains.

So nowadays, trotskyists are mostly located in the imperial core, with those exceptions I've explained. And this leads me to the last part of this post, which is about organizing with trotskyists as a marxist-leninist. In short, it's not impossible but also not an extraordinary situation. Organizing in the imperial core varies from country to country, that much is clear, but the fragmentation into countless groups and sects, as well as the competition with social-democrats, is broadly consistent. These conditions, again generally, mean marxist-leninist parties in the imperial core have to collaborate with a myriad of communist offshoots, anarchists, and ill-defined "leftists" to achieve a broader reach. This includes trotskyists. What makes them in particular uniquely annoying to organize with is that they continue to pretend to be leninists despite all the discrepancies, so they tend to constitute competitors in agitation and rhetoric, while their internal organization usually resembles that of an anarchist group more than anything else. From this, other symptoms like a reliance on assemblyism (especially in the students' movement) and extreme levels of voluntarism naturally follow.

The IMT (International Marxist Tendency), or whichever acronym it is that they're using now, has a relevant presence in just the US and UK with a nominal one in most other imperial core countries. In all cases they're not much more than newspaper vendors who sometimes gives talks at best, and mere reading clubs or financially-extorting sects at worst. There is another international grouping of trotskyist parties that I've come across led by the PTA (Partido del Trabajo Argentino, Argentinian Labor Party), mostly linked via their news broadcast Izquierda Diario, although from what I've heard, the PTA finances their international "children" parties too. Of course, these groups all have different names in each country which in turn tend to change every few years.

Before the split of the Second International during WWI, communists called themselves social-democrats

The mode of production of the peasantry was very individualized, since each peasant or group of peasants lived partly from the fruits of their own labor, they didn't sell it in its entirety. This stands in contrast with the proletariat's completely socialized mode of production; every worker sells the entirety of their labor-power and sustains themself by purchasing commodities with their salary. The pre-existing socialization of production in capitalism was identified by Marx and Engels already in the Manifesto as one of the reasons for the proletariat being the revolutionary class by excellence. The reactionary tendencies of the peasantry wasn't wholly determined by this, it also depended on various historical and contextual reasons, but this should be better expanded on a dedicated post to social alliances.

These are all real insults thrown at Lenin by Trotsky when he disagreed about party discipline. The "true leninist", ladies and gentlemen

Using "continent" in a very loose way here. It's not like the common definitions of continent are very determined either. But you get what I mean

[specialagentartemis]

godddddd i have disliked becky chambers' work since long way to a small angry planet and I agree that that fish scene is SO much of what is wrong with contemporary SFF especially queer SFF. refreshing take, great review, thank you. would love to hear what authors or works you think of as the antidote to that sensibility.

The thing is, I enjoyed The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet when I first read it - it was a fun, light adventure, clearly a debut novel but I was excited to see where Chambers would go from there. And I actually really do think the sequel, A Closed and Common Orbit, was good! It did interesting things with AI personhood and identity.

... and then Chambers just kinda. Did not get better. She settled into a groove and has a set number of ideas that I feel like she hasn't broken out of, creatively. And they I M O kind of rest on an assumption that "human nature" = "how people act in suburban California."

As an antidote to that sensibility, I'd say... books where people have a real interrelationship with the land they inhabit, a sense of being present, and reciprocal obligations to that land; books that recognize that some things can never be taken back once done; books with well-drawn characters, where people have strong opinions deeply informed by their circumstances, that can't always be easily reconciled with others, and won't be brushed aside; books where these character choices matter, they impact each other, they cannot be easily gotten over, because people have obligations to each other and not-acting is a choice too.

And it's only fair that after all day of being a Hater I should rec some books I really did like.

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke - A man lives alone in an infinite House, over an equally infinite ocean. Captures the feeling that I think Monk & Robot was aiming for. Breathtaking beauty, wonder at the world, philosophy of truth, all that good stuff, and actually sticks the landing. The main character's love, attention, and care to his fantasy environment shows through in every page. (Fantasy, short novel)

Imperial Radch by Ann Leckie - An AI, the one fragment remaining of a destroyed imperial spaceship, is on a quest for revenge. Leckie gets cultural differences and multiculturalism, and conversely, what the imposition of a homogeneous culture in the name of unity means. (Space sci-fi, novel trilogy)

Machineries of Empire by Yoon Ha Lee - An army captain's insubordination is punished by giving her a near-impossible mission: to take down a rebelling, heretical sect holing up in a space fortress and defying imperial power. She gets a long dead brain-ghost of a notorious criminal downloaded into her head to help. Very, very good at making you feel like every doomed soldier was a person with a past, with a family, with feelings, with hopes and dreams and frustrations and favorites and preferences and reasons to live, right before they brutally die in a space war. Also very much about the imposition of homogeneity of culture as a force of imperialism. (Space sci-fi, novel trilogy)

The Fortunate Fall by Cameron Reed - Maya Andreyevna is a VR journalist in high-tech dystopian future Russia, and she decides to investigate the truth that the government doesn't want her to. She might die trying. It's fine. Also has digital brain-sharing, this time in a gay way. It's bleak. It's sad. It feels real. Not making a choice is a choice. Backing out is a choice. And choices have consequences. Choices reverberate through history. About responsibility. (Cyberpunk, novel)

The Vanished Birds by Simon Jimenez - Nia Imani is a spaceship captain, a woman out of time, a woman running from her past, and accidentally adopts a boy who has a strange power that could change the galaxy. Spaceship crew-as-found-family in the most heartbreaking of ways. Also about choices, how the choices you make and refuse to make shape you and shape the world around you. How the world is always changing around you, how the world does not stay still when you're gone, and when you come back you're the same but the world has moved on around you. About how relationships aren't always forever, and that doesn't mean they weren't important. About responsibility to others. It's a slow, sad book and does not let anyone rest on their laurels, ever. There is no end of history here. Everything is always changing, on large scales and small, and leaving you behind. (Space sci-fi, novel)

Dungeon Meshi / Delicious in Dungeon by Ryoko Kui - A D&D style fantasy dungeon crawl that stops to think deeply about why there are so many dungeons full of monsters and treasure just hanging around. Here because it's an example of an author thinking through her worldbuilding a lot, and it mattering. Also because of the characters' respect for the animals they are are killing and eating, their lives and their place in the ecosystem, and the ways that humans both fuck up ecosystems with extraction and tourism, but also the ways that you can have reciprocal relationships of responsibility and care with the ecosystem you live in, even if it's considered a dangerous one. (Fantasy, manga series)

Stories of Your Life and Others by Ted Chiang and How Long 'Til Black Future Month by N. K. Jemisin and Everyone on the Moon is Essential Personnel by Julian K. Jarboe - Short story anthologies that were SO good and SO weird and rewired the way I think. If you want the kind of stuff that is like, the opposite of easy-to-digest feel-good pap, these short stories will get into your brain and make you consider stuff and look at the world from new angles. Most of them aren't particularly upbeat, but there's a lot of variety in the moods.

"Homecoming is Just Another Word for the Sublimation of the Self," "Calf Cleaving in the Benthic Black," and "Termination Stories for the Cyberpunk Dystopia Protagonist" by Isabel J. Kim - Short stories, sci-fi mostly, that twist around in my head and make me think. Kim is very good at that. Also about choices and not-making-choices, about going and staying, about taking the easy route or the hard one, about controlling the narrative.

The Murderbot Diaries by Martha Wells - Security robot with guns in its arms hacks itself free from its oppressive company, mostly wants to half-ass its job but gets sucked into drama, intrigue, and caring against its better judgement. This is on here because 1) I love it 2) I feel like it does for me what cozy sff so frequently fails to do - it makes me feel seen and comforted. It's hopeful and compassionate and about personal growth and finding community and finding one's place in the world, without brushing aside all problems or acting like "everybody effortlessly just gets along" is a meaningful proposal. also 3) because it is one of the few times I have yet seen characters from a hippie, pacifistic, eco-friendly, welcoming, utopian society actually act like people. The humans from Preservation are friendly, helpful, and motivated by truth and justice and compassion, because they come from a friendly, just, compassionate society, and they still actually act like real human beings with different personalities and conflicting opinions and poor reactions to stress and anger and frustration and fear and the whole range of human emotions rather than bland niceness. Also 4) I love it (space sci-fi, novella series mostly)

[arabellasleopardcoat]

One Thousand Ships (Cregan Stark x Reader) 

Summary: Epithets have a funny way of growing out of control. Thankfully, your husband has a way of seeing you for what you are, and not the myth attached to your name. Or, the nightmare of being coveted by a Targaryen Prince skips a generation or two, but you are never safe from it. Thank the Gods Cregan is more sensible. 

A/N: Requested. In which you get to play Helen of Troy while being completely normal. Enjoy. (Blame my thesis advisor, who called me Molly Bloom. I am in a classic's mood) 

Warnings: Mature language, period typical repression, mature themes. Canon typical violence. Lots of Cregan fluff.

YOU REMEMBER A story you had been told once, about a girl. A girl so beautiful, her father had made all those who vied for her hand promise they would aid her future husband in a possible war if they were not fortunate enough to marry her. 

A girl whose beauty was enough to start a war, for come a few years later, a cruel, wicked man, had taken her from her home. And the bannermen had answered the call from the husband, and started a war so terrible, it must have lasted thirty years. 

You had never been that girl. You weren’t beautiful enough to start a war, no, but you were beautiful enough to end it. Or perhaps, it had been the fact you had not been in the room when the terrible thing happened. Maybe that was enough for Aemond. 

Your betrothal to him had come after weeks of tense negotiations, screaming matches, and near maiming between the two warring mothers. In the end, it had been your grandsire’s pleas for unity among the family what had settled the matter, deciding the two of you would wed before your next nameday. 

For a few blessed days, it had seemed like war would be avoided. Your marriage to Aemond would sideline the biggest weapons of the Blacks and the Greens. Verminthor would not be able to go against Vhagar, the Greens had thought, when his rider was married to hers. The same logic had prompted the Blacks to agree to the betrothal. 

In hindsight, it had been a doomed effort from the very start. Both sides had celebrated, thinking they were winning a hostage, yet who was winning in truth, only the Gods knew. 

Not you, you now knew. You had been getting the shortest stick from the deal. You just hadn’t known. 

It had all come crumbling down when your grandsire died. 

You hadn’t been in the Red Keep, nor had Aemond been in Dragonstone when it happened. That had been the first mistake of the plan. The second? Aemond had grown too attached to the thought of wedding you. 

As soon as your mother heard of Aegon’s coronation, the betrothal went out in flames. Secretly, you were relieved. Aemond had unnerved you when you had visited the capital. He was not the shy, kind boy you remembered, but a vicious man. 

When you heard you were instead to go North, and wed Cregan Stark, your first thought had been that at least, if you had to choose, you preferred him. He was much kinder. 

It was, of course, not the first thing anyone would think of Cregan Stark. Some would call him honorable, and some would call him cold. A truer King of Winter there had never been, for he had executed his uncle and sent his cousins to the Wall. Nor was there a man as oath bound as he, who had rallied his banners for your mother’s cause for a promise that hadn’t even been his. 

So who was Cregan Stark? Honorable or cold and cruel?  To your four-and-ten-year-old self, he was kind and brave when no one else had dared to be. 

It had been your nameday and you had been terrified. You had never been one for being the center of attention, too self-conscious of your head of dark hair and brown eyes for it. When you were little, you had been the kind of girl who hid in her mother’s skirts, and was called adorable. You had grown up aware of everyone’s eyes on you, and did not like it, so you had learned all your curtsies and managed to behave politely enough to blend in with the crowd. 

But there was a man who had never overlooked you. You were his favorite, much as Jace was Harwin’s and Luke was mother’s and Joff was Laenor’s. You were Viserys’. 

So for your four and ten nameday, to mark your transition into womanhood, your grandsire had chosen to celebrate by throwing a ball with every single highborn in the realm in attendance. 

No expense was spared. Your grandsire commissioned a beautiful blue gown for you, supposedly in the Velaryon colors. But the fabric is Arryn blue, and it looks suspiciously like one of the late Queen Aemma’s dresses. It was the most grown up dress you had ever owned. 

Your mother had cried when she had seen you in it. Your grandfather had praised your beauty. 

Despite how young you had been, you were already aware of the schism inside your family. You had grown up surrounded by cruel japes about your hair color and eyes, and how strong of a lady you were. And even if you had been blind to it, you also had the dubious pleasure of overhearing a row between Alicent and Viserys about this very feast. 

You had been at the first fitting of the beautiful gown, and eager to show your grandfather, when you had heard them arguing about the prices of the silk. 

“I will have no expense spared! It’s her four and ten nameday. She is blossoming into a young woman, she deserves to have a special celebration. Rhaenyra had one just like..” 

“What about your other daughter, Viserys?” Alicent’s words, harsh and cold, had cut even you, who were eavesdropping from the hallway. Suddenly, it felt as if you had swallowed a block of ice. That intense was your dread. 

Helaena had turned four and ten the year before, and her nameday had passed without any sort of celebration. An older you would think of this moment, and realize this was a pivotal moment for Alicent. 

But at the moment, the only consequence that had mattered to you had been that Alicent had been spitting mad, and that she had forbidden either of her sons from asking you to dance. Or even approaching you. 

She had let her displeasure be known, loudly, during the whole week leading up to your nameday, and when the music started playing during your feast, both Aegon and Aemond had remained firmly seated by their mother’s side. 

No one else dared to ask you to dance. Not when you were sat at the right of the King, crowned by a circlet more proper for his heir than the second born of the Princess. You were too high ranked for a simple lord to come ask you for a dance, and the only men who were close to you remained either willfully sitting or blissfully oblivious. 

You remained seated, feeling the minutes drag by, and so did everyone else in the hall. No one could take to the dance floor if the hostess herself did not open the dance. You betted that your mother had not had this sort of trouble in her youth. You didn’t even want to look at her, worried she might order your brother or her husband to take you for a spin. How embarrassing would that be! 

Your face began to heat up, but you forced yourself to relax the tense line of your shoulders. The song was coming to an end. Jace looked at you, from across the table, and you resigned yourself to the embarrassment of dancing with your brother, for it would surely be worse to remain seated. 

Yet, as he was starting to stand up, someone intervened. A boy appeared by your side, offering you a hand. 

“A dance, my princess?” He was very tall, and surprisingly good-looking. His eyes were a deep, dark gray that looked almost black, and his jaw square. Despite being around your age, he had already shed all the awkwardness of adolescence, shoulders broad, and the barest hint of scruff in his cheeks, though he kept himself cleanly shaved. 

He was dressed in less elaborate clothes than the rest of the guests, though no less expensive. A direwolf was embroidered on his doublet. Stark. A future Lord Paramount was nothing to scoff at, and by the superior look your mother was giving Alicent, she knew it. 

“Of course.” You beamed at him, taking his hand. His was warm against yours, and slightly rough. Calloused. 

“You look very beautiful tonight.” He offered, politely, as he led you around the room.  “I like the color of your dress.” 

“Velaryon blue.” Though that was being generous. The color was more of a faded light blue, closer to gray, that matched much more the Arryn’s coat of arms. 

“We match.” And when he spins you, he lifts his arm, showing you his sleeve, in Stark gray. 

“So it seems, my lord.” Then, more quietly, as he lifts you, making something flutter in your stomach, you whisper. “Thank you.” 

“There is nothing to thank me for.” The boy smiles, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It makes an embarrassed flush come to your cheeks. 

“You know there is. For the compliment and…” You lower your head, not wanting anyone to read your lips from a distance. But before you can voice anything more intimidating, the boy cups your jaw in his hand and softly tilts your face up, so you meet his eyes. 

“There is no need to thank me for taking the chance to dance with a beautiful maid.” He says, no hint of dishonesty in his voice. “If any, I am thankful.” 

“You are? Why?” You say, confused. 

“That all these southrons are too cowardly to approach you.” You laugh, and he joins you, loud and clear. This is the memory you hold on to, when you begin your ride north, heart in your throat, and terrified of what Aemond might do next. 

WHAT CREGAN REMEMBERS about you is not how good of a dancer you are, or how beautiful you had looked in your pale blue gown. 

He remembers, instead, the day before, when his father and him had arrived to the capital. They had ridden hard and fast, racing each other with reckless abandon. They had left Winterfell with plenty of time to spare, but both of them loved horses and could never resist the thrill of a good hunt, or in this case, race. 

Too much wolf’s blood, his mother had said when she still lived. Too much to keep still, too much for settling down. 

Cregan doesn’t know it yet, but this is the last time he will get to have this sort of fun with his father. But currently, he is young, and wild, and still free of the burdens of lordship. So they race, and he runs, and they make it to the capital with two full days to spare. 

On the second day, Cregan decides to go exploring. He has always been curious about dragons, having grown on the stories about Good Queen Alysanne, and her visit to the Wall. Of her beautiful dragon, Silverwing, and how she had refused to fly over it, fearful of what laid beyond it. 

Being a Stark, and knowing the secret he knows, Cregan is convinced the dragons have to have some sort of superior intelligence. Or a way to sense magic. As a boy, he believed them to be able to sense evilness, but at the more mature age of four and ten, he now realizes they can stand evilness, otherwise Maegor would have never ridden Balerion. 

So, he decides he must visit the dragonpit. It isn’t as straightforward as just walking up to it. The dragonkeepers won’t allow him to stay or visit the dragons if not authorized by some Targaryen. 

“Ah, young Lord Stark.” The King says, when Cregan finally catches him, near the small council. He seems rather harried, what with overseeing the preparations for the feast, ruling, and his sickness. Cregan would feel bad about asking him, but he has seen neither hair nor hide from any other member of House Targaryen. The Queen and the Princess seem to be having a terrible row, and their respective households have wisely made themselves scarce. “I hear you wish to ask something of your King.” 

“Your Grace,” Cregan bows, as straight as he can. His father has always said that poor posture makes one look like a sycophant instead of a man properly paying his respects. “If I may be so bold, yes. I wanted to see the dragonpit.”

“Most lords never wish to be near a dragon. Why, my own lady wife is terrified of them!” The King isn’t paying much attention, more preoccupied with deciding between two sets of cutlery that look nearly identical to Cregan. He gestures for a servant, and hands him one. “This one.” 

“I… I have always enjoyed hearing stories about Good Queen Alyssane and my ancestor, Lord Alaric Stark.” And his words seem to be the right ones because King Viserys finally turns to look at him, 

“Yes, stories about your ancestors. A noble pursuit for a young man. It will make you into a fine lord.” The King smiles at him. “You may visit Silverwing, if you so wish, from a distance. I wouldn’t have my granddaughter's nameday sullied by your death.”   

“Of course, Your Grace.” Cregan bows, and hurriedly exits the room, uncaring if his bow is a bit sloppy. He is meeting dragons today. 

Cregan rides to the dragonpit. In there, the dragonkeepers eye them with suspicion, despite the guard that King Viserys had sent along with him to grant his permission. He is led to Silverwing’s enclosure, and the dragon is magnificent, honoring her name with wings made of a shimmering gray. He has heard she had once resided in the isle of Dragonstone, but it is no longer the case. 

It unsettles him a bit, seeing her chained. It doesn’t seem right that a creature as regal as she is chained. Not when she blinks at him with what are clearly intelligent eyes. 

Before he can have a stare-down with her, the dragonkeepers pull him back. Silverwing grows agitated, struggling with her chains. Has Cregan upset her?

“Worry not, Lord Stark. This happens every time….” One of the dragonkeepers yells, as they retreat into another cave and emerge in the center of the dragonpit once more. 

“Every time? I read she was sweet-tempered.” At the look of disbelief in the dragonkeeper’s face, he quickly amends it. “For a dragon.” 

“She is. But she worries when her mate parts from her.” 

“Her mate?” The only response he gets is the dragonkeeper pointing towards a bronze dragon, as big as Silverwing, getting ready to take flight. Verminthor. The Bronze Fury. 

Some other dragonkeepers are removing the chains from him, and he barely notices, enraptured by a small figure at his side. Cregan looks in their direction, curious. From this distance, he cannot tell if they are a her or a him. They wear riding leathers that render them almost shapeless. It is only when they get on the saddle, in an agile little jump, and their long braid sways, Cregan notices they are a woman. 

A girl, more likely. Around his age, considering her lack of curves. She has to be strong, to be able to jump like that as if it were nothing. She looks impossibly tiny on her dragon’s back. 

Cregan approaches slightly, as far as he dares. There is a barrier between him and the dragon, but he can still see clearly. When Verminthor takes flight, he expects to see a frightened expression on her face. He would be frightened if he were she. 

Instead, her face only shows a fierce joy, teeth bared, braid whipping with the wind. Fearless, despite being only a tiny speck in the dragon’s back. Alight as she is, she is the most beautiful woman Cregan has ever seen. 

Cregan will not think of you for many years, but when he does, Aemond’s obsession will seem reasonable. The girl atop the dragon, brave and fierce, is the sort to grow into a woman you start a war for. 

THERE IS SOMETHING scary about a man’s obsession. Something scarier than deranged love letters, something that inches more into the realm of your husband’s lover murdered at your wedding. Something that begins with you liking the attention at first, and ends in nights spent looking at the ceiling, wondering if you had prompted him to do this terrible thing. 

Your hands still shake when you think of it. You remember sitting with Daemon and your mother, through a tense meal after they quarreled during the council meeting, when the Maester had come rushing, face pale. 

“A raven, for the Princess.” And you and your mother had attempted to rise, much to Daemon’s amusement. Then, your mother had remembered she was the Queen and sat back down. You had fought a smile then, unknowing of what was to come. “It’s… It’s a serious matter. I think all of you should read it.” 

The three of you had sobered, and you had reached for the letter, confused when the Maester had passed you a small bag. 

Then, you opened it, your mother reading over your shoulder, and both of you had stared at it in horror. 

“What is it?” Daemon had said, impatiently opening the bag. Your mother fell to her knees. You howled. 

On the floor, the pieces of one of Luke’s jerkins laid, bloodied. 

“… I offer you the chance to finish this senseless quarrel. Come back to King’s Landing. Honor our betrothal. Swear fealty to the true King and make your mother… Bah!” Daemon had yelled, grabbing the letter and angrily throwing it to the hearth.

But instead of agreeing, your mother’s expression remained pensive. Daemon and you exchanged a glance. 

“Nothing has changed.” You said, voice firm. Despite it, you could feel your nerves threatening to choke you. What if your mother was thinking of doing as Aemond said? You knew she would never allow him to live, not after Luke, but you also knew that now that she was Queen, and she was looking to preserve the decades of peace she had inherited from your grandfather. She had to think of more than just what would please her. Even if revenge would please her much more. “We knew this was a possibility, that Aemond would insist on honoring the betrothal. Was it not the very reason I did not ride out as my brothers did?” 

It had been. Your mother and you had argued fiercely over it, but at last, she had convinced you of the dangers of capture and the need to keep Verminthor, the biggest dragon the Blacks had, close by. 

“Nothing has changed.” Daemon agreed, his face showing how troubled he was at your mother’s blank expression. If he, who had known her since she was a little girl, couldn’t decipher her thoughts, there were reasons to worry. “Except for the fact that you might have to ride North sooner than expected.” 

“Sooner?” Your mother echoes, hands turned into fists. You can tell she is burning with anger. You wonder if her tears have frozen, as yours seem to have. Your horror is too great. You do not dare look at the scraps of fabric laying on the floor. 

Had Luke told Aemond the betrothal no longer stood? Used that fact to taunt him? 

Had it been your fault? 

“I do not wish to face Vhagar here. Nor brave the attempts to kidnap her. We need to move her out of his sphere of influence. Right now, as she is, she is useless. A liability. As long as she is here, they will keep trying to get in. We cannot risk it.”

At that, your mother begins to cry in earnest.  

You would never know the answer to your questions. They had died with Luke, and you didn’t intend to be around to ask them to Aemond. 

“It’s decided, then. I ride North in the morrow.” 

“I’ll toast to that.” Daemon agrees, lifting a goblet. “May you win us a full army, with that face of yours. Whatever enchantment you put on that Targtower, let us hope it works on wolves too.”

Your mother laughs. It echoes, a hollow sound in the dining room. 

THE EVENING THE princess is supposed to arrive, Cregan is miserable. He has spent the last two days placating his lords, and is in no mood to placate you. Yet, he knows someone has to tell you, and no one is better suited for the job than your betrothed. 

You make your entrance in the back of Verminthor, the myth of your beauty leaving Cregan wholly unprepared for the woman who rides him. You are not a Valyrian Empress come to life, nor are you closer to a goddess than a woman. Instead, on his gardens stands a normal woman, dressed in beautiful finery, and riding a dragon, but normal nonetheless. 

It isn’t what he had pictured at all, and it throws him a bit off balance. It is probably why he dares approach Verminthor, slowly, and help you dismount. 

Cregan feels a vague amount of fear, like one does when faced with staring down a cliff’s edge, or at seeing knights joust. He is too numb and underwhelmed to feel anything more. His mind is slow, still stuck on the fact that you are not some otherworldly beauty that leads men into madness, and hence, perceives you as a normal lady needing help to dismount. 

“There has been a decree.” He starts, without even introducing himself. Cregan might still be shocked by how normal you look, but he is not dumb enough to startle the dragon, so he reaches slowly for your waist. It is good that he rids himself from this fear, he rationalizes. If he is about to live with a dragon, he cannot eat him, “From Prince Aegon.” 

You smile at him, not out of genuine happiness, but politely enough. One of your hands goes to his shoulder, steadying yourself. Cregan can smell the subtlest hint of the perfume you have applied to your wrists, and it makes him wish he could bury his nose against your pulse point. By the Gods, you smell divine. Good enough to eat. 

“What does it say?” You ask, and there is something in your manner, something so unique, so bewitching, Cregan understands why this mythos has grown around you, making you into a figure larger than life. 

“That you are betrothed to Prince Aemond, his heir.” Cregan cannot help himself, his lips begin to form a smirk against his will. There is no humor in it, only bared teeth and wolf. He hates when someone dares stake a claim on something that is his. He hates even more being made to look the fool. 

One only has to look at what happened to Bennard Stark to know it. 

Your face, kind and sweet, takes a sharp dive towards confusion. There is some rage against Aemond in your expression, but you mostly look puzzled, brows furrowed together, mouth half open. 

“His heir?"

And telling you would be distasteful, yet again, so it is marrying another man’s betrothed. Cregan isn’t about to let it stop him. 

“Apparently, your mother or stepfather ordered the murder of a child.” Cregan lifts you slightly, aiding you make your way down to the floor. Standing on the snow, you look surprisingly small. 

“Ah.” You tilt your head to the side. You pat your dragon’s back, as if telling him to settle, and the great beast takes off. Your expression remains carefully blank. 

“And there is more. The High Septon has said that any man who doesn’t marry under the light of the Seven will be excomulgated, the marriage null.” Cregan adds. That had been the truly enraging news for his lords, who despised any southern trying to tell them what to do. 

At that, though, your demeanor changes. Your shoulders lower, as if protecting yourself, and you pull back. You remind him oddly of an animal caught in a hunter’s trap, ready to bite off its own leg to free himself. 

“Alicent.” You mutter, rattled. “They knew where I was headed. A spy?”

“Or common sense. I am close to your age and far enough that they would never get you. I suppose we will be very happy being heathens together.” Cregan offers you his arm, and you take it, laughing a little. You still seem fearful, but it is a start. 

“Daemon will love it.” You smile, as the both of you advance towards Winterfell.  “He married my mother in the Valyrian tradition.” 

“My lords are in an uproar. They intend to see the wedding through if only to spite those… cunts.” Cregan isn’t one to speak so crassly out loud, not to a lady he has just met, but he has an inkling that it might make you feel more at ease. 

He is right. You tilt your head back and let out a loud laugh, attracting the eyes of all of those in the courtyard. When happy, you light up, going from ordinary girl to extraordinary. Suddenly, Cregan sees it. You are as beautiful as a woman as you were as a young maiden. And it was this beauty, this presence that would rally the northerns behind you, not the beauty of your physical vessel. 

Men had loved King Viserys, because they had seen themselves in him. They, too, suffered from ailments, they too, had wives who never smiled and daughters that were the light of their lives. They felt his guilt, his fear, his hopes. They loved his beautiful daughter, the Realm’s Delight, and they loved his first granddaughter, the Winter Princess. 

“Then we marry soon.” You decide, and Cregan smiles. He knows he can make this work. Your myth would launch a thousand ships, and your charisma would keep the northerns strong in their oaths. 

“As my Princess commands.” 

YOU HAD A complicated relationship with desire. As a young girl, free from the confines of your reputation as the most beautiful woman in the realm, you had thought it to be something not quite real. Something that the writers of the novels you were not supposed to read because they were not age appropriate, made up to add spice to them. 

Desire, you thought to yourself, was something out of romance stories, and not something that happened in real life. Your early years had been spent looking at two people who loved each other, yet you never saw your mother and Ser Laenor exchange charged glances or anything more than friendly touches. 

Then, Lady Laena and Ser Harwin had died. And you had discovered that desire was a destructive force, that consumed everything it touched. Not in a good way. In the most terrible one. Taking away fathers and mothers who dared want things. Then, Ser Laenor had died, and Daemon was wed to your mother, confirming you that desire was an evil, terrible force. 

When you had flowered, you had forced yourself to avert your eyes from all the boys around you. You never dared look at any pages, nor to your uncles or any young lord, less that terrible feeling poisoned you from the inside out and led you into disgrace. 

Disgrace, Alicent said, was the circumstance of your birth. You did well by not imitating the promiscuous ways of your mother, and not bringing dishonor to your name. Perhaps your obsession with never, ever, having a lustful or dishonorable thought had been what had caught her attention and made her argue so vehemently in favor of betrothing you to Aemond. 

And yet, for all your avoidance, you could not beat nature forever. It was known that bastards were supposed to be treacherous, lustful creatures, and you weren’t foolish enough to believe your dark hair came from your non-existent Baratheon heritage.

The first time you had ever desired a man had been the day after your nameday feast. Most of the guests were too deep in their cups, or busy nursing the aftereffects of a night of revelry and indulgence, so you had decided it was the perfect time to go for a ride without anyone gawking at you. 

If there was something you despised, it was to be gawked at. And lately, it happened way too often. You no longer were a child, who was by that very fact protected from the poisonous whispers at court. Now, you were a Lady, and hence, fair game for all the snakes residing in the Red Keep. 

As you had been walking on the courtyard, you had seen him. Lord Stark. The kind boy who had danced with you when no one else would, and had turned what could have been a miserable night into one that had made you feel truly special. 

His back was turned to you. He held a heavy practice sword, much bigger than the one Jace used when training. He was clearly proficient with it, his form much more precise than your brother’s. His tunic clung to his upper body thanks to the sweat, and highlighted his muscles. 

Mesmerized, you stopped in your tracks, simply watching him run his drills. There was a strange feeling in your stomach, something warm and sirupy, that nestled there and set you alight, yet left you confused with how unfamiliar it was.

Then, he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow, exposing his defined stomach and the trail of dark hair that led down to his breeches, and you could finally put a name to it. Your cheeks began to heat up, your eyes widened. And you stood there, as if struck by lighting, as the terrible, evil feeling bloomed in your chest. Desire. 

You had not forgotten that memory. Not years after, when Aemond’s desire threatened your very life, and not right now, when you feel the eyes of Cregan’s lords on you, and hear them mutter about how they are about to find out soon enough why they called you the most beautiful woman in the realm. 

THE DAMN SONG begins playing after the main course is served, and Cregan can feel you freeze next to him. You have eaten little to nothing since your arrival, face set into a grim determination that reminds him too much of himself after learning of his uncle’s betrayal. But when The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown begins playing, your spoon freezes on its way to your mouth. 

His men are impatient. They had been told tales of your beauty ever since hearing of your betrothal to Cregan, the myth around you building and building with each desperate attempt made by the Kinslayer and his family to stop this very wedding. No man would go to such lengths for a woman unless he loved her madly. And why would a man love a woman such, if not for her otherworldly beauty?

When faced with the fact that you were comely enough, but common, they had decided there had to be something under all those clothes that had driven Prince Aemond to insanity. And they decided, apparently, to see for themselves. 

Had you not been so frightened, Cregan would have allowed it to go on. When he had married Arra, she had gleefully partaken in the bedding, even joining the group of women tearing at his clothes. Arra… The thought of his first night as a wedded couple made Cregan’s heart ache. He shook his head, attempting to clear it. 

There would be no such a thing happening tonight. For starters, the conditions of that night had been much different. Arra had been a northern woman, and had known most of those inside the hall her whole life. None would have dared disrespect her, and their interest had been vague, knowing she was to be the woman of their lord. 

You were a stranger, and the guests were a mob waiting to pounce on you, far too interested in divesting you of your clothes. Arra would have punched anyone who dared touch her inappropriately. Because she could. Her station was different from yours. A Princess wasn’t afforded the liberties a woman from the mountain clans was. 

As a foreigner, you didn’t have the respect from his lords that Arra had enjoyed. It didn't matter that your dowry was bigger than the one any other maiden could boast about, including a giant dragon sleeping just outside. Northerns distrusted outsiders, and you would have to earn their respect not by your prowess as a dragonrider, but as Lady of Winterfell. 

Cregan knew if he allowed them to grope you now, they would never respect you. And you would never forgive him, frightened out of your mind as you were. You needed to feel safe, after spending the last moon feeling everything but. 

He gets up from his seat, and raises a hand to silence the hall. His lords obey immediately, even the drunker ones. The minstrels take a bit longer, but they, too, fall into line. 

“The Princess is in mourning.” Cregan says, voice firm. “There will be no bedding tonight. My wife and I will retire to our shared chambers, and that will be all.” 

“But, my lord, the tradition…” 

“Such tradition was born in the South. And we are not southrons.” Cregan glares at the man that dared speak. “We did not wed under their Faith, nor do their laws hold any sway here. I will not let them dictate what I do between the sheets either.” 

And at that, there is some laughter and cheers. Cregan smiles to himself. Trust the northern pride to get him out of difficult situations. 

He sits back down, and gestures for the music to resume, and for everyone to go back to eating. The musicians start again, with a much more appropriate rendition of The Winter Maid. 

You look at him, dark eyes wide. 

“Thank you.” You whisper to him, voice pitched low. 

“There is no need to thank me. We do not frighten women here in the North.” A flash of pain crosses your face, perhaps thinking of the pain you have endured thanks to this blasted war. Carefully, giving you ample time to move away, he places his hand on top of yours. “No one will hurt you under my roof. No one. Much less me.” 

You bow your head, half shy, half coy. When your gaze lifts to meet his, Cregan is struck once more by how beautiful you look when you smile. 

When the time comes for both of you to retire, Cregan tucks you firmly by his side, an arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders. He keeps his steps hurried, avoiding the lords who have had too much to drink and glaring at the ones who are sober. He manages to reach his chambers without anyone attempting to grope you, though the cheers and vulgar remarks cannot be avoided. 

Once inside, you let out a loud sigh, shoulders loosening, before you take one look at the bed and freeze again.  

“I won’t take what isn’t freely given.” Cregan tells you, sitting down on it to take his boots off. “I have no need of it. I have my heir.” 

“I… I want to.” You whisper, softly. Your face grows a deep, dark red. “But I can’t. Not tonight.” 

And Cregan smiles at you.

“Not tonight.” He agrees, easily. Only fools live of hope, he thinks, but most men turn into fools when in your presence. He can forgive himself for it. “But someday.” 

You blow the candle on your bedside, and Cregan does the same in his. In the absolute darkness of his chambers, he can hear the soft rustle of clothes as you undress, taking off the cloak he had wrapped you in and the wedding gown. As he works on taking off his tunic, he imagines how lovely you must look, flushed and shy as you remove your clothing, baring your soft skin to the night’s air. 

The thought of getting into bed with you, half naked, makes his groin throb. He has to think of many unpleasant things to calm himself, as he lies down on the bed. The mattress dips, suddenly, and Cregan can hear your letting out a nervous sigh. 

You begin struggling to find a comfortable position to lay on the bed, trying to touch him as little as you can. Occasionally, Cregan can feel the brush of a foot or an elbow. The bed is not so big, after all. 

Yet, he remains laying still and silent for what feels like an eternity. Only when you settle, miles away from him, the sounds of merriment still coming from outside the chamber, does Cregan reach out. 

“Wife.” He whispers, as one might whisper a prayer. 

And your reply by reaching out a hand to touch his, a bit slick from your nerves, but soft and smooth in his calloused ones. 

“Husband.” There is such want in your tone, that Cregan wonders who taught you to make yourself small, so others could feel big. Who taught you to hide who you were, what you yearned for. He wishes he could go meet them and punch them right on the mouth. 

No one would ever dare utter an unkind word to you here. Cregan would make sure of it. 

“It isn’t wrong to want.” He tells you, as he gathers you in his arms. You tense at first, but come morning, you are cuddling him back. 

“A LETTER HAS arrived.” The Maester announces, his face grave. Your stomach twists. For a second, you are back in Dragonstone, dining with your mother and Daemon. Opening the letter that will tell you of Luke’s death in the worst possible manner. 

It makes you sick. Sick enough that nausea blooms and you are forced to rush out of the hall and end up throwing up on an empty flowerpot. As you retch, you can hear footsteps after you. The Maester and Cregan, no doubt, have followed you outside after your hurried exit. 

You feel a vague embarrassment over being seen in such a way, but it is quickly tempered by the relief of feeling a cold hand bracing your forehead and another holding your hair back. Cregan. You would weep with relief, were it not the fact you are too busy emptying your stomach. 

When you finally cease your retching, Cregan hands you a handkerchief to wipe your mouth, polite as always. 

“Are you alright?” He asks you, and when you nod, shakily, he takes your arm and turns towards the Maester.. “Come, join us. You can tell us of the letter while we take a walk through the gardens.”

You allow Cregan to steer you towards the exit. Perhaps he is right, and the cold air might do you good. Soothe your nerves. Besides, staying in the hall was only reminding you of that terrible night. A different setting might make it easier to bear. 

The Maester looks startled. Spooked. It only confirms the acid brewing in your stomach that these are bad news. The bile threatens to overwhelm you and makes you gag again. You cover your mouth with your hand. 

“If the Princess is pregnant, it would be best if she didn’t…” The Maester starts, yet he is sharply interrupted by Cregan. 

“She isn’t. Now read the letter.” Both of you turn to stare at him, at the fury in his expression, so out of character for your husband. He has never been one for such displays of temper, his anger much colder and harder to provoke than with simple words. 

You know you are not pregnant. Here is a secret: To this date, Cregan and you have yet to consummate your marriage. Not for a lack of desire on his part, or even in yours, but thanks to how fearful you are of your own wants. Cregan has been endlessly patient with you, never once pressuring you, and slowly, you had been conquering your fears. 

Now, the two of you could kiss for hours, with clumsy devotion full of promises that couldn’t yet be fulfilled. No longer did you tremble out of inherited superstitions that told you that loving each other would be courting misfortune. Instead, you shook from desire and pleasure, from each of his attempts to approach you, hands searching and retreating like waves. Slowly, each of your anxieties was being replaced with unashamed wantonness, and each of your fears with soft caresses only Cregan could give you. 

He often told you there was no hurry, that the two of you could love each other at the pace you needed. With one heir already, Cregan had the luxury of waiting. And he was such an honest man, each time he reassured you that he wasn’t mad at you and wished to only make you happy, you believed him. 

Hence, he couldn’t be angry at what he perceived to be a dig at his manhood or his inability to bed you. What bothered him was something else.

“I am not pregnant, Maester.” You say, squeezing Cregan’s arm to comfort him. “Just, the last time I heard those words…” 

“It is something similar, I am afraid.” The Maester offers the letter to you, and you grasp it. The first thing you notice is that it is addressed to you and not Cregan. The second is that you know this handwriting. 

My dearest Princess, 

It is with great concern I read of your union to that savage. But fear not. If you come South, and your mother surrenders, I shall forgive your transgression. To avoid sullying your reputation any further, I encourage you to not dare consummate it. Your marriage is not a marriage in truth, you have been deceived. The Faith of the Seven doesn’t recognize such a thing. I shall free you and restore your honor, wedding you under the true light of the gods. 

If the brute that is holding you doesn’t let you go, I, Prince Aemond Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, rider to Vhagar….

“What a cunt.” Cregan says, reading over your shoulder the numerous threats made to his person. “I dare him to try.” 

It startles a laugh out of you, even if a few tears run down your cheeks. 

“Promise me to not go South?” 

“My men shall march, but not I. Not without you.” Cregan whispers, brushing your tears away with his thumb. “I am not foolish enough to believe myself able to face Vhagar without a dragon by my side.” 

“Good.” You smile at him. Suddenly, everything doesn’t seem as bad. You trust his ability to keep you safe, to keep his oaths. And it makes something delicate and warm fill your chest. 

It doesn’t make you forget about his fit of temper, though. You ruminate on it all day, as you go through your tasks. When night comes and Cregan kisses you with more desperation than usual, you have your answer. 

“I do not want to lose you.” He whispers, holding you tight against him as if you were about to turn into melted snow and slip between his fingers at any time. “I want you to stay here. Forever.” 

You hug him back, tightly. It hadn’t been about masculinity, or a perceived slight. His first wife, Arra, had died in childbirth. 

“I am not going anywhere.” You tell him. “Aemond will not get me, nor will childbirth. My mother has given birth seven times, six of them without any danger.” 

“We don’t need more children.” Cregan grumbles, sounding like a whining child. You look up at him, splayed over his chest as you are, and smile. 

“No, we don’t.” You agree. Once, you had thought you needed to have his child to secure a place at his side, but no longer do. Perhaps it would be good to have one in case Cregan dies, to ensure you do not get sent back south, yet you do not intend that to happen. You will protect him until your death. 

Any man trying to kill him will find himself face to face with Verminthor. He has grown lazy here, the exercise might even do him good. 

“You needn’t worry, husband.” You say, as you begin to kiss a path down his neck. “There is always moontea.” 

And Cregan laughs, and it is the loveliest sound you have ever heard. 

“TODAY’S LESSON…” The Septa braces herself, trying not to cry out at the sudden turn of the wheelhouse. Northern roads are like that, she will soon learn. Unfortunately, Arya thinks, she has yet to give up on educating them. 

Arya hopes it happens soon. She is much more interested in playing with Needle, rather than listening to her prattle about proper behavior and ancient history. 

“I know that story!” Sansa interrupts the Septa, excitedly. It makes Arya pay attention again because Sansa never interrupts their Septa. “It’s so romantic! The dance of the dragon started because they were fighting over her. The Winter Princess. The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, betrothed to Prince Aemond by her evil relatives when everyone knew her true love was Lord Cregan!” 

“That’s not how…” The Septa starts, and for what has to be the first time in her life, Arya agrees with her. 

“Father!” Arya shrieks. “Tell her that is not how it happened.” 

Her father doesn’t answer. It is a rare day in which he chooses to ride in the wheelhouse, and by the look on his face, he seems to be regretting it. 

“All the songs say so!” 

“That it started because of her?” Arya says, in an acid tone. She blows a raspberry in Sansa’s direction, loud and disrespectful. “You are a fool. I think her mother was more worried about the fact Aemond had murdered her son. And that the Greens were usurping her.” 

“If she had married Prince Aemond, there would have been no Dance of the Dragons.” Sansa corrects, smugly. “They say Aunt Lyanna was her very image.” 

“Nonsense! My aunt was a Stark, the Winter Princess a Targaryen.” Arya contradicts. “Besides, if I had a dragon, I wouldn’t want to marry some boorish prince either.” 

“But Aunt Lyanna must have been the most beautiful woman in Westeros too.” Sansa protests, looking very upset by Arya’s words.

Her father flinches. 

“Enough. I do not want to hear another word about the Winter Princess or dragons, or Cregan Stark.” 

“But father, Lord Cregan and her were the most influential….” 

“I said enough, Sansa!” 

The wheelhouse falls silent after that. Even the Septa shuts up. Arya looks at the scenery pass her by and thinks it’s lovely to be right. She sends a few superior glances to Sansa, less she forgets it. 

[pureomi]

˚୨୧⋆｡🪼˚ house of cards - michael kaiser

includes: michael kaiser x fem! reader. 1k wc.

themes - SUGGESTIVE! forced arranged marriage trope. drabble takes place right before their official engagement. mentions of glass shards (literally in the first sentence). toxic dynamics, family influence, power control, manipulation (its kaiser lmao).

the harsh sound of glass shattering tears through the air and echoes within the trapped walls of your bedroom. your hands tremble, hanging at your sides from the force of the throw, as you watch the vase—an intricate, one-of-a-kind piece adorned with red roses—hit the floor and crumble into a thousand jagged pieces. the once full-bloomed flowers now appear as a bunch of individual thorns and petals.

it had been a handcrafted, impossibly expensive gift chosen by michael kaiser himself to impress your family. a showpiece, much like tonight’s engagement party, and you had chucked it across the room without hesitation—at him.

kaiser stands between you and the wreckage, his presence suffocating yet intoxicatingly magnetic. he doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. he just watches. he doesn’t seem shocked—he never is—but the faint curl of his lip betrays something darker, a flicker of amusement that makes your chest tighten.

“did that help you calm down?”

kaiser’s voice is smooth, unbothered, almost entertained. his eyes flick lazily over the shards of sugar-like fibers before returning to you, unreadable. then, with a slight tilt of his head, he adds, “or are you expecting me to do something about that attitude?”

your fists clench. heat rushes through you and reaches all the way to your ears, pulsing with fury. “how dare you come in here?”

he scoffs, mocking, as he takes his steps forward till he is at arm’s distance. yet when he speaks again, his voice is sickeningly sweet, a carefully crafted melody dripping with false warmth. “how dare i come greet my soon to be fiancé?” he pauses, as if savoring the title, his lips curving into something that isn’t quite a smile. “is that your question?”

your teeth clench, not just from the words but from the way he moves nearer, his presence shifting the air between you. the crunch of glass under his dress shoes; it’s as though he's crossing an invisible line, one you never agreed to. he knows no limits to pursuing his power.

he’s already too close, too steady, and you hate how your body reacts before your mind can catch up. goosebumps trail your arms, but not from fear.

as a reminder of your defiance, your gaze transitions to the shattered vase on the floor—the one your father had beamed over, proud as kaiser handed it to you at dinner. he’d called it a symbol of unity, expecting you to take his hand in marriage, to let him press a lingering kiss against your knuckles as though it meant something more than just a gesture. and when you did, the way kaiser’s eyes had darkened, that slow, satisfied smirk spreading across his lips—he knew. just from that, he knew how far you were willing to go to appease the family you claimed to despise. thinking about it now, your chest tightens, the memory of it burning through you.

“you’re shameless,” you seethe, willing the tremor in your voice to disappear. “haven’t we pretended enough?”

his eyes glint with something unreadable as he leans down to your height, just enough that his breath grazes your cheek. his hand then shoots out, placing itself on the surface of a table behind you, effectively cornering you. you hate the way your body betrays you, the way your skin tingles in anticipation despite the disgust twisting in your gut. he hasn’t even touched you yet, but the weight of his presence alone makes you tense, makes your fingers curl at your sides.

“so what?” his voice drops lower, teasing, taunting. “did you finally decide to put this to a stop?”

the question lingers, thick in the space between you. his free hand lifts slowly before his fingertips graze your cheek, featherlight, tracing along your skin as if testing a boundary he already knows you’ll break.

“how impressive,” he mocks.

your breath catches, but you don’t move away. you should. you should shove him, slap his hand away, spit venom at him. but instead, you freeze, your eyes fluttering for the briefest second as your body betrays you again. the warmth of his fingers, the deliberate slowness of his touch—it ignites a part inside you that nobody else can.

waiting for your mind to catch up, you manage to utter, to ‘firmly’ declare—“i don’t care, i’m not going.”

you lift a hand to swat him away. but before you can, he moves faster. his fingers tighten around your jaw in a firm, unyielding grip, tilting your chin up as he forces you to meet his gaze. his grip isn't harsh enough to hurt—yet—but it’s commanding. it’s possessive.

your lips part involuntarily as your breathing stutters. his eyes that glare at you, dark and sharp, finally reveal something other than amusement. the crack of his patience. the loss of his composure.

“i don’t give a shit what my joke of a father wants,” he murmurs, his tone now edged with something harsher, something real. his fingers press into the soft skin of your cheeks, forcing your lips together to a mewl as he inches closer. “but you do, don’t you?”

the words drip like a taunt, threading through the tension-laced air. you hate that he’s right. hate that he can see through you so effortlessly.

“i’m doing you a favour.”

his grip loosens just as his hand begins its slow descent, trailing down the side of your face, over your throat, until his fingertips graze your collarbone. the warmth of his touch spreads over your skin, leaving fire in its wake, and you despise how you lean into it.

his long fingers hook onto the thin strap of your lace camisole, dragging it off your shoulder at an agonizing pace. the cool air against your newly exposed skin sends a shiver down your spine. you swallow hard, refusing to look at him, refusing to acknowledge the heat pooling low in your stomach.

then, he leans in. his lips brush against your bare shoulder first, barely there, ghosting over your skin like a whisper. they move slowly, unhurried, dragging up the delicate curve of your neck. his cold nose follows close behind, brushing against your skin in contrast to the warmth of his lips, making you quiver as the chill of his touch lingers.

when he reaches your ear, his breath is warm and teasing, almost making you work to hear what he has to say because you can barely focus.

“the least you can do,” he murmurs, voice silk-soft against your skin but tainted with command, “is be a good girl…and get dressed without wasting more time.”

without any more words, kaiser releases his grip, straightening himself to his full height. he turns and begins to walk towards the door. the crunch of shattered glass underfoot is the only sound that brings you back to reality, as though he’s walking away from something broken, something already forgotten.

but you do as he says. you listen.

because he’s doing you a favour, after all.

a/n: ngl this is not proofread oops. me and nishi keep talking about how this man cannot be fixed and yet here we are...one toxic kaiser drabble after another... :D

[cherrybomb107]

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: forgiveness, or the way it’s often presented, is harmful. That’s one more gripe I have with season two. The way it frames “forgiveness”(the idea that you are obligated to forgive someone lest you be “just as bad as they are” is problematic.)

Because for one, having Jinx apologize for killing Caitlyn’s mom and vow to stop the “cycle of violence” doesn’t make any sense. One, that’s just not something Jinx would ever say. Two, the idea that Jinx killing some Councilors is anywhere near the same thing as Caitlyn becoming a dictator is laughable at best, and insulting to my intelligence at worst. Three, Caitlyn never apologizes or faces any meaningful consequences for her actions! Losing an eye was nothing! She should’ve lost a hand at least and we should’ve seen her reflect on her actions and pledge to do better for Zaun!!! Not just fuck off and ride off into the sunset after everything she did! And lastly, the “cycle of violence” literally isn’t a cycle, it’s just one city oppressing the other for centuries and the other city deciding to fight back! This “cycle” doesn’t begin and end with Jinx and her attack on the Council, so framing it like Jinx is the one who has to take sole responsibility for fixing everything is nonsense.

“But Arcane was never about heroes and villains, everything is morally gray!” You sound dumb. This is obviously a story with overt themes of oppression and revolution. I’m not here to critique morality, I’m here to critique its framing. Why are certain characters “justified” in their heinous actions but others don’t get that luxury? That’s what I’m talking about. Moving on, the problem with “forgiveness” implies that it’s necessary, and the way people conflate forgiveness with letting someone have access to you after everything they did is the problem. You don’t have to forgive someone if you don’t want to. That doesn’t make you “bitter” nor does it mean you’re “holding a grudge”. There is a difference between forgiving someone and just removing yourself from the situation and becoming detached, imo. That’s what should’ve been done with Caitlyn and Jinx. No one in Zaun should’ve been shown dying for their oppressors because “teamwork” nor should Sevika have been shoved on the Council to push this idea of “unity”. Why would Sevika, a Zaunite who has never had and never will have any love for Piltover, be forced to cozy up with the Council? Why is the onus on her, as an oppressed person, to make nice with her oppressors? Why does the institution of Piltover, and people like Caitlyn who uphold that institution and wreak havoc on the underclass of Zaun, never have to answer for their crimes?

Answer: Because they(the writers) want to convince us that Jinx and Caitlyn, and by extension, Piltover and Zaun are “just as bad” as each other, and that both sides need to work together to heal. Only problem with that is, the Piltover/Zaun conflict was not presented that way in season one. I’m sure the writers want us to think it’s one city vs another, when that’s not the case at all. In reality, it’s one city OVER the other, and now they’re trying to convince us “both sides are bad”. While it’s true that there ARE problems on both sides, the problems in Zaun literally wouldn’t be problems if Piltover wasn’t an oppressive institution. Why were the chem barons able to amass power? Because the systems Piltover set up left Zaun behind and allowed power hungry people like Finn, Margo, Chross, and Smeech seize their opportunities for control. Why is there so much crime in Zaun? Again, because of Piltover. The class disparity that Piltover set up means the economic divide between the two cities is a chasm that grows wider and wider every day. People are forced to steal to eat. They join gangs out of necessity, not because they have to. Why did Jinx kill all those enforcers?

That shouldn’t be the question. The real question is: Why does “Jinx”(as in, the persona Powder adopted to feel strong) even exist? Answer, once again, because of Piltover! Jinx is an oppressed person with severe mental health and self esteem issues that have been exacerbated as a result of the crooked system of Piltover. She saw her parents get killed by enforcers(militarized police force that carries out the will of the powers that be and is responsible for harassing, brutalizing, and over policing Zaun) right in front of her before she was even in the double digits. She was then adopted by Vander, but she had to struggle her whole life. Zaun doesn’t even have air to BREATHE unless Piltover decides they deserve it. And thanks to Caitlyn, we get to see how even THAT gets weaponized when Zaun steps out of line. So if they don’t have access to clean air, it’s safe to say that they also don’t have access to the same quality food, water, shelter, clothing, economic, educational, or medical services that Piltovans do, just by virtue of living in Zaun. So you take a severely mentally ill little girl, systematically oppress her, and then clutch your pearls when she becomes violent and lashes out? Label her a “psycho” and a “monster” for killing cops, gang members, and politicians while Caitlyn gets a happily ever after after everything she did? I thought “both sides” were “just as bad”. So why is Jinx the only one who meaningfully suffers? Why does Zaun as a whole always have to pay the price?

Lack of commitment. “Terrorist” is a loaded word that’s been weaponized against marginalized people for ages now. It’s another one to add to the list: angry, crazy, mad, belligerent, monster, savage, animal, etc. All these dehumanizing words are leveled at folks who get tired of taking shit lying down. I’ve never thought that Jinx was a “monster” for killing cops, Councilors, or politicians. Never will. But the show clearly WANTS me to, as well as simultaneously wanting to see Caitlyn’s actions a certain way. I’ve already made a post about why comparing or trying to equalize Caitlyn’s actions and Jinx’s actions is disingenuous and intellectually dishonest imo. Think of it like a bully vs bullied type of thing. There’s this kid and his asshole friends who gets to bully you for weeks, months, or even years and face no repercussions. Then, one day you get fed up, and start fighting back. Whether that be with words, feet, fists, or what have you. If you go down, you go down swinging. When the dust settles, BOTH of y’all are getting disciplined(detention, suspended, expelled, not allowed to go on trips, etc) for “fighting”. And there’s a very good chance one of you will be punished much more harshly than the other. Even though you started fighting back. BACK being the operative word. Every single time this kid pushed, hit, kicked, punched, started rumors about, and isolated you, nothing was done. The one time you start fighting BACK, both of y’all get in trouble because the school has a “zero tolerance policy”.

But you know that’s not true. It can’t be. You’ve been telling the teachers, guidance counselors, and vice principal about what’s been going on. But nothing was done about it. Or if it was, you were the one who was told to move seats. Or switch to a different classroom. Or just ignore them. Or “maybe they’re lashing out cause they have problems going on at home.” It was nothing but excuses when you were getting pushed around. Now when you fight back it’s a problem. Now take that metaphor and apply it to Caitlyn and Jinx. Caitlyn is like that fat rich asshole with parents on the PTA who make hefty donations to the school. Jinx is like the scrawny little nobody who has no one to stick up for them. Piltover is the school system. Caitlyn’s privilege isolated her from any meaningful consequences, while Jinx’s lack of privilege guaranteed she’d face hefty consequences, much more than Caitlyn ever would.

Jinx has lost: her birth parents as a result of state sanctioned violence, her adoptive brothers, her sister, her best friend, her adoptive father, Silco, her sister again, her adoptive father again, her new friend, her sense of self, her life(possibly) and she has to deal with being an oppressed person who struggles with mental health issues on top of all that. Caitlyn has lost: her mother, and her eye. That’s it. She’s never forced to give anything up. She never had to reckon with the reality of what it means to be not just a Piltie, but a Kiramman, and a dictator on top of that. We never see her be genuinely remorseful about her horrible actions in Zaun. Nor does she try to apologize to the people in Zaun or meaningfully make amends. No, Caitlyn gets to live in that big shiny house of hers with her father and girlfriend and the months she spent co-signing martial law will never be addressed. To bring it back to the bully vs bullied comparison, this means that Jinx would have been expelled for fighting back, while Caitlyn gets ISS(in school suspension). “Both sides are bad” yeah well you clearly believe one side is worse! And it’s not the correct one!

Piltover is an oppressive, classist, ableist, and brutal institution. Caitlyn was the head of this institution for months after she experienced a fraction of what Zaunites have experienced for centuries. At the end of the day, Caitlyn’s actions were brushed aside and she got her happy ending, though it wasn’t deserved whatsoever. Meanwhile Jinx, Sevika, Ekko, Isha, countless other Zaunites, and Zaun as a whole did nothing but suffer their whole lives and now they have nothing to show for it. “Both sides are bad” but the bad that the institution is responsible for is never called out, while the bad that the oppressed people did is blown out of proportion and they are severely punished for it.

And yes, I know I’m talking about a mainstream television show with white/non black people in the writers room. I knew I was never gonna get the pro revolution story I wanted to see, and I’ve made peace with that. But, if they wanted to have a “both sides” narrative so bad, then they should’ve stuck with it. BOTH SIDES should have equally suffered and had to reckon with their wrongdoings. The responsibility for doing so shouldn’t have solely been on the shoulders of the minority group. THAT’S the crux of the issue. I was always gonna think “forgiveness” was the coward’s way out. But they never show Piltover apologizing. Only Zaun does, and that’s not right.

[l0stglitch]

Platonic Yandere Hargreeves x Reader

Notes- This is more of an introduction to an au I’ve created rather than an actual fic. It’s pretty Klaus + Ben centred at the moment but I will write about the others in future fics.

Warnings- Substance abuse | Bad parenting | Depression | Suicide

Pre season 1

• They weren’t always obsessed with you. As children, you and your siblings had relatively normal relationships. Well, if you ignored the uncomfortable flirting between One and Three, or the estrangement of Seven.

• It wasn’t until Five’s disappearance that the family dynamics started shifting.

• The unity from before had been fractured, and the fragile illusion of a family gone.

• From there, things only worsened.

• You had always been closest to Klaus. It was only natural- you both found joy in bending the rules, and your powers proved to be quite useful when the two of you were up to no good.

• You could see the future. Unfortunately, not on demand. You could see your opponent’s next moves in a fight, or your father coming upstairs and catching you and Klaus in his study minutes before he appeared, but large-scale events far into the future were much more complicated.

• You’d see the distant future in dreams. Cryptic visions that made little sense until the morbid events finally happened. You had woken up screaming many times, forced to watch your siblings suffer gruesome injuries in missions yet to happen.

• Sometimes your father would make you meditate. Sit for hours at a time trying to trigger another vision. Occasionally it worked. Most of the time though, you saw nothing.

• The others had never blamed you for not stopping Five. You hadn’t seen the jump until he stood up and announced his decision. By then it was too late to stop him. Your brother had always been stubborn- you knew you didn’t stand a chance at changing his mind.

• You and Klaus grew closer after that- your childish rule breaking became more reckless. Nights were spent sneaking out and stealing. Getting high and drinking dangerous amounts of alcohol became a shameful hobby of yours.

• Everyone knew, but they were all too caught up in their own grief to worry about what the two of you were doing.

• Things seemed to be slowly improving, until tragedy struck again in 2006.

• This time though, things were different. Ben’s death was raw and painful, not just for him, but for everyone involved. Five may have chosen to disappear, but Six certainly didn’t choose to die.

• You had dreamt of that strange girl for months before the mission, but never told your siblings about her. Perhaps if you had seen Ben being killed moments after you would have said something, but that vision only came after he opened the container. Yet again, you were too late.

• The funeral was cold. Usually you would’ve loved the snow, but seeing it today filled you with an icy bitterness. It was as if the sky itself was mocking you, tainting your favourite weather with the devastating reality of your brother’s death.

• Reginald had placed the blame on all of you, but you knew your siblings didn’t see it that way. Luther, Diego and Allison developed a frosty attitude towards you, and Viktor… well he’d never really spoken to you much anyways.

• Only Klaus stayed with you through it all. Well, and Ben apparently. You couldn’t see your deceased brother, but Klaus supposedly could. Unfortunately, as the two of you fell deeper into your drug use, it became harder to tell whether he was talking to Ben or just hallucinating.

• Either way, he never told any of the others he could speak to Ben’s ghost, so neither did you.

• The two of you became inseparable. You decided that you didn’t need the others anymore. Luther, Diego and Allison still took their roles as superheroes with grave seriousness, clinging onto that one constant in their ruined lives.

• You had come to the conclusion that you were no use to the team, despite Klaus’s best efforts to convince you otherwise. The visions never stopped, much to your dismay, and you didn’t know what you could do to alter the future. After all, what was the point in knowing what will happen if there was nothing you could do to stop it?

• Every night you dreamt the same thing. A funeral. Not snowy, like Ben’s, but instead with a dreary overcast sky and a blanket of wet, coppery leaves scattered across the ground.

• Five teenagers standing around a grave, their identities masked by the sleek curves of their black umbrellas.

• If only you could see the number carved into the gravestone.

• You woke up in a cold sweat without fail every morning. Klaus didn’t mind you coming into his room at 2am looking for comfort. He’d shift over in his bed to make space for you, bearing a patient smile despite the sleep that still nestled fresh in the corner of his eyes.

• You never told him what you saw, so he never asked.

• As weeks turned into months, your mental health only began deteriorating more and more.

• You hit your breaking point one afternoon during a heated encounter with Luther. He’d made a snide comment about your powers, vaguely alluding to you being the reason Ben had died.

• Your day had already been hard enough, so having to deal with shit from Luther sent you over the edge.

• It wasn’t like you to start a fight. You and Klaus tended to stay pretty neutral whenever an argument sprung up between the others. Perhaps that was why it came as such a shock to everyone when you punched your brother in the face with enough force to send shockwaves of pain through your knuckles.

• Luther only needed seconds to recover before retaliating.

• You managed to dodge his first few punches, using your powers to predict his moves. Unfortunately, you weren’t fast enough to avoid them all, and after being met with a fist to your stomach, it suddenly because all too easy for your brother to strike you.

• You could do nothing but feebly cry out for help as he released his anger out on you. In a sickening way it felt right- like this was supposed to happen.

• Luther deserved to release his buried grief, and you deserved to receive it. At least, that’s what you told yourself after as you lay silently on your bed, staring up at ceiling through the fuzzy darkness of the night.

• The others noticed how quiet you became. You hardly ate at mealtimes, and spent all your free time alone in your room, ignoring Klaus’s pleas for you to open up to him.

• Pogo and Grace could only watch as you retreated further and further into yourself, until you stopped joining missions altogether.

• Of course, Reginald was less than pleased by this. He sternly told you how much of a failure you were, but other than that, there was little else he could do.

• Yes, they could’ve forcefully dragged you along with them, but even then, there was no way of making you fight. If anything, you’d just be putting yourself and your siblings at risk.

• So they decided to watch passively as you withered away from the inside out, becoming a hollow shell of a person.

• Ironically, it wasn’t until you died that things eventually began to improve.

• Klaus found you in the bathroom at exactly 02:56 on a Tuesday morning. The half empty bottle of pills that rested in the palm of your cold hand told him all he needed to know.

• You had killed yourself- or at least tried to. He could still feel the soft beating of your heart under the frail skin of your neck.

• Klaus held you with an almost childish desperation, his screams for help piercing through the grave silence of the night.

• It was only seconds later that the rest of your siblings came scrambling into the bathroom.

• Diego was the first to act- shoving his way over to Klaus and pulling your delicate frame out of his brother’s trembling grip. The others watched in horrified silence as he began to perform CPR.

• Time seemed to slow down as they waited for Reginald to come. Alison had ran to wake him after seeing your condition, so now all they could do was wait. The only sounds that could be heard were Diego’s laboured breathing and Klaus’s chocked sobs.

• After what felt like hours, your father finally came to the bathroom. He said nothing to the others, silently scooping you up and carrying you down the dark hallway.

• That was the last time they saw you.

• Two days later your father announced your death to the rest of your siblings, and a funeral was held.

• It was a rainy day towards the end of November- just as you had predicted. All five of your remaining siblings stood around your grave; protected from the rain by their glossy, black umbrellas.

• Life continued on at the umbrella academy. Your suicide marked the last of the tragedies, although no one ever truly recovered from the harrowing losses.

• It was only a matter of time until the academy officially disbanded. Despite your and Ben’s best efforts, Klaus’s dependence on drugs only worsened as he aged. It was hard watching your best friend struggle through life, ignoring your pleas for him to try and get some help.

• Becoming a ghost seemed to have some strange side effects. The first was the biting cold that came from within. No matter how warm the environment was around you, you could never warm yourself up. The second was even more perplexing. You didn’t age. You would’ve chalked it up to being a result of your death being when you were 16, but Ben wasn’t stuck as a teenager. He also wasn’t constantly shivering from the cold.

• Klaus jokingly suggested that it was because you were ‘young at heart’. You couldn’t disagree more. After Five’s disappearance, it felt as though all of your childish innocence had been stripped away from you. Not to say you weren’t content with your existence as a ghost, but sometimes you missed being able to interact with the world around you.

• Ben made it all bearable. He was your only source of human contact, so you found yourself becoming clingier than before. Physical touch had never really been your thing, but now it was all you thought about. Ben didn’t mind the constant affection you showed, as he was just as touch-starved as you were.

• The years went on, and the three of you trudged through Klaus’s messy life together.

• No matter how many times you begged him to reach out to the rest of the family, your brother never listened. It was as if being dead made you less credible in his eyes. Klaus didn’t want your advice, he just wanted your presence.

• You saw the others once, when Allison married Patrick. It was bittersweet seeing them as adults for the first time and wondering how different things could have been if you just hadn’t taken those fucking pills.

• The wedding was over far too soon. You had hoped that seeing each other again would bring the family closer, but it quickly became clear that none of them had any interest in entering back into each others lives.

• So you had to watch as Allison returned to her glamorous life as a celebrity whilst Klaus dragged you and Ben back to his grimy, drug filled motel room.

• You resented him for never trying to sort out his life, but there wasn’t anything you could say to him. Any mention of his wasted potential and Klaus was quick to remind you of how you had killed yourself. He didn’t mean to upset you, but it still stung. It stung far worse than the punches Luther had thrown at you after Ben died.

• It wasn’t until the shocking news of Reginald’s death that you could see them all again.

• Klaus was less than impressed by the thought of having to return to the mansion. It took a lot of convincing from you and Ben before he finally agreed to attend the funeral- even if only to shut you both up.

• After a particularly long taxi ride, the three of you finally reached your destination.

• Save for Viktor, you were the last to arrive. Klaus claimed it was his intention to be ‘fashionably late’, but you knew he wasn’t going to be fooling anyone.

• You found yourself in Reginald’s study, watching Klaus as he rummaged through your father’s possessions. Ben tried convincing him to just leave it, but his protests fell on deaf ears.

• “You just gotta loosen up a bit Benny-boo,” He’d replied breezily, “Me and Y/n used to pull all kinds of stunts like this when we were kids! You were always a good lookout, with your mind tricks and all that.” He’d added, motioning to where you were leant up against the wall, watching quietly.

• Ben just rolled his eyes playfully before shooting you a small smile, “Those were the good old days huh?”

• Klaus snorted, “What are you talking about? We’re still in the good old days. Us three- we’re like the three musketeers!”

• You just shrugged indifferently, “Yeah- if two of the musketeers were dead.”

• “God, what’s got you in such a sour mood? You’d think we were at a funeral or something- oh wait, we are!” He cracked up laughing, as if that was the funniest joke in the world. Perhaps it was to him- he was high as fuck.

• When Allison finally got round to checking Reginald’s study, you made no effort to warn Klaus as she crept up on him. As far as you were concerned, you owed your brother absolutely nothing. He was still refusing to tell the others of your and Ben’s presence, so it was safe to say you were more than a little pissed off at him.

• Watching him nearly jump out of his skin brought a small smile to your face, but it soon disappeared when the topic of conversation shifted to rehab. As per usual, your brother shamelessly lied about everything that had been going on and made no mention of you and Ben.

• The meeting with Allison was short lived, as Luther soon entered and ordered Klaus to leave. Of course, with Klaus being Klaus, he managed to steal a fancy looking box on the way out.

• “Do you even know what’s in that thing?” You huffed, traipsing behind him. Your brother brought the object up to his lips and gave it a theatrical kiss, “Nope!” He replied, popping the ‘P’ in an almost childish manner.

• You frowned, “So why bother stealing it? Surely you’ll get a decent amount of money from dad’s inheritance.”

• “Oh come on! Don’t start feeling sorry for that old man. He was a rotten piece of shit- we deserve this for all the pain he put us through.” Klaus almost sounded annoyed, as if he was offended by your consideration of Reginald.

• It surprised you a little how much your comment seemed to have ruffled him. “I hate him as much as you do. All I’m saying is that this stupid box might not even be worth the time- ‘specially if you’re just gonna blow all the cash on drugs again.”

• Klaus sighed dramatically, feigning upset, “Oh my dear number eight, I am offended that you would suggest that I would do something like that. Especially after what I told Allison!”

• You smiled in amusement, “Y’know, you could try and start afresh after this. Start renting out a cheap apartment. Live off dad’s money for a while whilst you look for a job- a real job. You don’t need to steal all his crap.”

•Klaus merely shrugged, “I could, but where’s the fun in that? And besides, I know if you were alive going through all the same shit as me you’d be the same.”

• You sighed, he had a good point. The two of you were birds of a feather. There was no doubt that if you hadn’t died, you would’ve ended up the same, if not worse than your brother.

• Ben cleared his throat, “We haven’t seen Diego or Viktor in years, why don’t we go talk to them instead of standing here arguing about Klaus’s kleptomania.”

• Klaus smiled, “Kleptomania, huh? That’s a big word.” You rolled your eyes, “Just ’cause you’re feeling antisocial, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be able to see our siblings.”

• Your brother turned around to face you and spread out his arms, as if offering you something, “By all means, go ahead and find them. Who am I to stop you?”

• You glared at him in silence until he finally cracked, “Alright, fine!” He groaned in exasperation, “Which one of our dear siblings did you want to speak to first?”

• The three of you ended up going to find Diego. You’d gained a soft spot for him after finding out he had been the first to try and resuscitate you the night you had died.

• The conversation between your two brothers was painful to watch. Klaus mostly ignored you and Ben, preferring to ramble about random shit that Diego clearly didn’t care about. You wanted to strangle him.

• Eventually (much to everyone’s relief) Allison came in to inform Diego and Klaus of the meeting going on in the living area. You couldn’t help but notice the way her brows seemed slightly furrowed, as if something was worrying her.

• Apart from Klaus, everyone was seated around the oak coffee table. You and Ben left him to pour himself a drink at the bar whilst Luther began the meeting. You found it slightly difficult to concentrate with the sound of glass clinking behind you, but thankfully Klaus quickly joined you, flippantly asking about refreshments. He shot you a grin as he spoke, clearly trying to lighten your mood.

• Luther looked puzzled, “What? No, there won’t be refreshments. And put that out, you know dad didn’t allow smoking in here.”

• Klaus ignored him and sat down on the couch next to Viktor. “Well the big guy’s still pretty uptight huh,” He commented, glancing over at the empty space you were occupying.

• Luther huffed, “Listen up. There’s still some important things we need to discuss, all right?”

• You frowned, not having a single clue as to what this meeting was about. Luckily Diego was wondering the same thing. “Like what?”

• Luther turned to him, “Like the way he died.”

• “I don’t understand. I thought they said it was a heart attack.” Viktor returned. You had almost forgotten he was there beside Klaus, remaining silent up until that point.

• “Yeah- according to the coroner.”

• “Well wouldn’t they know?”

• “Theoretically…” You audibly groaned at that, earning confused glances from Ben and Klaus.

• “He’s making this way more complicated than it needs to be.” You grumbled, “Klaus, please for the love of god tell Luther to stop turning everything into such a big deal.” Your brother shook his head as a clear ‘no’ before taking a pull from his cigarette.

• “Last time I spoke to dad he sounded strange.”

• Thankfully, you weren’t the only one who thought Luther was grasping at straws. Diego was quick to interject.

• “Luther, he was a paranoid, bitter old man who was starting to lose what was left of his marbles.”

• Luther immediately shook his head, “No, he must have known something was going to happen. He’s been hiding something from us.”

• “That’s not exactly breaking news,” Diego interrupted with a not-so-subtle eye roll.

• You could tell Luther was getting irritated by this point. It put you on edge. Conflict always made you nervous, especially when Luther was involved. “Me and Allison found blueprints for a human sized freezer underneath the basement. We tried taking the elevator down but that level needs a key to access.”

• Klaus suddenly perked up, “I don’t know if this is related, but I did find a key in dad’s desk earlier.” He shrugged, “Didn’t look all that important though so I didn’t say anything.”

• You frowned, he hadn’t told you or Ben.

• From the other side of the table, Allison took a step closer. “Klaus, we need that key. There might be something inside that freezer.”

• Your brother nodded, fishing around in his pockets, “Yeah, yeah of course. Just give me a second..” He yanked his hand out, brandishing a remarkably ordinary looking key. “Ah ha! There it is. You think this is the right one?” Luther took the key from him and studied it for a moment, “Well there’s only one way to find out.”

• Within mere seconds, all of your siblings had deserted their positions in the living room and were making their way to the elevator.

• It was a little cramped inside, even with you and Ben not taking up any space. You found that your spirit was half phasing through some of your siblings, as they left no gaps big enough for you occupy.

• Luther was the one to put the key into the hole, slowly twisting it as the others watched in anticipation. The light on the keypad flashed green, before the whole box shuddered and began slowly descending.

• It took a while for you to reach the level, and with no one speaking, the seconds seemed to drag on even longer. When the elevator doors finally slid open, no one moved.

• The space before you seemed to be a corridor, stretching ahead before ending with a heavy looking iron door. Diego was first to step out, leading the others to the end of the space. He rested a hand on the handle and turned around for confirmation.

• “Are you sure we wanna know what’s in there?” He murmured, suddenly feeling apprehensive about entering.

• “It’s too late to turn back now. We need to know what’s in that room, Diego,” Allison replied firmly, taking a step closer. He nodded with a sigh and pushed open the door. You hesitated, allowing your siblings to enter before you.

• In the centre of the room there was a large, grey cylinder next to a table holding a computer. Diego peered down at it, “I’m guessing this controls it.”

• Viktor ran a hand along the side, “Guys, there’s a button here. I think it might unlock the machine.”

• Ben’s hand came down to rest on your shoulder, making you flinch at the unexpected contact. “You ok? You haven’t said much,” He asked, voice laced with concern. You just shrugged and replied, “There’s nothing for me to say that hasn’t already been said by someone else.”

• “You think we’ll find a body in there?” He asked quietly. You laughed dryly, “What, you think Reginald killed someone and hid their body in a fancy freezer?” Ben didn’t share your amusement, “It’s clearly some kind of cryogenic freezer. What else would he have been using it for?”

• “I guess we’re about to find out.” You replied, watching as Luther helped Viktor open the heavy metal door.

• Icy cold steam came gushing out, momentarily concealing the shape that lay within. You took a cautious step closer, trying to get a clearer view of it. There was definitely some kind of body in there- and a small one at that.

• You turned to Ben, “Holy shit. If that’s some dead kid I might puke.” Your brother rolled his eyes in turn, and opened his mouth to reply, but the words seemed to catch in his throat.

• “Y/n?” Your head whipped around at the sound of your name. It had been years since you had heard anyone other than Ben or Klaus mention you, so hearing Viktor’s voice caught you off guard.

• He wasn’t looking at you though. You followed the direction of Viktor’s gaze down to the freezer and inhaled sharply at the sight. It was you. The same child who had died in 2006, lying there perfectly preserved. Your skin was unusually pale- almost dull, but not entirely corpse-like.

• Diego cautiously put his hand on your shoulder, and you noticed a faint warmth in the same spot on your spirit. “Is she alive?”

• Klaus took a protective step closer to your body and shook his head. “No guys, she’s dead. She-” He hesitated, locking eyes with you before turning back to Diego, “I know she’s dead, alright. If she were alive, she wouldn’t still look sixteen. Diego ignored him and ran his hand across your shoulder and over to your pulse point. A violent shiver racked through you, earning a questioning glance from Ben. “Are you ok?” He murmured, rubbing your back.

• “I- I can feel him touching my physical body.” You watched as Diego stopped moving and held two fingers in place. The whole room fell silent as everyone waited in anticipation to hear what he had to say.

• “She’s alive.”

• Klaus locked eyes with you, “That’s not possible. I’ve spoken to her ghost, that can’t be-”

• Allison cut him off, “What do you mean you’ve spoken to her?” Her voice was sharp and accusatory.

• “I can speak to ghosts Allison!” Klaus replied in exasperation, “That includes our sister.” From beside him, Luther frowned. “Wait. You’ve been in contact with Y/n this whole time and haven’t bothered to say anything?”

• Diego sighed in frustration, “Will you guys stop arguing for five fucking minutes. We need to try and wake her up.” You stiffened slightly, suddenly hit by a surge of apprehension. Were you even ready to wake up? It had been years since you’d actually spoken to your siblings. Memories of their past cruelty after Ben’s death came flooding back to you.

• “Hey, you’ll be ok. Klaus will look after you.” You looked up and saw Ben offering you a reassuring smile. Before you could open your mouth to reply, a wave of disorientation hit, and in an instant the world around you was black.

• For a moment everything was quiet, save for a high pitched ringing in your ears. Your body felt heavier than before, and cold too. Though this sensation was different to the faint chill you had grown accustomed to. This was more of a biting frost that gnawed at your extremities.

• With great effort, you forced your eyes open. It took a moment for you to adjust to the fluorescent lighting over your head, but soon the faces of your siblings became clearer around you.

• You suddenly became aware of a hand touching your cheek. Following the arm it belonged to, you realised it was Klaus. His dark eyes stared down intensely into yours, as if he hadn’t seen you in years.

• “How are you not dead?”

• Your lips parted, but no sound escaped. Memories of old books Reginald had made you read came to the forefront of your mind, but your throat was too sore to produce any intelligible words. He had made you study astral projection a long time ago, but you hadn’t given the topic much thought since. Perhaps your father knew more about your powers than he was letting on.

• Allison’s face drifted into your view, distracting you from your thoughts. She shot Klaus a stern look before looking back down at you, “We can worry about that later. For now let’s get you warmed up.”

• Your sister pulled you out from the freezer and held your shivering form close. Klaus noticed your chattering teeth and draped his jacket over your shoulders.

• Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Luther shift, “So… should we still go ahead with the funeral?” Your siblings exchanged hesitant glances, unsure of how to proceed, when you were suddenly hit with a vision. It was only a brief flash of something. A storm, a glowing blue light, and then finally, a face you never thought you’d see again.

• The moment had been so brief that none of your siblings realised anything had happened. It was Klaus who recognised that familiar haunted expression on your face, pulling you away from Allison and holding onto your shoulders with a concerned frown. “What did you see?”

• You just shook your head slowly, “It’s not possible.”

• Klaus gently squeezed your shoulders, “You know I’ll always believe you, Y/n. I’ll have your back no matter what.” His brown eyes stared deeply into yours, with a level of intensity that you rarely saw in him anymore. “Just tell me what you saw.”

• They wouldn’t believe you- hell, you hardly believed it yourself. Yet there was no denying what you had seen. What was going to happen. You took a deep breath and turned to face the rest of your siblings, whose sole attention was on you.

• “We need to go outside. Five is coming back.”

This took wayyy longer to write than I thought it would. This is an introduction to an au idea I’ve had in my head for a long time, hence why it’s pretty disjointed.

Also I know none of the characters exhibit much ‘yandere behaviour’ in this. I will build up to it in future works (which will include Five!!) 🙏

[heck-theo]

Okokokokok- ignore how rough and messy some of these redraws/sketches are - but it's apparently also dinosaur month?? (WHY did no one ever tell me it's Jurassic June? I love dinosaurs) And like. What if Rise but dinosaurs?!

I don't often post such loose sketches but I wanted to show these off cause I really like some of this.

Design choices and dino species + the reasons I picked them bellow (looking for potential Donnie dino suggestions):

Clothes: Without the shell they really need clothes. They'd all have pretty much the same pants to keep some unity, except maybe Mikey (I decided they should all have the same pants after I finished the Mikey sketches, not sure if I'll keep the shorts or change to pants). Accessories are a mix of pre and post finale.

Raph - I think would keep it simple and practical but would also wear nice jackets and stuff when in casual situations. I need to work on giving him an alternative outfit and tweak his accessories a bit.

Donnie - An oversized pull-over hoodie cause we already know he loves that shit. We see him wearing it all the time. Easy enough. He wears a comfortable singlet underneath so the straps of his battle sail don't rub. Nice soft fabric, tight fit so it doesn't move around, tucks it into his pants, etc. When he wears the battle sail he won't overheat so he can wear hoodies basically all year round.

Leo - He's in one of those shirts with obnoxiously large arm holes and make it cropped cause 1. I think he would 2. I want it to be different from Raph and Donnie's singlets. He usually wears the shoulder strap off his shoulder but pulls it up when he needs to. He has some of the black bandages over his mid drift atm but I might just make his pants super high waisted in the final version. He'd probably wear a bomber jacket (also cropped?) over the top for cool weather, but doesn't like to hide his feathers.

Mikey - I think he'd mostly wear hand me downs when he's younger. He definitely goes through a stage of rebelling and wanting to pick his own and would find a middle ground of appreciating sharing some of his brother's clothes and modifying them, as long as he has the choice of his own available. Not sure if that would be before or after this design. At the moment he's got Raph's old shorts (from a loooong time ago), Leo's old shirt, and Donnie's old zip up hoodie. He does have his own accessories though, including pins instead of stickers.

Dinosaurs: I kept them all as non-avian dinosaurs, AKA not including animals that are colloquially considered dinos but aren't (like pterosaurs). I wanted to keep an even split of herbivore vs carnivore just so one wasn't the odd one out. I wanted to keep most of their body structure, colours and distinguishing features the same as canon. Obviously I added tails cause, yeah, of course haha. I did want them to be recognisable as different species of dino using distinct characteristics that their species is known for. I did ignore a lot of differences though, like size and bipedal vs quadruped (although the quadrupeds might be more likely to go to all fours, especially when fighting or afraid). Leo and Donnie are carnivores so have sharper teeth and claws.

Raph - Some kind of Ceratopsian (likely Triceratops or something very similar) and he was the first idea I had for this and I'm really happy with it. I think it just suits him. Trike Raph just came to me in an unprecedented moment of genius. His spikey frill replicates his spikey shell. His sturdiness, protectiveness and willingness to kick ass when needed, all scream trike to me.

Donnie - Spinosaurus but looking for other species recommendations. More details below: So I wanted to figure out a way for him to have tech with a similar function to his battle shell (in the sense that it's something that helped him in day to day life) and so I went with spino cause one possible theory about a function of spinosaurus' sail is temperature regulation. So his battle sail has heating/cooling systems as well as other tech. A spino's sail was probably not fragile but the battle sail would also help protect it from being targeted during fights or crushed during extreme impacts. It was also thought to be used for display, and what's more of a display than a battle sail? The only problem I have with this is that it's lacking part of what makes Donnie's battle shell so great, which is that it is essentially a prosthetic. Not quite the same as how prosthetics are used in people of course, just in the sense that it is replicating the functionality of a body part that he doesn't have (I can't think of a better word). Well he does have a shell but it doesn't function in the same way that his brothers shells do, which leaves him with less defense than they have, hence a big reason for the battle shell (I hope I explained this well, it was hard to try and word properly). I can't think of a good way to do this with dinos. I was thinking of a carno or something with tiny arms, then Donnie could have tech enhanced arms but I'm pretty much ignoring body structure in the others so it would be weird to have just Donnie be affected by a difference in limb structure/functionality. I was thinking prosthetic tail but every non avian dinosaur had a pretty substantial tail. Except therizinosaurus but even they hade pretty obvious tails. I'm open to suggestions for this one if anyone has ideas. It does have to be an extinct non-avian dinosaur (anything not in Avialae), preferably carnivore but if someone suggests a really good herbivore or omnivore then I can try and swap Mikey for a carnivore. I want there to be an even split. I also wanted to give him something different on his face, like his brothers, and that could only be a little spino crest and it crowds the top of his head but I can't put it anywhere else...

Leo - A type of Dromaeosaur. I was tossing up between this and a dilophosaur where his red stripes were part of the dilo's crest, cause I wasn't sure about giving him feathers. But dilo Leo was so plain compared to the rest and the crests were hard to get looking right so I went back to raptor Leo. I can definitely imagine him literally and metaphorically preening his feathers too. You can't really see it but he does also have that big raptor claw. Raptors were smart, tactical and worked in packs so I think that suits him. I wasn't specifically referencing how some artists draw Leo's stripes coming off his face (I was just trying to replicate his stripes somehow, even though it doesn't make a huge amount of sense) but I realised afterwards that it kinda looks like that and might have been subconsciously inspired by it.

Mikey - Is an Ankylosaur. I'm pretty happy with the species but I need to work out the design of his armour plating so that it looks interesting, cool and protective but isn't too chunky, too pointy or super lumpy looking. I went with an anky cause Mikey is often hiding in his shell and he can't do the same here but he could curl up in a defensive ball. Plus I could imagine him using his tail club in his razzmatazz fighting style. A little like his kusari-fundo or nunchacku/nunchucks (not sure on proper wording).

[darkbluekies]

The track runner reader fic w/Silas got me thinking👀

Hear me out okay..

Ballerina reader x Silas

How would he react to see her practice,her shows

Swan lake, Giselle..

Italian fouettés, Entrechat quatre x3 royale, Developpe A la Seconde etc

Yk the high extensions,leg holds the whole shebang

Just a thot👀

Stolen part

Yandere!mafia x fem!reader

Summary: you've finally been granted to do ballet, but when Silas sees you upset, everything turns into a nightmare

Warnings: yandere, mentions of blood, broken bones, a lot of guilt and confusion, panic attack(?), reader just feeling horrible

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: I took some creative liberty with your request, I hope that's okay. And uh, I know 0 about ballet, so take this with a handful of salt<3

One performance — that’s the deal. One single performance and then you’ll go back to normal life. You nearly fainted when he told you that you could do one dance, after months and months of begging, pleading and crying. You almost started threatening him when you became desperate enough. 

“Well … we’re here”, Silas sighs as his men stop the car. “You know the rules, don’t you? Do we have to go through them again?”

“No, I know them”, you smile. 

You take his hand while exiting the car. Silas smiles and squeezes your hand softly. It’s worth all the trouble, he tells himself. If you’re happy, then it’s all worth it.

When you enter the practice room, you’re met by a dozen other girls wearing the same clothes as you. It’s been such a long time ago that you’ve felt so … included. There’s a certain feeling about wearing the same thing that creates a unity you can’t explain. 

“Run along”, Silas tells you, giving you a small push towards the group. 

He walks over to the instructor. He can tell right away that she knows who he is. He braces himself. She can either call the police or let him go. If she decides to call the police, he’ll have to create a blood bath and snatch you back in the car. 

“Can I have a word with you?” Silas asks politely. 

“Sure”, the woman answers hesitantly. 

“I can tell by the look on your face that you know very well who I am, so I want to make a deal with you.”

“What type of deal?”

“If you don’t call the cops on me and give my girlfriend an honest chance — because I know that she’s magnificent — I will fund your entire club. All clothes, all expenses, all props, venue, is on me. Fair?”

The woman thinks for a moment. Silas know that the club is underfunded. He knows that she has to agree.

“Okay”, the woman says shortly. 

“Good”, Silas replies and waves at you to come over. 

You skip over with sparkling eyes. He pulls you in to kiss him, in front of everybody. His kisses are always controlled by him, but they always show extremely much love for you, a deep hunger nothing can satisfy. 

“My men will stay to supervise, to make sure nothing happens to you”, he says and gives you another kiss. “Have fun now, little thing. I’ll see you soon.”

You nod. Silas squeezes your shoulder, gives the group of ballerinas a warning stare and then leaves. 

You return to the group. The people who knows who Silas is give you nervous gazes and the ones who don’t look at you with jealousy. 

Well, this is starting off great, you’ll absolutely make many friends.

Time goes on. Silas enjoys seeing the wise smile on your face every time you exit the building after a practice. Every time you’re in practice, he takes the opportunity to do some errands. He always makes sure to come pick you up clean, never covered in blood. 

But one day, you’re crying when you meet him. His heart drops in an instant and he thinks that putting you in ballet was a mistake. It wasn’t worth it at all. 

“What happened, baby?” he asks worriedly and takes you in his arms. “What did they do to you?”

You struggle to talk through your violent sobs. He believes that you’re having a panic attack, but you can still move relatively well. Silas grabs your shoulders and waves at his men to come over. 

“Y/N, what did they do to you?” he asks and looks at his men. “Did any of the others hurt her?”

The men shake their heads. 

“Y/N!” Silas says sharply. 

“I-I didn’t … get … the ... lead role”, you manage to get out through your sobs. 

You know it’s silly, of course. Honestly. It’s childish to cry over not being the main character, but this was your only chance to be on stage before you’ll get pulled back into capture. You’ll never have this much freedom again. It’s embarrassing to cry about this, and you know that very well, but they don’t know how much you’ve suffered to even be in the practice room. 

“You didn’t?” Silas asks shortly. 

“No”, you cry. 

Silas turns to his men and hands you to one of them. 

“Bring her to the car”, he says. “I will be back soon.”

He disappears into the building. The practice room is empty, apart from the constructor who is cleaning up after today's class.

“Oh”, she says, noticing him. “Can I help you?”

“If you're smart, you can”, Silas says coldly. “I heard that Y/N didn't get the lead role. I'm just wondering why?”

“She wasn't exactly what I had in mind for this particular role … I mean, she's extremely good, but just not what I had in mind when I visualized the lead. She's a runner up, though.”

Not good enough, Silas thinks.

“Okay”, he says and nods. “I see.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turns around and leaves. Anger is burning through his chest. Seeing you so upset makes him see red. He would burn down the entire world for you to watch you smile. He walks back to the car where you sit in the backseat and the two men in the front. 

“Hey, baby”, he smiles and sits down beside you. “Are you feeling better? Should we get some food on the way home?”

You nod. Silas smiles and wipes your tears. His men are forced to hear how he sucks the air out of you in the backseat. He devours your lips, trying to comfort both you and himself. He holds you in his arms, letting you cry. The more you cry, the more embarrassed you feel. You’re ashamed because you can’t understand why you are so upset over it. It’s just a role, you’ll still be on stage, won’t you? Is it because you think that you’re better than the others? That you deserve the position of the lead? Do you deserve it because you’re so good or because this is your only chance? The others have many more opportunities to get the role you want, why can’t you just get one? You’ll never be seen again, why can’t you get it?

Why are you thinking like this? You’re not entitled to anything. Has Silas imprinted the narrative that you’re so special, so wonderful that deeply into your brain? Do you believe that you’re this special, one of a kind person that deserve everything because you’re so special? 

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Silas asks, caressing your cheek. “You look so thoughtful. Let me in.”

“I- … I- …”, you start, but can’t seem to talk — you can’t even formulate your own thoughts.

“Breathe, baby. It’s okay, you’re with me now.”

“I am breathing … I just …”

“Just …?”

You shake your head. 

“Just hungry”, you lie. “And tired.”

“It’s okay, you’ll get some food soon”, Silas promises and kisses your lips once again. “We’ll stop by McDonald’s.”

You get your food and you eat together with Silas in your bedroom, but you can’t stop thinking about the lump in your stomach. Why are you so upset? Why can’t you put words on your feelings? 

You lay awake the entire night in your empty bed (because Silas is out working) and think. Crying over not getting the lead role won’t make you enjoy the last few weeks in the club. Ballet is your true love, you should do everything you can to enjoy it — specifically because you’ll not get it back. You should be happy with your role — you’re even a runner up! That’s fantastic. You breathe out. Ease sets into your heart. It doesn’t matter what role you get, as long as you have fun. 

When you enter the practice room the next time, you can tell that something is wrong right away. The girl who got the lead part … has crutches. You feel a shiver run down your back. Mortified, you shake your head. Silas. He must have done something to give you the lead role, that you so desperately wanted. He never got to know that you became satisfied with your original role. Guilt washes over you, suddenly you feel extremely sick. You need to take a hold on the wall to not fall. One hand presses against your chest to not vomit. 

“Y/N, are you okay?” one of the body guards asks as they hurry over. 

You nod sloppily. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh my god. This is all my fault. 

This is what you had been feeling bad about — finally you can put words on that weird feeling in your stomach. You were scared that Silas would do something to the girl that got the lead without even noticing it. If anything, that shows how close you know Silas.

“He … he did this … didn’t he?” you whisper, feeling distant. 

“The boss couldn’t stand to watch you be upset”, one of the body guards answers quietly, only for you to hear. “He made sure to get you the role he wanted.”

You’re freezing. That poor girl. Suddenly you don’t want that part anymore. The part is dirty, and your hands are covered in blood. 

Your mind is anywhere but in practice when you dance your stolen part, but your body works for you. 

Silas is standing out in the parking lot a wide smile when you walk out. He opens his arms for you, but you don’t walk into them. 

“Are you happy now?” he asks. 

“You shouldn’t have done that, Silas …”, you say quietly and shake your head. 

He tries to grab you, but you jerk back. Silas frowns. 

“But you wanted it”, he says. “You had a panic attack. I gave the part to you.”

“Silas, I feel extremely guilty. I stole her part. It’s not fair.”

He grabs your shoulders and force you to look at him. 

“The world isn’t fair, little thing”, he says. “If you have some power, use it. I want to use my power to make you happy, baby. You’ll do better than that girl ever could. You should have gotten that part from the very beginning.”

He gives you a kiss and brings you to the car. 

When the day for the performance arrive, you refuse to come out of the dressing room. The costume looks horrible on you. You can only see the other girl in the mirror. None of the other girls have talked to you after the lead girl ended up with crutches. They all know why you got the role. And how you got it. 

“We start in five minutes, get out!” the instructor tells you and basically pulls you out on stage. 

You see a lot of familiar faces in the crowd. Silas has brought as many of his men as he possibly could. Silas himself is sitting in the front row with his right hand man beside him, smiling at you. You look around. All his men are smiling at you. Weirdly enough, it’s somehow cute. They all look like they could kill anyone in any second, but the second you look their way, big, genuine smiles creeps up on their faces. Turning them from killer machines to teddy bears. 

You dance to the best of your ability. This is what you’ve been begging and pleading for. Better enjoy the spotlight while you can. You can’t help but feeling dirty throughout the performance. Silas, however, has never looked this proud before. 

The second the applauds roll in, you fall to your knees, crying. You fulfilled your childhood dream, but at what cost? A girl broke her leg because of your emotions, you stole her role … you’re covered in dirt that you can’t wash off. You don’t deserve these applauds. You don’t deserve any of this. 

“Y/N!” Silas gasps and runs up on the stage with his right hand man by his side. “Are you okay, baby?”

“I want to go home”, you sob. “Get me out of here.”

Silas nods and waves at his men to walk out. He picks you up and follows his men. 

“You did so well, baby”, Silas smiles while walking. “I’ma always proud of you, but this was something else. Everyone saw how absolutely fantastic you were. You’re an absolute badass, baby. I fucking love you so much.”

You smile slightly. It’s finally over. You’ve achieved your dream — although you wish that you never had done it — and now, you’re going back to your locked bedroom. You almost long for it. 

[megs-1800]

hi i love your fics and may i request something angst about mason's family don't like his relationship with y/n and they also dislike y/n because they think she's not good for mason (she's not an influencer, just a private girl and not from a wealthy family). i wanna know how mason react to that, will he decide to break up or keep their relationship

thanks in advance and you don't have to reply to this x 🤍

Getting Them To Like Me

Note: Please keep sending in your requests and hope you like it!

Summary: Mason's family are not your biggest fans. When you go on a family holiday with the, Mason's Ex girlfriend shows up, who Mason's family love. How will Mason react to all the drama? Will this make or break your relationship?

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: Suggestive Themes, Angst, Fluff

“What happens if they don’t like me?” I turn to Mason as he has his eyes on the road. I let myself admire him for a couple of seconds longer then I should. He is just perfect in everyway. He drifts his eyes from the road and meets mine “babe they are going to love you, what isn’t there to love about you?” he gives me a reassuring smile. I can still feel the anxiety overwhelming me. Mason and I have been dating for 6 months, its completely new and being with Mason has turned my whole life upside down. It was a life that I never knew. I just work my boring admin 9-5pm job and had my side hustle as a hair dresser. Me and Mason met in a café opposite my office, he had a hoodie on with his hood up and was one in front of me. He went to pay for his coffee but realised he left his wallet in the car, I have had a bad morning and not in the mood to wait so I just agreed I would pay for it so I could get the line moving. Turned out he was having a meeting using one of the office room downstairs so we got chatting in the hallway, one thing lead to another and here we are. I wasn’t ready to meet Mason’s family yet, he had met mine and of course they loved him but meeting his was a whole other level. It is his sister Jaz’s birthday next week so Mason insisted I attend with him to his parents to have dinner to celebrate. I have never been more nervous.

We pulled up outside their house and I can feel my heart beating in my chest I just want to be sick. Mason can sense my nerves as he rubs his hand into mine as we stand outside trying to calm my nerves. Mason’s mum Debbie opens the door and quickly embracing Mason in a hug “Oh I didn’t realise you were bringing company. Whose this?”  Mason moves out the way to let me inside, Mason rolls his eyes. “I did tell you I will be bringing y/n. I told you about her months ago. But Mum meet y/n. Y/N meet my mum Debbie” he gestures. Debbie remains still and just gives me a smile. “Oh yeah I remember now. Nice to meet you Y/N” it sounded like she didn’t really mean it but I am just putting it down to nerves.

Mason leads me into the living room where Jaz, Mila, Summer, Lewis and his dad Tony are all sitting. They all quickly get up and hug Mason and look awkwardly at me. Mason gestures for me to sit down as all of them sit down and introduces them all to me. Mila and Summer are climbing all over Mason “uncle Masey who is this?” as they point at me. Mason gives them a big grin and says “this is my new girlfriend y/n” it gives me butterflies when he calls me that, we have only just started calling eachother boyfriend/girlfriend. It sounds childish but I love when he calls me his girlfriend. “Hey Y/N!” both Mila and Summer say in unity and wave.

I allow all of them to chat and I am just sat there smiling and engaging in conversation the best I can, I feel invisible though. It feels like I am not even there. Debbie calls to say lunch is ready and we all go sit and begin to eat. I feel extremely uncomfortable as I am picking up the vibe in the room, Mason places his hand on my thigh to try and reassure me, he must sense the vibe too. Tony turns to me “So tell us y/n what do you do?” all eyes are suddenly on me and I can feel myself going red. “I am a manager just for a little admin company in the city. I also have my own little hair dressing business on the side.” They all nod confirming they are listening to what I am saying. Debbie speaks up “so have you had more clients now they know you are dating Mason” I am a bit taken back by the comment and I can see Mason shoot daggers at her which I am quickly to reply for my defence, “Actually Mason and I are keeping our relationship under the radar at the moment so only family and close friends are aware”. Debbie gave me a small scoff in response and we all continued eating.

I whispered to Mason that I needed the loo and he told me where it was, as I escort myself I stand at the entrance and listen to what they have to say. “Why are you all being so rude!” I hear Mason shout but I can tell he is still trying to keep his voice low so I don’t hear. “I don’t know what you are talking Mason. We are just asking her questions to show our involvement?”  Debbie tried to act innocent. That’s when I hear Jaz but in “we are just trying to look at for our baby brother Mase. Come on she is not famous, she doesn’t have a high end job. She is nothing really special Mase are you really trying to tell me she is with you just for love? Like your job and lifestyle had no factor in her getting with you. Come on Mase, you are blind when it comes to love, you cannot generally believe she loves you for you, come on look at this from our side”. Mason doesn’t reply and that’s my queue to come back inside. Its awkward for the rest of the dinner, and not much more is said.

On the way home me and Mason are sat in silence and all that could be heard is the small sound of the radio playing. I look over at Mason “they hate me don’t they?”

“They don’t hate you they just haven’t been given the chance to know you. They are just protective of me that’s all”.

I look at Mason as I know he is just truing to play devils advocate but still “Mason I heard what they said. They don’t want us together.” With this Mason pulled over at the side of the road and took his hand in mine. “Well I want us together and that’s all that matters” and he places a small loving kiss to my lips. I can feel myself smiling into this kiss, I love how he is protecting me.

A couple of weeks have passed since that lunch, Mason has been a little distant but I put it down to us both being busy. Its date night and Mason arranged for me to come round and agreed he would make dinner. I put some flared trousers on and tucked in a nice top so I was casual but still nice enough for the date. As I walk through the door Mason greets me “that smells amazing” I say as he gives me a kiss. “well I got a surprise for you. I wanted to wait until after dinner but I just couldn’t wait” .

I smile at him and bring him closer “oi oi” I wink provocatively. Mason pulls away and giggles “no not like that. That’s for after dinner” he raises his eyebrows teasing. I follow him into the kitchen and perch on one of the stools at his breakfast bar whilst he stands the other side. “Sooo how do you feel about going to Mykonos?” I look at him in disbelief. I jump across the counter and wrap my arms around him “yes yes yes! I would love to go”. Mason leans down and places his lips onto mine. I have never been so excited, going to Mykonos with the love of my life. Life couldn’t get better.

I was on cloud 9 for weeks after that, starting holiday prepping and I was on good vibes. That’s when Mason had to break to me that it wasn’t just us 2 going away and that his whole family would be going away with us. I was now dreading it, I know they don’t like me so its going to be completely awkward. I agreed to meet Mason at the airport as I didn’t want to do the silent car ride with his family. As I arrived I see Mason wave over to me, as I make my over he wraps his arms around me “hey baby” he whispers into my ear. “Hey y/n how you doing?” his mum questions and gives me a small hug. “I am good thank you Mrs Mount how are you? I am excited to go away with you all.” I say nervously. She pulls away “oh please call me Debbie we are all excited to get to know you better”. She winks as she walks away, I look at Mason with a confused look he leans down to my ear as he wraps his arms round my side “I told them to go easy on you”. I gave Mason a massive smile knowing I can try and enjoy the holiday.

The first couple of the days are bliss, Mason’s family are making a complete effort and trying to get to know me. I am having a much needed shower before getting ready for dinner, Mason walks into the bathroom “damn you are beautiful” in which he makes me blush “I might have to join you” which he winks and starts to undress. I quickly turn the shower off and get out “Uh uh we got dinner we haven’t got time for this”. Which I feel Mason pout into the kiss. I decide to wear a long white Maxi Co-Ord which the skirt has a slit up the side showing leg. I look in the mirror and make the final touches to my hair. I feel Mason wrap his arms around my waist “you are the most beautiful girl in the world” I watch in the mirror as he places small open kiss to my neck, I feel myself relax into him as I left out a small moan in response to the kisses. “I’m the luckiest girl in the world” I rely turning around and continue to kiss Mason’s lips. I pull away a let out a small giggle as my lipstick is now smudged over his lips, I use my thumb to wipe it off. “I love you, you know that” I respond. Mason then kisses me again “I love you more”.

We start to walk down the street towards the restaurant for dinner, Mason and I are walking in front of everyone hand in hand. I hear a snap and then Lewis shouts over “you two are so cute!” I can feel myself blush as he shows me the picture he took. “That’s so cute, send that to me!” which Lewis nods in agreement.

We sit down for dinner which overlooks the sea, it looks incredible and looking over at other tables the food looks like its to die for. We are all chatting away when a women walks over to our table, she is wear a tiny mini dress and looks drop dead gorgeous. She looks incredible, she looks like a Victoria secret model, I feel like I have seen her before but I cannot place it.

Tony stands straight up and brings her into a tight hug “Rebecca darling how are you doing?!” I watch as her face lights up as they engage in small conversation and Debbie hugs her and goes to get another chair. I look at Mason and his face drops “who is that?” I ask but he doesn’t respond. The girl now speaks “I am so sorry I am late guys its been one hell of a travel over here, one of my shoots overran so I missed the flight with you guys, then my next flight was cancelled, then they thought I lost my luggage it was such a hell of a ride but I am glad I am here now”. I watch as Debbie reaches over and rubs her wrist. Who is this woman?

Debbie is next to speak “So Becks where are you staying?” I watch as the woman takes a sip of her drink she ordered moments ago. “Oh Debs don’t even get me started! When I arrived at my hotel they said they don’t even have my booking. I guess I wasn’t the best at arranging these, I use to leave that all upto him”. Which they all laugh at, well apart from Mason. I am still looking around confused. “Well we have a spare room in the villa you are more then welcome to stay. I am sure everyone won’t mind one more” Debbie says and looks around for conformation. Jaz then speaks up “it would be amazing for you to stay. We have so much to catch up on”. I look over at Mason who is shooting looks at Lewis which Lewis shrugs in response. I look over at Mason and ask again “Mase who is that?” but again I am met with no response.

Mason is totally quiet over dinner and chit chat is all turned towards that Rebecca, I quickly escort myself to the toilet and once there I google her name which the first news article that came up “Rebecca Green spotted first time since break up with Man United’s Mason Mount” I feel my heart drop. I knew I saw her sometime. She is Mason’s ex. Why is she here? I feel a lump in my throat rising I need to speak to Mason.

Once dinner is finished we all take a walk back to the villa, its not as loving as it was when we were walking to dinner. Everytime I tried to link hands with Mason he would pull away but then give me a loving smile at the same time so my heads is confused. When we arrived everyone agreed that it was late and everyone was going to their respective room. Mason turned to me “I will be up soon I need to have a quick conversation.” I go to kiss him but he turns his head so I only get his cheek, I nod in agreement and then make my way upto our room, I thought I would have a quick bath and by the time I am out Mason should be out, he will probably just ask his parents what they are playing at inviting Rebecca, I have nothing to worry about I keep trying to tell myself. Once I am out the bath Mason is still not up, I look at the time and its been a couple of hours, I didn’t even realise the time as I was engrossed in the book I was reading. I wrap a towel around me, I go to look on the balcony and the side makes me feel sick. Its Mason and Rebecca sat on the table by the fire laughing away. I try to think nothing of it and get into bed hoping Mason will be back soon.

I am woken by the sound of Mason stumbling into the room, he quickly strips and throws himself into bed. “What time is it?” I ask Mason rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Mason turns his body to me “1ish I think sorry we just got into catching up and didn’t realise the time” Mason pouts and gives me puppy eyes. “don’t be angry at me babyyyyy” he wines. “how can I stay mad at you” I respond giving Mason a little kiss but at the same time my heart still hurting.

I am debating to have the conversation now or in the morning but then I just blurt out “What is she doing her Mase?” I ask sheepishly hoping not to cause an argument. Mason wraps me up “Sorry I really didn’t know she was coming” I nod, it sounds like there is a little bit of a lie in that but right now I am not here to fight. “Don’t you think it will be a little awkward with your ex and your current girlfriend being on the same holiday with you?”

“Only if we make it awkward” in which Mason is quick to reply. I start to kiss Mason as I push my body into his. I pull away and look into his eyes “I was hoping to finish off what we couldn’t earlier in the shower” which I shoot him a wink as I start to kiss his neck. Mason pushes me away “I am knackered baby, its been a long day and I have had a lot to drink. But if you are lucky maybe you will wake up to something jabbing your bum in the morning” which he shoots me a wink. I roll my eyes at his response “how romantic” I giggle and then Mason turns me around as he spoons me and sleeps overwhelms us both.

As I open my eyes I suddenly feel the lack of presence of Masons strong arms around me, I quickly stretch then realise he is not next to me in bed. He cannot have one day off from the gym I thought. I got up and put a bikini on and throw on a dress to cover up as I make my way downstairs. Its quiet and only Lewis is sitting by the pool, I sit next to him. “Where is everyone?” I ask. “Mason and Rebecca are at the gym and the others are by the beach. I told Mason sod the gym in this heat” which we both giggle. “You know that he must be a mad man” I quickly respond trying to hide the twinge of guilt I have.

I didn’t see Mason for the rest of the day, his family are basically acting like I am not there and the only one who is acknowledging me is Lewis. I feel like shit and I just want to go home. I quickly ring my friend Hannah as I sat on the bed. “Hey girlllll! Hows the holiday with lover boy? I am totally jealous and totally hate you right now!” she basically squeals. “Its going alright” I reply looking down trying to hold the tears in. I can see her looking at me trying to figure out whats happened. “Y/N you are literally in Mykonos with The Mason Mount and you are not happy right now whats happened?” as I am explaining everything to her and I can feel the tears running down my face as she tries to reassure me that Mason loves me. I can hear Mason coming back into the villa so I explain to Hannah I gotta go which she understands and we both say our goodbye. I wipe my tears away waiting for Mason to come into the bedroom but nothing is happening. I start scrolling on my phone and I see Mason is tagged on a post:

Rebecca_Green Posted:

The Best Days With You ❤️

I feel myself wanting to be sick as the lump in my throat is formed. At this point Mason now decides to walk into the bedroom. He quickly sees my upset demeanour and runs straight over to me “baby whats wrong?” he asks as he wipes my tears away with his thumb. I show Mason the insta post “you literally went on a date with your ex girlfriend whilst I have been stuck here all day with your family who hate me and haven’t even spoken a word to me! Come on Mason she is wearing your shirt for fucks sake!” I am shouting now as I point at the picture, Mason steps back as he hasn’t been prepared for this argument. “I told her not to post anything!” I get up looking at Mason. “That’s you reply! That you told her not to post anything! So you are not denying you went on a date with her!” I can see Mason started to get fired up and I know he really doesn’t want to right now. “It wasn’t a date, okay, we had a lot to talk about so we did that, I am allowed to have a conversation with her. Also if you want my family to speak to you why not try and put more of an effort into it and they might actually start talking to you” he fired back. I can feel the tears rolling down my face as I leave the bedroom not wanting to ignite the fire more.

As I make my way downstairs the villa is empty and its just Rebecca sitting on her own on the decking. I build up the bravery and I go and sit opposite her. “hey we haven’t had a chance to introduce myself I am y/n” she looks up at me and smiles. “hey y/n! I am Rebecca. So how do you know the Mounts? Are you friend of Lewis’s or Jaz’s?” I look at her confused. Mason didn’t tell her who I am. “I am Mason’s girlfriend” I blurt out with authority. She looks at me with wide eyes like she is shocked at my reply. “I am sorry I didn’t realise Mase had a girlfriend I am so sorry for hogging him since we have been here. We have had so much to speak about” .

“Yeah he said” I scoffed as I replied. She continues to look at me. “I am sorry I am just so shocked that Mase has a girlfriend. He brought me the ticket for this holiday ages ago but then obviously we hadn’t spoken after the breakup, and then Debbie messaged me saying to still come. I wouldn’t think she would do that if you guys were in a relationship and then Mason had to buy another ticket for you”.

I can feel my heart breaking at every word said “I paid for myself I didn’t want anyone thinking I was here for Mason’s money, but also his family are not my biggest fan so that’s probably why they invited you”.

She gives me a smile that I can tell from her eyes is totally fake “sorry I cannot relate on that one! His family have always loved me!” she giggles. I feel the hatred towards her already, and I don’t know why I thought coming down here would make me feel better, if anything it has made me feel worse. I escort myself back to our bedroom which Mason has already disappeared from. I collapse against the door and let my tears fall.

Mason’s POV

I spot Lewis from across the villa “Lew where is she?” Lewis looks at me confused which right now I am not in the mood for this conversation. “Where is who?”  I can tell he generally doesn’t have a clue who I am talking about. “Y/n.. we had a kinda fight last night and I left her to cool down but when I came back this morning she was gone all of her stuff is gone and she won’t answer the phone. I am worried about her Lew whats happened?”

Lewis let out a big sigh “I don’t know where she went mate. We had a chat last night as she was pretty upset and you weren’t around”. I am shocked at this, why would you speak to Lewis and not me. “What was said?”

“She was upset about the post that Rebecca put up and I don’t blame her bro it didn’t look good”

“It was nothing like you think Lew. I promise look the one where I was asleep on the beach she said she was going to take a walk and then I fell asleep on the beach I didn’t even know she was next to me. The one she took in the shadow I didn’t even know she was taking the photo I was looking down at my phone. And then one with her on the beach, she asked me to take for her insta.”

“She has your shirt on tho, it does look bad Mason?”

“She didn’t have anything to cover up with, she said she was getting burnt what was I supposed to say no and let her burn?”

“I think y/n’s reply to that would be yes” in which Lewis laugh “she then said she spoke to Rebecca, apparently Rebecca was saying about how you never mentioned that y/n was your girlfriend and how mum invited Rebecca on the holiday as you had already paid for the ticket”. I cannot keep my expression straight, I am now fuming.

“That’s bullshit Lewis! Come on you know that is! You had to of told her that!”

“I didn’t say anything Mase, I don’t know the truth I don’t even know why Rebecca is here so I just listened to her have her rant. Kind of like what I am doing for you now”.

“I told Rebecca that y/n is my girlfriend. That was the first thing she asked me when she arrived was who she was and I told her straight away I was taken. I went to the gym yesterday morning and she just invited herself, and she did the same on the beach. I wanted to speak to her and ask her why she was here. Mum never invited her, she just had the ticket and thought ‘fuck it’ and thought she could come out and I don’t know, rekindle the relationship or something. She is possessive that’s the whole reason we broke up in the first place. Mum just asked her to stay to be polite as she had no where to stay. You know mum always liked her so I think she was just trying to be nice.”

“Oh right, yeah that came up too. Rebecca said about how our family loved her and then y/n said about how much we hated her apparently. I told her we don’t hate her, its just that we are protective of you as you are the baby of the family that’s all. But I know I have got to know her a lot more during the holiday and she is actually a lovely girl and I am sure the rest of the family agree.”

“I told her that!” Then I realise what I actually said “Well actually I snapped at her, and told her if she makes more of an effort then maybe you guys would like her”.

Lewis rolls his eyes and scoffs “Wow that’s nice!” he said sarcastically.

“I didn’t mean it, I let Rebecca get into my head. We always used to argue as she always thought I was cheating and that argument with y/n brought back memories and I just snapped. I didn’t mean anything I said to her I just got angry. I wanted to explain everything this morning but when I got into our bedroom she was gone. Do you think she has gone home?”

“Maybe.. if I were her Mase, I would already be on the next flight home so she is probably doing the same.”

I feel my chest drop as deep down I know Lewis was right. I didn’t want to leave my family as it’s the first time in ages that I have seen them. I spend the next couple of days fighting with my head and heart. I kept trying to call and text you but you continue to read everything that I write and just not reply.

We are sat over dinner with everyone, I told Rebecca to go home after everything I couldn’t cope with her being here, she caused all of this. As soon as she realised it would never be me and her again she couldn’t wait to leave. I told my family everything yesterday as I was moping around and they couldn’t stand my attitude apparently. My dad turned to me as we were eating “why are you still here? The longer you leave it the longer she has to think about all your flaws” that makes everyone giggle.

“You guys didn’t like her anyway” I was quick to respond. Mum give me a sympathetic look, “Mase its our duty to protect you. No girl will ever be good enough for you. Yes I agree we probably didn’t give her the nicest start and we apologise for that. But with your job and fame there are going to be girls who just use you to be apart of that, its our job to filter them out. From this holiday we can tell that she loves you for you Mason and that’s all we want so she has our approval.” My heart melts at hearing that all I wanted was for my family to like you, as I generally think I am proper falling for you. My mum continues “also Rebecca told me when she was leaving, that y/n told her that she paid for her part of the holiday, so you paid for everyone apart from that poor poor girl and she only stayed for half the holiday. I suggest when you get home you give her a one hell of a sorry”.

“In my defence I did offer to pay, she insisted on paying as she didn’t want you guys to think she was using my money.”

“Well then I suggest you go home and make it right Mase. You can see us anytime go home to her”. I have heard all I need to.

I got on the next flight home, it was the longest hours of my life. All I can think about is you, what are you going to think? Are you going to take me back?

Readers POV

Its been a long couple of days, I have unpacked all my holiday stuff, half of it unworn which brings tears to my eyes. It was childish that I left without a trace but I couldn’t be there, its clear that Mason wants Rebecca, why wouldn’t he, she is stunning and I am just little old me.

I am just starting to cook dinner whilst I have my tunes in the background. I am dancing around when I hear a knock at my door. I quickly open it and I am shocked to see Mason standing there, suitcase and all in trail. I am speechless, out of anyone who could be at my door I did not expect him. “W-What are you doing here?”

Mason looks tired from all the travelling “I have a lot of explaining to do. Please 5 mins that’s all I am asking for”. I nod and let him inside, he came back from the holiday early and clearly come straight from the airport the least I can do is let him explain.

 “I-If I knew you were coming I would of changed?” I quickly look down at my stained PJs, messy bun and glasses. Mason shakes his head as he takes a seat in my living room “I think you still look unreal” I blush at the compliment. “So explain” I say joining him on the sofa.

“It isn’t what you think okay, Rebecca twisted it all. Let me start from the beginning, so firstly-“

“I know Lewis told me”

“He did”

“Yeah yesterday. He said you had a conversation with him and cleared it all out. He said he wanted me know now as he didn’t want me waiting days and hating you more and more each day. He said that he liked me, and he said that he could see that I meant a lot to you so wanted to make things right.”

“Well he kind of ruined my whole speech that I wrote on the plane” he giggles “but I am glad he told you. I couldn’t stand the thought of you hating me.”

“I could never hate you Mase. I love you. I love you more then I have ever loved someone before. But at the same time you hurt me. Especially when you said ‘if I wanted your parents to like me then I need to make more of an effort’ because I spend all that time on holiday trying to get them to like me and that didn’t work.”

“It did, why do you think I am here. They told me to go fight for you because they can tell you are a lovely girl and wanted to see where this relationship could go. I am sorry for how I acted, but I promise you y/n even if my family didn’t approve I don’t care. I want you and only you. Nothing will ever change my mind”.

My heart melts and I jump across the sofa and wrap my arms around Mason. The kiss was passionate and needy. I straddle his hips as we deepen the kiss. “you have a lot of making up to do.” Mason gives me a suggestive smile. “Don’t worry I kinda thought so. Tomorrow we have date night but tonight I will make it up to you in another way”. Mason picks me up as my legs wrap around his waist as we continue the kiss as we make our way to the bedroom. I am in for a night of apologises and I have absolutely no objections.

[joyswonderland1108]

“We decided” — Sorry, didn’t realize you were the BTS parliament.

So apparently now ARMY has turned into the French Senate because every time I blink, someone’s out here talking about “we” — who tf is we??? Because I definitely didn’t RSVP to that shady group chat, the triple K if you will, where the fandom council sat down with their gavel and robes and decided RM is the one to vote for — and anyone who breathes in Jimin’s direction is suddenly a “solo” or an anti.

Really?? That's where we are?

An OT7 account encouraged people to vote for whoever they want, and instead of touching grass or, I don't know, exercising your own right to vote, y’all said, “They’re an anti.” Because they didn’t go along with what “we” decided. Okay Judge Judy. Tell me more about this dictatorship disguised as unity.

And the cherry on top? People acting brand new like Jimin isn't in BTS. I'm sorry, is voting for Jimin somehow voting against BTS now? Did I miss the HYBE press release where he was removed from the group because y’all sure are acting like he’s just some guy with a TikTok account.

(Lol this edit is funny to me)

Now let’s reverse the situation for a hot second.

Let’s say the roles were reversed and RM was in a poll with another member. If some of y’all had your bias in the same spot, would you be out here chanting “we decided RM!” in the streets? No. No you wouldn’t. You’d either:

Vote for your bias and pretend not to see,

Use that good ol’ split-vote technique to sleep better at night,

Or write 14 Tumblr paragraphs about how you’re being oppressed for having the audacity to make your own voting decisions.

So why is it different now?

Because it's Jimin. And we’ve seen this before. Let me take you back: remember when it was Jimin vs. Yoongi in another voting poll? (TMA) A whole lot of people refused to help Jimin even when he was ahead and had a real shot at winning. And that was FINE — because everyone is allowed to make their own choices. But THEN y’all didn’t even back Yoongi either. You know what some of you did? You teamed up with ajhummas to vote for Lim Woo Young. Not because you liked him, but because the very idea of Jimin winning gave you heartburn. You’d rather Yoongi lose than let Jimin win.

Let that sink in.

And now it's the same tired playbook. It’s Day 1 of the poll and people already dictating the narrative, twisting arms, labeling others as antis because they dared to… vote? For a BTS member? The horror.

People are splitting votes. People are voting for their bias. That’s called doing your best. That’s called respecting choice. That’s called being a fan of a group with seven members.

And let’s not pretend you’re campaigning for RM’s success 24/7. I’m not talking about screenshots and hashtags. I’m talking about actual support. Where are the streams? The playlisting? The charting help? If your only interaction with RM’s music is voting for him in one poll and screaming at others for not doing the same, then maybe you’re not the one to lead the “WE decided” committee.

You want real strategy? Try:

Gathering vote data over the first few days.

Seeing who’s in the lead and working with that momentum.

Coordinating in a way that includes—not bullies—the fandom.

But I guess that’s too boring when you can just yell “JIMIN VOTERS ARE ANTIS!” and call it a day.

[criticallyinneedofadar]

The Price of Compassion

Here is another part of A Flower Among Stone- about two years have passed since the first part of the story, elves court at a glacial pace since time moves differently for them. Disa is sick of it at this point

Pairing: Elrond x F!Reader

Warnings: None

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

The tension in Durin’s chambers was thick as stone, the fire in the hearth crackling softly, the only sound breaking the heavy silence. The glow of the flames cast long shadows against the carved stone walls, illuminating the rich tapestries and intricate carvings of Khazad dûm’s proud history. Yet tonight, no amount of warmth could soften the sharp edge in Durin’s voice.

Elrond stood across from him, tall and composed, though a trace of weariness marred his otherwise serene expression. “Durin, I ask this not for myself,” Elrond said, his voice measured, but firm. “The Mithril is necessary—not for greed or wealth, but for survival.”

Durin’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He stood tall, his broad shoulders tense, and beside him, Disa rested a steadying hand on his arm. She remained silent, but her presence was a quiet force, a reminder of Durin’s strength and the unity they shared. “Survival for whom?” Durin snapped, his voice a low rumble. “For the elves, aye, but what of us? How deep will you ask us to dig, Peredhel? Until we break stone? Until we break ourselves? My father has forbidden the mining of mithril- and for good reason”

You stood between them, feeling the weight of their words pressing on your heart. You had watched these two slowly rebuild their friendship over the last two years, and to see it falter over this, brought you a great deal of worry. 

“Elrond,” you said softly, drawing his attention. “Durin has reason to be wary. The deeper they mine, the greater the danger. It would be wiser to leave decisions of stone to the dwarves. Surely, you must see this?”

He turned to you, his eyes softening as they met yours. “I do,” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with regret. “But what I ask is not a whim. It is a matter of great need—for all of Middle-earth.”

Durin let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Need or not, you have no right to come here and make demands. This mountain is our home, not a treasure to be plundered.”

You placed a gentle hand on Durin’s arm, feeling the tension beneath your fingers. “Durin,” you said, your voice steady, “Elrond is not your enemy. He does not ask lightly. Perhaps there is a way to balance caution and need.”

Durin sighed as he looked at you, grasping your hand in his, though the frustration remained. “You’ve lived among us long enough to know what mining deeper could mean.”

“I do,” you admitted, glancing between him and Elrond. “And I would never ask you to endanger your people. But I also know that sometimes the greatest strength is found in working together.”

Disa, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, her voice gentle but firm. “She speaks wisely, Durin. We are stronger with allies than without.”

Durin grunted, his expression conflicted, but he did not push her hand away. Instead, he turned his gaze back to Elrond. “And what will you do, Peredhel, if our mountain cracks? If our people suffer for this Mithril?”

Elrond met his gaze evenly, the weight of centuries in his eyes. “Then I will bear the responsibility, as will all my kin. I give you my word, no harm will come without answer.”

Durin narrowed his eyes but finally nodded, a reluctant but significant gesture. “We’ll talk more of this later,” he said gruffly. “But don’t think this is settled. Should I decide to search for more mithril, it will be an act of treason against my father.”

He strode from the room, leaving you and Elrond alone with Disa. She cast you a knowing look, her lips curling into a faint smile. “You’ve always had a way with words,” she said softly, before following Durin out.

When the door closed behind her, Elrond exhaled slowly, his posture relaxing. “You would take the side of the dwarves over your own kind?”

Though Elrond’s acquisition irritated you, you gave him a small smile. “I owe them much. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I spoke on your behalf as well if you recall.”

He studied you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “And that is why your counsel matters so greatly. You have the ear of the Prince of Khazad Dum. Surely you can persuade him-”

You raised your hand, silencing the elf before you “I must stop you there, Elrond. I refuse to be a pawn in your political games. Should you need a friend or an ear to listen, I will always be there. But, I will not put my friendship with Durin and his family at risk.” 

“I owe you an apology,” Elrond said, grasping your hand in his, lightly brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “I should not have drawn you into this conflict. It was wrong of me to ask you to influence Durin. Your loyalty to him and his people is clear, and I had no right to press you.”

You offered him a small smile, stepping closer. “You were desperate. I understand that.” You folded your hands in front of you. “But I won’t choose sides—not when it comes to something that could cost so much.”

Elrond’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “And yet you always find a way to bring calm to the storm.” His voice softened further. “I admire that.”

A silence settled between you, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. Then, after a moment, Elrond spoke again, his voice low and inviting. “Come with me to Eregion.”

You looked up sharply, startled by the sudden offer, though it wasn’t unfamiliar. “Elrond…”

He held up a hand, offering a faint smile. “I know. This is not the first time I’ve asked, and I know your answer before you give it. But I still wish for you to see what we are working on. To understand why Mithril is vital.”

You exhaled slowly, your heart tightening at the sincerity in his voice. “I am grateful for your invitation, truly. But my place is here. These halls have been my home for years now. I belong to the mountain, to the people who saved me.”

He took a step closer, his expression unreadable. “And you are happy here?”

You hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. “I am.”

A flicker of something—was it disappointment?—crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He inclined his head gracefully. “Then I will not press you further. But if ever you change your mind, know that Eregion’s gates will always be open to you.”

You smiled softly, touched by the sentiment. “And if ever you find yourself weary of the open sky, you know where to find me.”

He chuckled at that, a quiet, warm sound. “I suppose I do.”

The fire crackled again, filling the space between you with its gentle warmth. Neither of you spoke for a long moment, the silence comfortable now, the weight of earlier tensions fully lifted. And as you stood there, watching the flames dance, you couldn’t help but wonder if the bond you had forged, so unexpected and enduring, was a gift from the mountain itself���or something far more fleeting.

Elrond left shortly after your conversation, leaving you standing in the dining room of Durin’s chambers. 

You were about to retreat to your thoughts when the door creaked open, and Disa entered, her expression both curious and amused.

“Well,” she said, folding her arms as she leaned against the doorframe, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “Do I need to teach you about courting braids yet?”

You laughed, shaking your head as you sank into a chair near the hearth. “Elrond does not see me that way, Disa. And even if he did, he wouldn’t know what a courting braid is.”

Disa strode into the room, her presence as warm and steady as the mountain itself, and settled into the chair across from you. “Oh, is that what you think?” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “You underestimate him—and yourself.”

You tilted your head, a smile playing at your lips. “And what makes you so certain?”

She leaned forward, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Because it’s not Durin’s soft gaze and sweet words that keep drawing the herald of the High King back to Khazad-dûm.”

The laughter that bubbled up from you was genuine, though it carried a hint of embarrassment. “He comes for the Mithril, Disa.”

Disa waved a hand dismissively. “Mithril,” she scoffed. “He can talk all he likes about politics and need, but I see how he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching. And if you’re honest, so do you.”

You felt heat rising to your cheeks, and you turned your gaze toward the dying fire. “He’s an elf of high station. I’m just—”

“A treasure of Khazad-dûm,” Disa interrupted, her voice gentle now. “One who has given him more than you realize. You’ve shown him a world he would never have known without you. That’s more valuable than any Mithril.”

You shook your head, though her words stirred something deep inside you. “He has responsibilities, Disa. A life outside these mountains.”

“And yet he keeps returning.” Disa’s smile softened. “If that’s not worth a courting braid, I don’t know what is.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again, though this time, the sound was softer, more thoughtful. “You’re incorrigible.”

She grinned, leaning back in her chair. “I’ve been called worse.”

You stood, patting Disa on her shoulder as you walked towards the door and offering a saccharine smile, “I thank you for your council, princess. I will take it under consideration.”

Disa snorted “Pfft. Princess. You sound more like a politician every day.” 

You laughed as you walked out the door only to hear Disa shout behind you.

“Write to him at least! For Durin’s sake, it’s like watching two snails circle each other!”