#if the war was still raging...perhaps the response would have been very different

[utilitycaster]

I feel like we as a fandom had a lot of this conversation during Campaign 2 but redemption, however you may interpret it, is a process. It is not a binary of redeemed and not redeemed. And in the world of a D&D actual play, a lot of the hard decisions really come down to "is the harm this person did actively ongoing, or is it a past action with ongoing ramifications" and "will they stop doing this continued harm quickly enough for it to matter." It sounds cold to say that it's a risk-benefit analysis, but on some level, it has to be be. I think Bor'Dor was likely redeemable in some abstract sense, but could Team Issylra do it with the time and resources they had without risking their own lives? Probably not. I think the same is true with Liliana: if they had months in which to do this - and they have been contacting her on and off for a couple months, and every effort failed - maybe, but the clock's run out.

#like. i think the liliana v. essek discussion is a very thorny one though one i'm personally willing to have #but a big part of it is that his great transgression was already in the past and he hadn't done much more other than cover it up since #so it's like. yeah they can give him that time #i also tbh think that the fact they found out about him just before the peace talks was a major factor #if the war was still raging...perhaps the response would have been very different #critical role #cr spoilers #cr discourse #anyway. the coin flip should always land on its side.

[sayafics]

Cherry Season - Part 3

Thank you to everyone who interacted with part 2!

This chapter doesn't really include any smut, I didn't think it really fit considering the themes discussed but we have some angst and fluffy moments between Rick and Val <3

Hope you guys enjoy!!

Warnings: very, very vaguley discussed SA

Previous Chapter

Masterlist

Valerie had waited hours for Rick to come to her room - she laid under the covers in a long t-shirt, the cherry undergarments cast aside in shame of what her body truly looked like. She had concluded the best course of action was to keep the lights off and let him fuck her in the dark.

Yes, that would work.

So she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Rick still hadn't shown up, and she found her eyes growing heavy as they fluttered closed. There was a creeping whisper in her mind as she succumbed to sleep, suggesting Rick had perhaps forgotten the promise he made; or worse, he had found a formidable distraction in the woman who was still his wife.

The thought caused dread to curl in her gut, but the travesties of the day and the adventures, too, had her mind heavy with exhaustion. So, as the hours ticked by and Rick did not appear, she gave into a restless and fitful sleep.

***

Rick hadn't forgotten.

Of course, he hadn't.

He had been waiting as the minutes passed by agonisingly slow.

But when Glenn had come to him, pale-faced and mortified by what he had seen, Rick had been too consumed by anger- by confusion, to think straight.

A part of him, large and raging and fierce, wanted to go to her now and demand she confess the name of the man who hurt her. But there was still that aching whisper in him that worried, even as his anger bubbled and festered into something almost inhuman, that he would scare her.

And Rick couldn't stand the idea of Valerie fearing him.

So he waited, begging his raging heart to settle to he could go in peace and beg her to tell him the truth so he could help.

But his heart didn't calm, and neither did his mind. Rick sat in front of the fire they had built for the camp, head in his hands as he massaged his temples. His head grew heavy and painful as warring thoughts battled in his mind.

Who would do such a thing?

From what Glenn had described, the mottled bruises that scattered across her torso and her thighs wouldn't have come from just anything, just anyone.

It had to be someone from his camp - someone he allowed near her. In a way, Rick felt responsible for this. In a way, it was as though he had hurt her and bruised her and left her trembling and in tears.

Though he tried his hardest, he couldn't help but reflect back upon the past week where Valerie would avoid his every touch and his every gaze, when she would scurry away before he had even seen her in his vicinity. He thought about the way she flinched in his presence and the way her eyes would widen as she looked around with horrible guilt weighing upon her shoulders.

The lessons.

His mind would fall back to it each and every time, even if he reprimanded himself for such thoughts. Shane is his friend.

His bestfriend.

But Shane also slept with him wife and impregnated her, all with a smile whilst expecting Lori to still choose him.

But this was different - Shane couldn't hurt somebody. Not like this. He was a good cop, a good man.

Rick let out a frustrated groan, hands tugging his hair as he lifted his head to scan the area around him. The night had settled and a cool breeze rustled the tall grass the tents were set in, he watched as there wasn't even a hum of light from both the tents and Hershel's home.

Rick knew he would only grow more restless the longer he waited, but his heart burned with the knowledge of what Glenn had told him and he truly didn't know what he could do. What he would do.

There was only one way to find out; but first he needed to know if his aching thoughts were true and if the perpetrator for such abominable acts was truly someone he prayed it would not be.

***

Rick held his breath as he ascended the stairs in Hershel's home, his footsteps soft and quiet as he prayed no one would catch him in the act of sneaking into Valerie's room.

He closed his eyes in prayer as he twisted the handle on her door, hoping it wasn't locked. He let out a sigh of relief as it turned easily in his hand, and creaked the door open wide enough to slip inside. Rick shut the door behind him, hand slipping back to turn the lock and hope it was enough to deter anyone else from also coming in.

His eyes wandered across the dark room, tracking every mound and heap of shadows before a writhing form caught his attention.

Fearful whimpers sound throughout the room, and through the strips of moonlight cascading over Valerie's twisting body he can see the sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Rick's brows furrow in concern, and he steps forward to get closer to the girl.

"Valerie," Rick's whispers were in vain as even with his persistence, Valerie was submerged too deeply in the horrors of her mind to wake up without a helping hand.

Rick grew anxious at her flailing, rounding the bed to sit at her side as one hand reached for her face and the other for her shoulder. He shook her gently, hoping to rouse her from her sleep, "hey, wake up baby. 'm right here."

Valerie's body froze as she inhaled sharply, the pressure of hands on her ripping her from her sleep as the idea of her worst nightmare coming to life threw her into a petrified scramble. She opened her eyes as her lips parted for a scream to escape, but a hand clamped it shut and her scream died in her throat as her flickering eyes began to fill with tears.

God, this was it.

Shane knew. He knew what her and Rick did, and he was angry.

Fuck, he was going to hurt her.

She should've listened to him.

She whimpered into the hand across her mouth, unable to catch her breath as her hands held his wrist tightly. She wasn't sure if she was trying to rip him away or ground herself before she lost her mind.

In all her fear and panic, she had failed to notice how the hand that had sat upon her shoulder now rested atop her head, cradling it against a firm chest as someone hushed her cries and laboured breaths.

Through all the misery of the days that had passed, through the screaming echoes and the cries of protest that rung through her ears as phantom hands clawed at her skin and feral bites marked her body, a familiar voice sounded through her troubled mind and torturous thoughts.

"Val, I need you to calm down for me," hands so unlike the ones that had inflicted so much pain tilted her head up until her damp eyes met ones of sea-blue, so worried and concerned by the nightmares that haunted her.

Rick.

It was Rick. Rick is here - not Shane.

She was safe.

Rick wouldn't hurt her. No, Rick was a good man.

It was as though he was an anchor to her racing mind, grounding her and calming her even though her thoughts began to cripple her as the minutes ticked by.

"That's it, baby," his voice was so careful and so kind, and his eyes were earnest unlike Shane's, which grew sinister whenever he lost himself to his urges. "Take deep breaths for me, sweetheart," the hand petting her head came to brush the tears from her face, pulling her closer so he could press a kiss against her head.

His hand still rested against her trembling lips, but he had loosened his grip as he offered in a quiet hush, "I'm gonna move my hand now, okay? But I need you to keep your voice down - is that okay, sweetheart?"

His voice was so warm, his words so considerate. She couldn't help but whimper as she nodded vigorously in his embrace. Rick continued to hush her gently as he removed his hand, wiping away any tears that still remained upon her face. Her hands fell from his wrist as she threw herself against him in a tight embrace, hiccupping against him as her tears started to fall all over again.

Her arms tightened around his neck as she sobbed quietly into the crook of his neck, and Rick's hands came to hold her by the waist as he tugged her into his lap, before taking her into a solid embrace.

"It's okay, baby. It was just a bad dream, 'm here now. I got you. I'll keep you safe, you hear me?"

His words only made her eyes water more, her breaths escaping her harshly as guilt settled in her gut.

God, how she wanted to tell him the truth - to confess then and there what it was that his friend had done to her, how he had hurt her.

She had to tell him.

She could tell him - Rick had promised he'd protect her and Shane wouldn't be able to stay away for long.

Her arms loosened from around his neck as she pulls herself back from his embrace. For a moment, she debates sitting upon his lap as she lets the truth spill from her, but the roiling nausea that washes over her as she realises she would have to relive all that had happened to her made her pull away completely.

Rick's face fell in disappointment and confusion as she retreated from his embrace. She sat with her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs tightly as she struggled to meet Rick's eyes.

"Valerie," he kept his voice hushed, not wanting to wake up anyone else in the house. Rick almost sounded unsure as he called out to her, his heart thudding painfully at the sight of tears leaking down her face.

"I can still feel him," her voice shook as she stammered out the words, her eyes so tightly closed she could see a cascade of colours in the darkness.

Rick frowned for a moment, but then he remembered what Glenn had told him - the horror on the boy's face as he recalled what he saw, and the anger that tinged his voice as he confessed it was one of them. Someone from their group who had been so greedy and violent and monsterous.

Rick wanted to ask her a million questions - he wanted to know who he was, what he did. He wanted to know every thought running through her mind and every emotion swimming through her veins and consume it as his own.

But he stayed quiet. He waited.

Valerie met his awaiting gaze with a pitiful smile, her body trembling as she tried mouthing words that wanted to remain unspoken. She clenched her teeth from frustration, her hands reaching up to scrub her face as she took deep breaths.

Her deep breaths gave way to a cry that melted into a manic laugh, "fuck, I don't even know why I'm crying. It's not like he actually did anything."

Didn't do anything?

Rick couldn't help the scoff that escaped him, catching her gaze once more as he narrowed his eyes, "didn't do anything? Is that what you call the bruises on your body?"

She reeled back, staring at him with her gaze so much clearer - "how... how do you know about that?"

Her voice ended as a whisper as she sunk back from him with eyes stinging from betrayal. Rick only sighed, turning his body to face away from the bed as he laid his head in his hands.

He avoided her question in favour of one of his own.

He had to ask.

He had to know.

"Was it Shane?"

His shoulders almost trembled in anticipation of her answer, but she only stepped off the bed and walked towards the window as she bitterly spoke. "you didn't answer my question."

He looked up at her, incredulity in his gaze as he protested, "you didn't deny mine."

"That's not important."

He stood up as he marched towards her, taking her by the shoulders as he tried to catch her gaze, "yes, it is."

She met his wavering stare with a brewing glare, "was it Glenn? Did he tell you?"

Rick clenched his jaw and looked away, his hands tightening subconsciously as he tried to hold his tongue.

A part of Valerie liked the pressure, the feeling of his hands on her body - so different to the pain that had been inflicted on her, so much more careful and polite.

The other festered in hurt. Glenn promised he wouldn't tell. He promised to let her handle it.

"So it was Glenn."

"He meant well, Valerie," his voice was consoling, but it did nothing to stop the tear escaping as it tracked down her face.

Rick wiped it away before her sorrows could travel too far, cradling her face in his hands as he spoke pleadingly, "who was it, sweetheart? Who hurt you?"

Her hands covered his own, her eyes shutting tight as a shaky breath left her, "I tried to stop him, Rick. I told him it wasn't right," a harsh sob escaped her - one she tried to muffle with her hands her as she shook her head harshly, like she was throwing the memories out.

"I told him I only wanted you, but he said you had Lori- that it wasn't fair if you had us both."

Lori.

Lori.

It always came back to Lori.

His heart sunk as the truth now became undeniable.

This was Shane.

Angry, brutal, violent Shane.

His friend. His partner. His brother.

Something so unlike him, something so raw and angry overcame him. His face twisted as he pushed to confirm, "was it Shane? Did Shane do this to you?"

Valerie fell into his chest, collapsing against him as his arms wrapped around her and nodded vigorously. Apologies spilled from her tongue, like it was her fault and not his. Like Rick would blame her and not him.

Shane said he would.

"He's not going to touch you again," her hands tightened around his shirt, her tears dampening the material as he petted her head and pressed gentle kisses atop it. With every tear that soaked his skin, Rick felt every kinship, every memory he shared with Shane wash away and an anger so violent and harsh washed over him.

Rick stared out the window in front of him, his gaze landing onto Shane's tent as the thought of marching out into the dark fields now and taking the man's life rooted in his mind. Perhaps he would be merciful and shoot him.

Rick hadn't seen the marks on Valerie's body, but he saw the horror in Glenn's eyes. Shooting him would be too merciful. No, he would beat him and hurt him and make him feel the same pain he inflicted upon Valerie.

He would kill him. And then, he would let him turn.

It was as though Valerie felt his raging thoughts as his hold tightened around her and he shook in anger as his eyes grew cold and his lips curled into a feral snarl.

She moved her head against his chest, peering up at him with those pretty eyes of hers. When he met her gaze, his eyes softened as a familiar feeling washed over him - something he hadn't felt in quite some time, if he was being honest.

"Don't hurt him," her head twisted as she spoke in earnest, "you guys have already lost so much, I'm not going to be the reason you lose your best friend."

Rick parted his lips, ready to protest - she wasn't the reason he had lost Shane. No, the Shane he knew had died long before Rick came back to the land of the living and dead.

The Shane he knew wouldn't sleep with Lori. The Shane he knew wouldn't hurt women. The Shane he knew wouldn't lay claim over the people Rick loves.

Valerie placed a hand over his mouth, eyes pleading and vulnerable, "I don't wanna argue anymore."

Rick held her hand against his mouth, pressing a soft kiss against it as she sighed quietly against him, "just help me forget, Rick."

He brought her hand up higher, pressing trailing kisses down her wrist, moving to her shoulder, then neck before hovering over her lips.

"Make me forget the way his touch felt."

Rick kissed her deeply, pressing her against the window as she leaned up to meet his eager lips. There was so much unsaid between them, too many secrets and worries - all of it was spilled into this kiss. So loving, so trusting.

Her hands trailed up his neck, tugging the hair at the base of his skull as he groaned into the kiss. He could feel the dampness of her tears and pulled her closer in response, hands reaching down to her thighs to hike her up.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, her breaths shaky for a whole new reason as she pulled back from him.

They paused for a moment, staring into each other's eyes. A timid smile stretched across Valerie's face, a foreign emotion filling her eyes as she traced the features of his face.

She leaned back in, pressing a kiss against him lips. This one was unlike the rest they had shared - it was gentle and hopeful, it was desperate and wanting.

Rick met it in kind, a breathless laugh escaping him, which she replied to with stifled giggles. They fell onto the bed in a heap, laughing like children in love as they held each other and exchanged quiet kisses and demure gazes.

Shane was just a whisper in the wind now.

Her senses flooded with everything revolving Rick - his touch, his scent, his voice.

And in his arms she found a welcoming and soothing sleep.

Her trembling heart grew steady and full as she woke up in his embrace the following morning, her tortured gaze meeting his patient one. They laid in each other's arms as the sun steadily rose, trading secrets and tracing shapes on each other's skin. Nothing but languid kisses and explorative hands exchanged.

The following days, it was as though the sun had risen over the farm and filled it with the flurry of a blossoming summer's day. Where ever Rick went, he ensured Valerie was by his side. He was unashamed of the fondness that settled in his heart, bringing her snacks, pulling her into long embraces, holding her hand or waist when they walked together, pulling her onto his lap at the camp fires.

His actions didn't go unnoticed by the others, some who were sceptical whilst others were accepting.

Glenn had the knack to be shameful when confronted for his inability to keep a secret, but his guilty heart settled at the begrudging hug and quiet embrace he received from Valerie. He couldn't help his smile as he watched her with Rick, unsure of if this was his doing or if it was something that had been on the verge of happening from the moment they set foot on the barn.

Shane would glare at the pair, gritting his teeth in anger as he searched for any excuse to get the girl alone. But Rick was ever-present, with a knowing gaze and a silent vow for revenge.

Sorry if the ending seems rushed, there was a lot of things I wanted to include in this chapter, and I may rewrite it if I get time. There is only one chapter left for this series, so keep an eye out for the final chapter! (I promise there will be more smut!!)

#rick grimes x oc #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes #rick grimes x you #rick grimes fic #rick grimes fanfiction #rick grimes angst #rick grimes fluff #the walking dead #twd fanfiction #twd

[liiilyevans]

Ao3 still down? Are you receiving prompts yet?

If you are, I go different and ask Bleur announcing/find out being pregnant

For you, I will always be receiving prompts! As always, my French is very limited to please be nice :)

Bill had just finished packing and was taking a break when Fleur stepped into their bedroom. He was headed back to Egypt for three weeks, and Fleur was coming with him. Gringotts hadn't mentioned a permanent placement, but Bill was hoping that would be the next step. He needed to get out of Britain where the air still dripped with his brother's blood and the crimes of war.

Only Fleur didn't look happy. She looked pale and unkept.

"What's wrong?" Bill asked from his spot on the bed. He swung his legs over the side of the bed to get up and go to her, but Fleur was already across the room and crawling into his lap. That was when Bill knew that something was terribly wrong.

Fleur wasn't affectionate like this. She was teasing fingertips, lingering kisses, and light foot brushes. She wasn't clingy. Bill gently stroked her hair as she tucked her face into his neck, wondering exactly how he was supposed to comfort her when he'd never seen her like this.

"Mon amour, mon amour," she said softly.

"Je t'aime, je t'aime," he whispered as he kissed her forehead. "Ça ne va pas?"

Fleur just shook her head in response. Panic started to roil in Bill's stomach because in all the time he'd known her, Fleur had never been quiet. She was outspoken, perhaps too much. When she was upset, she raged like a sandstorm. This should have been no different. Yet she refused to tell him what was wrong.

"Fleur," he said, brushing the hair away from her face. "You're scaring me."

"I am pregnant."

The words froze something inside of him, turned it cold as ice. Pregnant. A baby. His baby. He and Fleur. Parents. His brain was short circuiting as he tried to comprehend what she'd just said.

He and Fleur had talked about babies, about having them in the very distant future. Once. First, they were supposed to go to Egypt. First, they were supposed to have their own adventures. First, they were supposed to live and grown together.

Now those firsts were all shattered like ice shards.

"Bill?" Fleur whispered. When he glanced down at her, he realized she was looking at him with fear in her eyes. Hurt zinged through his chest. He didn't ever want her to look at him like that.

"It'll be ok," he said gently. "We'll cancel the Egypt trip. I'll tell Bogrot that I can't go. We'll talk to Mum. Talk to your mum. We'll figure it out."

"You should still go to Egypt," she said as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "You were so looking forward to it."

Bill pressed a kiss to her hand. "That doesn't matter anymore."

He was going to be a father. Fuck.

#i'm on the angst train today #i'm sorry #bleur #bill weasley #fleur delacour #bill x fleur #my writing #answered #i really don't think vic was planned tho

[ignorethisatyourperil]

It is a misnomer to talk about the ongoing war with Hamas as the Israeli “response” to the events of October 7. It is even more of a misnomer to talk about the “response” being disproportionate or not.

October 7 was a massacre that started a war between us (I’m writing from Israel) and Hamas. A massacre is not a terrorist attack and a war is not a response to that attack. They’re different things.

It has happened before, many times, that a terrorist attack came from Gaza and Israel would respond, perhaps by blowing up a terrorist target in Gaza. Sometimes that unfortunately came with civilian victims because Hamas is well-known to place its rocket launchers and stocks next to homes and playgrounds. Either way, people would talk about the proportionality of the response. And because the recent events still may look, if you don’t look too closely (and if you don’t live here) like part of the same pattern, people continue talking about the proportionality of the “response”. It’s easy and convenient to just see this as yet another “turn of the cycle of violence” or some such platitude.

But that’s not how it looks to us.

What is a terrorist attack? A way of shocking the state/public with violence to get them to agree to something we want, to get them to feel that their way of doing things doesn’t grant them the safety they think it does. Possibly also to blackmail them into doing something by threatening hostages. A terrorist attack is finite in scope by design. The terrorists choose the target and kill people to make a flashy point. A bus stop, a car, a school, a tower.

Oct 7 was different. 2500+ Hamas militants poured out of Gaza and just started indiscriminately massacring everyone in Israel they could get to (besides some hostages). It wasn’t finite in scope. If the army got to them 2 hours later than it did, maybe we’d have 1600 victims and not 1400; some more hours later we’d have 3000 victims, and there’s no upper bound in this that’s due to Hamas itself. In fact, what we didn’t realize until some days later was that Hamas arranged to place many better-armed, elite units on the roads leading to the near-Gaza region specifically to buy more time for the ones going around killing civilians so they could kill more civilians. This is one reason the army came so late, seven hours or more after the initial assault, filling Israelis with helpless rage and dismay on the afternoon of that Saturday. It wasn’t the incompetence and disorder in the army – well, some of the blame lies there, but certainly not all of it. Rather, initial IDF forces came streaming south after a few hours – and got wiped out or delayed by Hamas units much more numerous than anyone had suspected. Only the second wave, a few hours later, was able to overwhelm them and get near the kibbutzes and moshavs turned by Hamas into killing fields.

The goal of the killings was the killings. Taking hostages may have been designed to coerce us to do something for them (free the prisoners) but the killings were not designed to coerce us to do anything in particular. They just really really want to murder all of us and got a running start to do as much as they could, until we stopped them. Combine it with the fact that it was planned and executed by a state-level entity (even if Gaza is not officially a state). It wasn’t a terrorist attack. It was a massacre that started a war, a war we’re fighting for our lives and intend to end with complete destruction of the state-level entity, Hamas, that tried to massacre us.

This is felt very keenly by basically everyone here in Israel. And with a war, the rationale behind a comparison of “they killed 1400, you killed how many?” evaporates. That’s not how wars work. Discussing “a non-proportionate response to the Oct 7 incident” sounds like nonsense, because the Oct 7 started a war, not a “response”.

It’s like if you said in 1941, “well, the Japanese killed 2.5k Americans at Pearl Harbor, and now the countries are at war. But the US should watch it, because once the number of the civilian victims in Japan rises too much above 2.5k, maybe 25k or more, that’s no longer proportionate to the Pearl Harbor attack”.

The analogy is not great because at Pearl Harbor most deaths were military, but I hope the point is clear. This whole line of thinking is absurd. Now it doesn’t mean that it makes no sense to discuss civilian victims during the war. There’re laws of war, and there’s an idea of a disproportionate harm to civilians – but the lack of proportionality there is with respect to the military objectives, not the initial Pearl Harbor incident. You can still discuss whether firebombing Tokyo was necessary or too cruel, if you’d like; but comparing that to the Pearl Harbor deaths is just bizarrely nonsensical.

That’s where we are, except it’s worse, because Oct 7 was not a military operation – it was an indiscriminate massacre enabled by a military operation, and we have every reason to believe Hamas wants and aches to do more of those whenever it gets a chance. So we’re at war to destroy Hamas. We do absolutely get to be judged by how we treat civilians when Hamas uses them as shields, and if, for example, we were to level a city block w/o warning to take out a single Hamas terrorist and 10k civilians with him, I guess that would be a pretty clear violation of laws of war. So I’m not saying Israel should be given carte blanche with respect to civilians and of course I’m not saying anything horrible like “flatten Gaza and kill everyone”, and we’d never do it, obviously. But comparisons to the initial massacre in terms of the number of victims just completely miss the point of what’s going on.

#Israel-Hamas War #Israel #antisemitism #Jews

[lwbu]

Love Will Bury Us

Chapter 11

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

pairing: aemond targaryen x targaryen!oc

summary: Alyssa Targaryen cherished chaos, its presence a comforting reminder that she was alive and breathing. But when dragons danced and fire erupted, her chaos was no longer her own. As the last of control slipped through her fingers, a hand came in its place—cold, possessive and unforgiving, and it belonged to Aemond Targaryen.  

content & warnings: f!oc, targcest, so much tension it hurts, slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood and violence, spoilers for hotd, canon character(s) death, canon divergence, morally grey characters, additional tags to be added

word count: 7.3k

notes: i’ve recently received so many likes it warms my heart. thank you so much for reading!

english is not my first language. all feedback is very appreciated.  also on ao3 and wattpad.

Breathing in the riverlands was easier.

Alyssa's chest heaved as she greedily inhaled, lungs no longer on the verge of collapsing. The air was fresh. Pristine. It must have been hours since she left the comfort of her tent and walked into fields of grass, bare-footed and heavy-lidded, awaiting the sunrise. Skies were different here, she decided, with their sunny spells and pearly clouds and shades she'd never seen before. She wanted to memorise them, if only for the image to haunt her dreams. If only not to dream of anything else. To be able to conjure it in times of despair; to rid herself from nightmares.

Eight days had passed and still her arrival remained the culprit for widespread distraction. Her father had rather rigorously forbidden her from leaving the tent without him by her side, and so Alyssa had been left to sneaking outside at the time when sleep was still a heavy cloud above. Most days, she'd obediently steer clear from interaction, choosing instead solitary walks across the fields. Usually, she explored the ground; only sometimes would she ascend to the sky, always begging for Blindfyre to keep silent, trying not to alert Caraxes. She found the lands pleasant enough, if not a little dull in their lack of variation, and the sense of safety that came with the reposeful lull lingering in the air provided a respite from the darkness, even if artificial and transient.

She didn't dream anymore. Refused to sleep at all, frantically battling against it, overtaken by excruciating exhaustion and more often than not succumbing into it forcibly, too strained to keep resisting. When her eyes closed, Alyssa's mind was too tired to torment her; no nightmares would come. This alone was a victory. She paid for it with bags under her eyes and the slight quiver of hands, and still it was worth it.

She hadn't even noticed the day beginning, too lost in her mind and the intricate details of the skyline. It was more blue than pink now, consistency in place of its previous various hues, birds fluttering around in fully-fledged formations. Chatter and clashing steel reached her ears a touch too late, and when she saw her father walking in her direction, no excuses managed to rise to her lips quickly enough. He gazed at her with a disapprobation that carried just a hint of poorly concealed amusement, and the heavy exhale of relief she let out in response was filled with composure.

He was different now. Different than Alyssa remembered; than the man who had left in the wake of tragedy, directed by both duty and rage. He looked like a man who chose to embrace the burning flames and scorch everything around. A man of war, indeed—and one who thrived in chaos. A man Alyssa had heard stories about long ago.

And lighter. He looked lighter.

Perhaps he, too, breathed easier in riverlands. It decidedly worked in Alyssa's favour.

"Lady!" One of the men, short and bulky and visibly sweating underneath the weight of his armour, waved his hand in Alyssa's direction, distracting her temporarily. Briefly and quietly, she admired his boldness, ill-advised or not. Not many dared lay their eyes upon her in the presence of her father. In fact, most men would steer away at all times. It could be he had not yet noticed the looming presence behind her.

Her fleeting grin was one of mischief. Innocent-eyed,  Alyssa turned to face the man, a questioning expression on her face. In different circumstances, she might have laughed at the eagerness she was met with. He was closer, now. Deliberately choosing not to acknowledge her father nearby.

Intrepid, to be sure. Mostly just witless.

"Will you be joining us on the hunt?" he asked, all charming smiles and dim-witted expressions of attempted charisma he so obviously lacked.

Alyssa's lip curled in amusement when she heard her father's loud, pretentious scoff. She rose to her feet and brushed idly against the leathers clinging to her thighs, and all along the stranger's eyes kept wandering about her body. He was now close enough for her to see them gleaming. It made her itch with the desire to step back.

No. She wouldn't.

Just a man. His hungry gazes mattered not.

"I hunt in the skies," Alyssa replied, back straightening just enough to exude firmness. Dominance.

He looked at her and did not see a dragon. He did not see anything at all—anything but her body, even if covered from neck to toe. She imagined his face on fire, burning and melting into nothing at all, the leering grin swiped away. If only she could set him ablaze, teach him a lesson about proper conduct, prove that he was just a sheep—

Daemon came to her side and soon enough they were staring at one another, a quiet battle without words, Alyssa snapped out of previous thoughts. He appeared to be wanting to scold her but lacking the required force, face soft and impassive. When Alyssa quirked an eyebrow, he let out a deep sigh.

The strange man must have left. Her skin no longer felt dirty.

A nudge against shoulder broke her reverie.

"Do not leave my sight."

With feigned serenity and indifference written over her face, Alyssa bowed deeply, fingers clutching the air where the fabrics of her dress robes would have been. "As you command, my Prince."

She left his side in quick steps and suppressed giggles, and soon enough was walking the perimeter of training grounds.

Admittedly, the numbers standing with her father were greater than Alyssa had expected. It would have warmed her heart to realise the extent of support Rhaenyra had, if not for the hissing whispers in her ear. They all hoped for gain, surely. This loyalty was borne from greediness and fuelled by conceit, and none of it would last against a better offer. How easy would it be for them to change sides, she wondered. To sway them into the other direction; to paint their banners green, if only the bidder offered high enough reward. Men such as them always thought themselves higher in importance than they could ever be. They believed to be deserving of more, too. Their greedy hands knew no limits; would readily take more and more until nothing else could fit into their grasp.

She watched them spar and thought of the past. Jace and Luke in the courtyard, both clutching wooden swords and mindlessly batting at each other. Rhaena's peeling laughter cutting through the air as they watched together from above, their hands steady on Joffrey's small shoulders if only to stop him from running straight to join the training. And Lucerys, always the first to land on the ground, cackling like a mad man, the sound echoing through the castle. More often than not, he would abandon the piece of wood in favour of attacking his brother with bare hands. Sometimes, Jace would cry in outrage, claiming he'd been bitten; sometimes, he would surrender altogether, too lazy to be chased around.

Sometimes, she thought about Jace. She wondered if the north was as unforgiving as she'd imagined it to be; if he found a piece of warmth at all. If nightmares plagued him and his grief evoked madness, and if his nights were equally as restless. If he'd forgive her, were she to ever tell him about her failure at revenge.

He wouldn't, she knew. And she would never dare mention it.

At last, her feet led her down a familiar path. Relief crept onto her face when she saw black wings and long tail. More often than not, she missed him. If she could, she'd remain by his side at all times.

But then she halted, confused.

His hair rays of sunshine, cheeks splattered with freckles, lips a red-stained contrast against light skin. He reminded her a little of that idle stable boy Baela had teased her about, only he wasn't nearly so tall nor self-assured. He would have been much like the others—a dot of little significance ruining the landscape—had he not been standing right before Blindfyre.

Close. Closer than anyone before.

Intrigued, she watched. Blindfyre's eyes were shut, flesh around the lids no longer wounded and scratched. Gone were the prints of sharp claws and scales torn apart; gone the stench of rotting flesh. Erased. Washed away not with water but blood; healed with yet another wound. The cut on her palm was now just a scar, angry and red and always on fire. A constant reminder of what she'd done. What she would do again, over and over until there was nothing left to be healed.

Healthy. Healthier, at the very least, than ever.

Freed from agony.

Yes. Yes, she'd do it again. She'd do anything.

"He cannot see you," Alyssa mused, hands folded behind her back. She saw the man flinch so violently he nearly jumped. Hiding her smile, she came closer. "But he might just smell your fear."

He offered a sheepish smile, letting out a ragged breath that might have been a laugh if not for the tension painting his face. From this close, she could see the light stubble on his jaw. His eyes were dark, she noticed. Warm. Like days spent under the heat of the sun; flowers in her hair and Rhaena's head in her lap. Like Luke and Jace and their silly swords. She stared him down unabashedly; his cheeks pinked.

As Alyssa's hand came up to brush affectionately against dragon scales, she saw the stranger cautiously step back. She snorted, not even attempting to feign composure anymore.

"You needn't run at the mere sight of me. I do not bite."

"But do you smell my fear as well?" He spoke silently, although in a less timid manner than she'd expected at first. There was a glint of humour in his eyes now; she watched them intently.

In response to his faint smile, Alyssa grinned.

"Perhaps. But I swear to you that my father doesn't," she replied, catching silver hair in the distance; catching the stranger search for it as well. Of course, Daemon was watching. His determination knew no bounds. Alyssa chose to remain blissfully ignorant. "No matter how many believe otherwise."

"It's quite rational for one to be cautious in the presence of dragons."

Her eyes scanned him anew, all golden hues and rosy cheeks. There was certainly something endearing about his entire demeanour, if endearing was what she searched for intently enough. But it were his eyes that had caught Alyssa's attention, warm like dragonskin, gleaming in an utterly unabashed manner. They were focused on her face and not her body, and this alone provided a short respite from the hunger she'd seen and felt on her skin.

In a blink, his gaze returned to Blindfyre. She wondered what glint lightened his gaze now.

"Wise words," Alyssa quipped at last, one, two, three steps closer. Even from distance, she felt the heat radiating from his body. "And yet it seems your sense of preservation has forsaken you. What was it, then, that made you come this close, lord...?"

"Oswin Roote, my lady."

Roote. Harroway.

Her smile grew just a touch wider.

"Simple men such as myself never get used to this sight. Most of us don't even get to experience it," Oswin continued, and Alyssa could detect the bewilderment painting his tone. "To us, these creatures are just stories. And now stories have become real."

She hummed. Decided to push further. "What do you think?"

His eyes returned to her. Brown. Golden specks, or perhaps just the sun's reflection flowing inside, bound by dark eyelashes. Wide and eager. So warm.

She'd never felt anything this odd. As though burned, she averted her gaze.

"He is... magnificent." He exhaled shakily; Alyssa saw his hands flail around as though he was unsure what to do with them. Then, as an afterthought, he added cheekily, "and quite large."

She found that her smile was genuine. "Yes. He grows fast."

"How odd of us humans to fight in wars and kill for gain. To think any of it matters at all, when compared to such mighty beings we are but mere dust.”

"And yet here you are. Fighting in a war and killing for gain."

Any remnants of smile were gone. He looked different now. Troubled. Weighted down by things Alyssa had long grown familiar with.

Duty, duty, duty. A fire burning entire cities and waves swallowing lands, and sometimes just a nagging headache that came and went but was never truly healed. Alyssa knew duty well. She'd come to know how to defy it, too.

"Ah, yes. Out of the belief that it is the right thing to do." His words lacked conviction, and this alone was further evidence of Alyssa's suspicions. Before she could voice it, Oswin jumped into another topic. A diversion. "What of you, my lady? Your arrival has caused quite the stir."

"Why?" she inquired, feigning interest. "Is it because of my name? Or simply my gender? This is no place for a woman, or so I've been told. Repeatedly."

Oswin nodded vaguely, scratching at his forehead. "Aye, that may be so. Although I think men were mostly impressed with the sight of you navigating through the air on top of a... well, I do not mean to offend you—"

Once more, Alyssa snorted, the sound so unladylike Baela would probably be delighted to hear it. Her fingers caressed Blindfyre's snout.

"You can say it, my lord. He is blind."

"How is it possible, then?"

She shrugged. "We are one being in two bodies. I see and he flies."

"Simple as that?"

"Nothing about it has ever felt complicated."

Again, the onslaught of warmth emanating from his eyes overwhelmed Alyssa's senses. Discomfort prickled under her skin as she forced herself to stay still, stay focused, do not run—

"Let me say, then, that I am deeply impressed."

There were dimples in his cheeks. She hadn't noticed before, too concentrated on the proximity alone. It felt like coming too close to the sun, its warmth no longer a caress but ruination coming with full force. Alyssa's feet were frozen, planted firmly in place, deprived of the ability to move. Perhaps she'd long melted away, too bewildered to even take notice. Perhaps standing in the sun provided too much comfort for her to actually want to move away.

Oh, but she truly was being pathetic this morning. Sun-dazed. Baela would love it; would bask in the glory of seeing Alyssa so out of sorts. Teasing her had, at some point, become Baela's favourite leisure activity.

"And let me say," she began, mind fogged and plagued by ridiculous thoughts, "that I might just be impressed by you. Not many would dare approach him."

"Then perhaps their sense of preservation is greater than mine."

Her own laughter startled her, and soon those warm, brown eyes were gleaming with something that hadn't been there before. His smile was small. Controlled. Shy, perhaps, though not in a conventional sense. Like a complete fool, Alyssa stood there and watched him, and she might have even stupidly said something more but—

Three men. Much older, their gazes like those of a hawk, entirely too confident in their stride. They were close enough to have overheard them.

Just like that, the warmth was gone.

"Have you come on the orders of Queen Rhaenyra, my lady?"

She didn't want to hear them speak. Didn't want to be there at all. She felt Blindfyre stir beneath her touch and irrationally—insanely—hoped that his jaws would open and breathe flames to scare them off.

They looked uneasy, eyes wide as they stared at the dragon. Good.

"Indeed. I intend to relay to her the stories of men who stand on the right side of war." No longer did she bother to make her voice sound pleasant nor mellow. If she noticed the curve of Oswin's eyebrows, she didn't acknowledge it at all. "Such loyalty is admirable and greatly appreciated. Our Queen deserves to hear of it."

She felt it before she saw it—a lazy blink of heavy lids, air growing muggy. The ground shook with the weight of strong limbs.

Emboldened, Alyssa smiled. "And the men here are loyal, aren't they?"

No longer asleep, Blindfyre's head brushed against Alyssa's side, the gesture affectionate in her eyes and threatening in those of others. She watched them rushing to step back, bodies colliding in the haste of it, and still they were too slow to make any difference. If she wanted to, she could have them burned. Flames would reach them effortlessly.

"Of course, lady. Of course! None of us would be here if not for our loyalty."

"Of course," she repeated, a hollow sound in the air. "Well, I do hope it stays so. Our way of punishment is fire."

The taking of Stone Hedge had been a quiet affair, and altogether quite the underwhelming experience for Alyssa. As ordered, she'd stayed in the skies to watch from above, and only returned to the ground when her father allowed it. Predictably, there was no need for battle. The opposing forces were nonexistent.

It seemed Lord Humfrey Bracken was every bit the old fool the council had deemed him, for his capturing had been quick and unchallenging. In a blink of an eye, he'd been pushed into his knees and begging for mercy. Next were his children, all four of them with gazes lost in the skies, silent awe as clear as the weather. Most don't ever get to experience such a sight, Oswin had told her, and his words had been written all over the chubby, boyish faces as they watched, completely mesmerised and red from excitement and fear alike. But it had been the women who truly caught Alyssa's attention. Because there had been two of them.

Before, she had thought she understood the workings of marriage well enough for a woman her age. Her father had been a married man since she remembered, once long before her birth, and each wife caused a different side of him to come into light. He alone was proof that marriage could be cruel; Alyssa had long acquired acceptance for this, growing with the stories of his crimes a constant echo following her steps. Such was the duty of a woman; such its merciless nature. Her septa had repeated the words religiously, hoping to at last make them stick. Had she been born a man, she would have no need to worry about it at all. Alyssa Targaryen was not a man, though, and so duty was her destiny.

But then came Rhaenyra, and somehow all previous sides of her father had blurred into something else entirely. No longer did Alyssa know what to believe about husbands and wives and the way they ought to operate around one another. Because her father's touches had grown eager and genuine and sometimes so pure Alyssa couldn't begin to comprehend it. Because there was a softness in his gaze she couldn't recognise nor name. Because he was happy, and aimed for his wife to share the feeling. Because his devotion was clear.

Because here he was, surrounded by fields aflame, raging a war against the realm.

Marriage was a concept of stark contrasts, Alyssa surmised. Her father had once killed to be rid of it and would now kill to preserve it.

There was stark contrast in the way Lord Bracken had watched both the women, too. And this was yet another side of marriage. One Alyssa abhorred with all her being. One she'd seen time after time; years ago, each time Rhaenyra's name had been uttered in Pentos.

Second choices. Had her father forced old Humfrey to choose between the wife and the paramour, his decision would without a doubt have come in a shouted conviction. She'd seen the way his eyes remained on the one clad in lesser clothes. Seen the pink hue of shame and anger on the wife's cheeks.

Second choices. Alyssa aimed never to become one.

There were things this war had taken from them. Things it would continue to take, again and again until there was nothing left. Things that, once stolen, could never be recovered. But sometimes—just sometimes—Alyssa managed to find glimpses of opportunities for gain. Sweet and honey-sticky and compelling, schemes bloomed in her mind and weaved intricate patterns, and soon blossomed into steel-shaped flowers.

Yes, she decided. There were things this war could bestow yet, none of them close to a second choice.

As was the case most of these days, Alyssa couldn't sleep.

Perhaps it was the fear paralysing her mind and forbidding worn out eyes from falling shut. It had long become a faithful companion, never leaving her alone for too long. Choosing to torment her instead, each attack more ferocious than the one before. Forming shadows in the corners, all with gleaming eyes and sharp teeth.

Still, falling into her habit of being obstinate, Alyssa blamed the restlessness on unfamiliarity of Stone Hedge. The chamber was small—suffocating. Her skin itched under the weight of obscure covers; missed the touch of those she owned. It was only this one night she'd be staying, but even this much proved too difficult to bear. Surrendering to the weakness, Alyssa left the too-soft bed and walked into the darkness.

She was surprised her father hadn't assigned guards to stand at her door just in case she would try to sneak out. It was likely a test on his part—and one Alyssa had already failed. It seemed she had long lost her ability to resist the temptation of entering the dark and unknown.

Alyssa remembered it well. It haunted her and didn't, and sometimes she was no longer certain of her own feelings about it. It went like this: a dark corridor swallowed by the night. Flickering lights serving as mere touches of reassurance. Pounding heart and dry throat, and a treacherous aftertaste of exhilaration. Steps. Close, close, closer.

It was like this now, too. A loop. No beginning and no end to the torment; a vicious circle of wanting to relive it and desperately wishing not to.

Only it was different. So different.

Not a shadow.

Golden hair, not silver. Dark eyes.

Oswin Roote with his soft, awkward smile, and gentle eyes and hands that weren't stained with blood. His presence far from a looming threat. The unknown she'd been seeking so.

If there was any disappointment to swallow, Alyssa did so without so much as flinching. Her madness—the one that appeared in short moments like this one and always sang of betrayal—did not control her. She wouldn't let it.

"Forgive me!" His eyes were blown wide, palms extended in a placating gesture. He was clad in the same clothes she'd seen him wearing the last time. Armour permanently attached to skin. A reminder, perhaps, that he, too, was stripped of freedom. "I didn't mean to startle you. In fact, I hadn't expected to see anyone here at all."

Oswin's hair was unkempt, a disheveled quality to the way he looked, and perhaps being deprived of sleep eradicated the previous shyness she'd found so endearing because he was now standing closer than he'd dared before. They breathed the same air. If he wanted to, he could lift his hand and put it on her throat and squeeze, cold fingers digging into skin—

No. Not a shadow. Not a shadow.

She needed to swallow this lunacy that so stubbornly fogged her mind. She was far from the Red Keep and desolate lands and rogue dragons. Safe.

"Neither had I." But she had. Only not this. Not like that.

A small smile lightened his face, soft and understanding, and it was so unlike anything Alyssa had lately been exposed to she couldn't help but gape at the man.

"Cannot sleep?"

"Most nights, sleep evades me," she admitted in response, wishing he hadn't asked at all. "What of you, my lord?"

"Oswin, please." And he must have noticed the shadow of doubt in her eyes, because his voice acquired a touch of reverence when he added a quiet, "I insist."

"Very well," Alyssa relented. To test it on her tongue, new and unfamiliar and not all unpleasant, she muttered his name into the darkness, a quiet echo of, "Oswin."

Oswin looked pleased; there was no hiding the way his eyes brightened. But then his shoulders slumped just enough for her to see, and Alyssa immediately knew that now came the time for late confessions she had no wish for.

"I haven't had a proper night's rest in a while. Since it started, maybe."

She could tell him, of course, of the things that plagued her. The opening was clear. Had she tried, it might have been easier, too—easier than pouring her heart out to ears that knew and judged her. Oswin was a stranger. He wouldn't know what she spoke of, and the words wouldn't reverberate through his mind as a song of betrayal. Most likely, they'd be forgotten before they even came; a whisper in place of memory, too insignificant to have been registered.

If only she were bold enough to say it aloud; if only her throat wouldn't constrict each time she even thought of trying. And she knew the truth behind it; knew wherein the fault lay. Shackled by chains of her own making. Bound with her own hands. Alyssa would rather never speak again—never at all—than speak of this. Of her weakness. Of the imprint Aemond Targaryen had left on her entire being.

His hands had never truly left her neck, even though they were long gone.

"Haunted are the eyes that have seen war. Mine might not have experienced the worst of it yet, but who's to say it won't come to that?"

Snapped back into reality and glad for it, Alyssa contemplated the next words. It wouldn't do to offend him, and yet she'd never been one for euphonious phrases.

Perhaps a little push would suffice without scaring him off.

His eyes were still so warm.

"So you allow the prospect of it alone to haunt you so?" She adopted a teasing lilt to her tone but saw the change in Oswin, barely noticeable to the eye.

He looked ashamed. Alyssa almost frowned; it wasn't his shame that she wanted.

"It is rather foolish." A scowl twisted his face. She could see the warmth turn into something else. Bitter. "Cowardly. I'm sure my father wouldn't take it kindly."

"I do not see it that way," Alyssa whispered. A brief touch of his shoulder and the grimace was gone, and she almost laughed at the simplicity of it all. "To fear it so greatly and still be here is a noble thing. It seems that you, Oswin, are a noble man."

"You are too kind, lady—"

"Are you noble at all times?"

Hesitation. It was brief but lasted enough for her to catch.

"I—I try to be."

"Good. I find it refreshing." As she turned to the pathway leading towards the bailey, she knew he would follow. And he did. Of course he did.

Perhaps it was his compliance or the loneliness poisoning her heart, or something else entirely that caused her to stop. Gaze back at Oswin, heavy-lidded. Unsure but firm as, softly like a lullaby, she muttered, "my name is Alyssa.”

They stepped into the fresh air of the night and she found she didn't mind the idleness of it all. Oswin kept himself at a respectable distance, but only just so, and more than once Alyssa caught his eyes taking all of her in.

At length, he described his life in riverlands. Revealed stories of childhood and his teenage years, not one to spare embarrassing details in the hopes of keeping his face, and Alyssa's delighted laughter was louder than it likely should. He mentioned the names of every person in Harroway, too, and then, when asked, provided a vivid description of it to satisfy her curiosity. They couldn't be more different, what with him being the only child raised by a dotting mother and her one of many children, utterly motherless. His life was that of peace and not chaos, and something about it was so unfamiliar and endearing that she couldn't help but try to soak it in. Alyssa offered little of herself, ever the enigma, choosing instead to listen and nod in appropriate moments. Not once did Oswin try to push.

When he insisted to walk her back to her bedchambers, she refused, citing all rules of appropriate conduct and the illicitness of their nocturnal meeting. He accepted the refusal with an easy pull of lips, going as far as to joke briefly about the scorching consequences of being caught. His cheeks turned crimson; she saw them colour under the lights of torches.

Once he was gone, she entered the chambers feeling oddly at peace. Light. If she tried, maybe she could even fall asleep—

And then she saw her father. The smirk of his lips was the image of vexation.

It had been a test after all.

"What is this, then?"

She quirked an eyebrow, pondering over her response. Even though he didn't look particularly amused anymore, this route was always the safest. She offered a smile that was obviously fake and curtsied, and immediately he scoffed in annoyance.

"It's me being a proper lady."

He cackled humourlessly, arms crossed against chest. "You should know, daughter, that a proper lady would never be caught in darkness accompanied by a man."

Her breath caught. It was unreasonable, she knew, to even think of it. She had ended it, hadn't she? Had broken from chains of torment and despair, and freed herself from the consuming wrath inside her rotten heart. Still, a flash of wildfire burned in her eyes; the memory of it nearly strong enough to force her to her knees.

Dark corridors and improper company. Such had been the beginning of her insanity.

She exhaled sharply. Willed her hands to still.

"But it was just Lord Roote." She saw him roll his eyes in response and rushed to continue, if only to spare herself from unwanted lectures. "He's a noble man. Dutiful. Quite obedient."

"A soft cunt."

It was her turn to scoff and she did so loudly, eyes ablaze. "I'd rather a soft cunt than a husband who has no respect for me. It was your own advice that has steered me into this path."

He pushed his back off the wall and stepped closer, and in his gaze she saw violet waves of fire. She wondered if her own stare was a mirror image or if, at last, she managed to outdo him.

"Yes, only I didn't expect my sagacious daughter to seek out the company of a halfwit." He didn't give her the time to respond. Before Alyssa could even think to repel the attack—to sink claws into flesh and tear it apart, to conjure fire—he was already cutting her off. "You said you wanted Harrenhal. I will give it to you, but this wimp will be of no support."

She had said it. Had pondered over the possibility long enough to sound sure of it.

Lately, all Alyssa thought about was any possible outcome of the war that brought at least a trace of hope for the future instead of misery. She was tired of being robbed; tired of the late acceptance that weighted on her bones whenever she thought about what they'd lost. She was struck by the sudden need to take, take whatever she could, take it all—

Harrenhal was a rotten place. She thought her heart might fit just fine in it.

And now there was this—the result of her thirst. This was familiar—two flames of differing nature biting at one another, each trying to smother the other. Each trying to grow.

Alyssa let go of last restraints of control. Felt her expression blend into one of quiet fury. Allowed fire to spread through the marrow of her bones.

"I want Harrenhal for myself." The air grew colder; perhaps she shivered from something else entirely. "I want my name to never come as an afterthought. I want a bland and forgettable husband who wouldn't presume to overstep his power nor think himself superior."

"You want a puppet—"

"I want to own!" The corners of her eyes dampened just so. Alyssa's fingers were rough when she brushed the wetness away, bitter and chagrin. Her words were dragon's screech and dying man's prayer and agony embodied. She blinked away the remnants of unshed tears. This was no place for them. "I want to own, not be owned."

His demeanour softened, even if only a touch. She saw it in the purple of his eyes, no longer ignited.

It was astonishing how often they ended like this—standing against each other and deep in a clash.

"And what I want," he countered, hand coming up to brush against Alyssa's head in an uncertain manner, "is for someone to stand by your side and protect you when I cannot."

But they both knew the truth. They always had.

Her father would continue battling against the greens, ever the fierce soldier—ever the man of violent mayhem. Protecting Alyssa was not the primary focus. It wasn't even secondary anymore. There were other things Daemon Targaryen needed to die for, even if he'd never come to truly accept it.

She clasped his hand into her own. "No sheep could ever protect a dragon."

The sigh he let out was a proclamation of defeat in itself. With his free hand, he rubbed at his tired face. She almost believed it was the end but—

"Pick another fool, then."

"Father," Alyssa snapped, fighting her way out of the embrace. "You said I only needed a husband for the satisfaction of the realm. Only for the council to shut up."

"No one in their right mind would believe I approve of this." He jabbed a finger accusingly when he saw the shaking of her hand. "You know it's true, Alyssa. You know that I'd never let my firstborn marry such a fucking twat—

"You think everyone a twat." She stepped back, lips curled downward, nails sinking into palms. "Just like you think each of my words senseless."

Soon, her back was turned on him as she feigned interest in the sombre design of the rooms. Alyssa was determined to ignore any of his following attempts to prolong the conversation.

When she heard the footsteps, she knew he was leaving.

"We fly at sunrise. The Queen will hear of your victory," she said before he reached the door. "And then I will mention Lord Roote, as well as my... affection for him. Unless you intend to break your promise already, you can at least try to listen now."

The deadly silence might as well have been the answer on its own.

"Go on, then," he hissed at last. "Have it your way."

There was a storm. She had waited so long to see the sunrise one more time only to be denied it.

Dark clouds and harsh winds had never deterred Alyssa from forcing her way onto the skies. Rain would cut through her skin and lightning almost touch it, and still she'd persist. Afterwards, drenched and shaking from the cold, face white and skin painted in blues and purples, she'd brush off Inid's voice of concern with a laugh.

Sometimes, she found a reflection of herself in stormy sky, her defiance painted with wild strokes in the eye of it, shape resembling a bolt.

Her siblings could never do this—could never be equally as free in a sky overtaken by storms. Their dragons were too weak; too reliant on their sight. It was different for Alyssa. Blindfyre was blind every day. Droplets of water in his eyes and wind in his face and lightning striking around in wild attacks could never affect him. Each time, they welcomed the opportunity to be alone in silent gratitude, soaring against the force of raging tempest. They'd always fared best in the worst of conditions.

The rain was unrelenting, beating against Alyssa's skin in sharp strikes, hundreds of blades cutting into her body. Blindfyre flew over riverlands in swift movements; with such speed, they'd be back on Dragonstone in no time. Her longing for it was quite ironic given her previous desires to leave it behind, but she did miss it.

She thought she might recognise the surroundings, having once crossed the same path. Planned to land by the river, too, and let her childish wishes come true just this once. But the weather was unyielding in its brutish force, and soon Alyssa's vision was so limited she decided to forgo her attempts at leading the way.

All would be well. It was a mere obstacle; a temporary hardship in the form of clouds darker than night. Blindfyre never needed sight to find his way home.

But Alyssa's eyes refused to remain shut. Some nagging sensation probed at her mind, a constant stream of shaky whispers that she couldn't make sense out of. Rigidity crawled into the length of her spine, and soon she was straddling the saddle pin-straight and uncomfortable. Her heart raced. Why would it race?

But why would it not, when she had dreamed of this just a few nights ago?

Hadn't she anticipated this very moment?

Dreams or not, there was no place she wouldn't recognise him. It felt odd to realise that she sensed him long before he came into sight. His voice came even sooner.

"Have you forgotten about our agreement, sweet Alyssa?"

A nightmare. A haunting echo.

Overtaken by dizziness, she held onto the chains. Clutched them tightly enough for her hands to go numb. Her lips drew into a sneer, teeth grinding, heart in throat.

He was close. He had to be close—just behind her, right there. Otherwise, she'd never be able to hear him through the sounds of storm. She didn't understand how he had found her. All she knew was the taste of terror on her tongue.

"Faster," she whispered. "We need to go faster."

Gone were the resonating waves of thunder and the persistent whooshing of rain, and gone was everything that wasn't him. His voice. His mocking laughter.

Blindfyre turned left, massive body in panicked disarray, only to be cut off by Vhagar. She was close enough for their wings to almost brush. Alyssa's heart sank.

"Don't you know it already? You cannot outfly Vhagar," he bellowed, ever so pleased. He looked it, too. Even from the distance she could see the cruel twist of his lips. "You cannot escape from me. Give up."

She wouldn't. Alyssa was sure he knew it, too, because he remained frozen in spot when she tugged at the reins to force Blindfyre to move. As though encouraging her to flee, if only to get to chase her.

She hated him. She hated him.

She wanted him dead.

"Faster!"

There was no grace in the flutter of wings. It was all fright and trepidation and the need to survive, run, leave without looking back—and Alyssa knew deep in her chest that Aemond wouldn't make it easy.

"Give up, Alyssa!" He was too close—he was too close—and there was nothing she could do to evade him. Blindfyre's screech cut through the air and was echoed by Vhagar's roar, and soon enough Alyssa no longer knew where one dragon ended and the other began. "Your little rune will not work forever! You'll always need more!"

"I need nothing from you," she gasped, all the oxygen in the air not nearly enough to satisfy her greedy lungs. Their bodies were aligned. When lightning struck, could see every detail of his face.

"But you do. And it pains you, doesn't it?"

Two beasts crashed into one another and there, high in the skies, she saw the wild gleam in Aemond's eye. It stole her breath and she tried to look away, to forget it altogether and couldn't—

She had to swallow down her wrath, blazing and burning the walls of her throat. Had to forgo the desire for revenge that returned with full force, Luke's face once more a vivid image before her closed eyes. Had to choose resistance—cling into it and sink nails deep into flesh and never let go, because losing it would be her own downfall.

There was no surviving Vhagar.

There was no surviving her rider, either.

There, in the distance, the sky was clearing. She watched and panted and tilted her body forward, grip on chains tightening.

"I thought you smart enough to be able to keep your word." Aemond sounded ever so calm, if not a bit vexed. As if he had any right to expect things from her. As if he weren't her worst nightmare. "Get down. It seems you need a reminder of what we want from each other."

"Kinslayer," she spat, and the word tasted like blood in her mouth. "All you want is battle."

Battle and victory and dead bodies falling from the skies, only to later be searched for by wailing mothers. Unfair games, constant and cruel and inhumane, never truly ending once they'd begun. He'd done it once, hadn't he? This was his way of fighting in a war. This was how he'd started it all.

It always began with a chase.

He wouldn't have her defeat. She'd rather jump from dragonback into the nothingness below than give it to him.

"Get. Down."

But she was tired. Tired of the sight of him; of the things he'd made her do. Of the betrayal that could only ever be his doing. He'd turned her into a traitor. Shaped her into a statue of fear and paranoia and overwhelming wrath.

And madness. Madness stronger than anything.

"I don't take orders from you."

And maybe it was this madness that had forced the word into her mouth. A distraction, she thought. An opening to escape. She had no time to plan nor think it through, but this was the way of dragons.

Haste and rushed and impatient, they burned.

It tasted like ashes; came out in a loud cry. Sounded like manacles falling off. "Dracarys!"

She knew the flames wouldn't reach Vhagar, but they were enough for the old beast to let out a startled shriek. Alyssa didn't wait to see the aftermath—didn't try to catch Aemond's expression, half-tempted by the idiotic wondering but strong enough to defy it. As soon as the fire extinguished, Blindfyre was diving.

Soon, the storm would end. As the skies cleared, so would her mind, and then she'd be able to think rationally, and then she'd be able to breathe—

Close. They were so close.

But then she couldn't see the blue skyline anymore.

She couldn't see anything at all.

Blindfyre's screech was echoing in Alyssa's ears, deafening and heartbreaking, and all breath was stolen from her chest. He was bleeding. Thick liquid poured over her hands, stench stronger than ever. She felt him shake wildly beneath her body. Heard his wings flap helplessly in the air. Heard them stop.

They were falling, she realised.

Not even the storm resounded in the background when Alyssa became one with the darkness.

#aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen #hotd #ao3 fanfic #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #daemon targaryen #targaryen!oc

[oz-posts]

Hera nickname possibilities part 2

Still focusing on Aimsey sorry, I have decided to delay the Guqqie one until we know what the hell is going on with A! Guqqie.

So... Some stuff happened, and it caused me to rethink several of the names and the importance of some themes, so here are a few I think things have changed for.

Required traits

Knowledge(curiosity as a fatal flaw preferably)- this is difficult, because it's actually surprisingly rare in myths, and often in different contexts as to what we're after.

Violence- this is self explanatory and fortunately very common in myths (in fact in even gcse level Greek and Latin there are at least 7 words for kill/die)

Space association- preferably with the moon, but that's a bit specific, and as most nicknames for Aimsey variants are masculine a bit difficult with Artemis/Diana's whole mainly female hunter group

Asterion

I still quite like this one, though for different reasons.

As I mentioned last time, Asterion is the Minotaur's birth name giving him an obvious link to violence, and as the stepson of king Minos he would have been a prince. There is also perhaps a knowledge connection with the labyrinth, although that one is perhaps a bit of a stretch. Also as the most popular translation of Asterion is literally " little star we have a convenient space connection as well.

Similarly, many people ( even in ancient Greece) felt that the Minotaur may have started off innocent but was warped by his father's rage and his imprisonment in the labyrinth. Which could perhaps mirror how little control A! Aimsey seems to have even in their own curiosity, which instead of reclaiming their own past and fate appears to be amounting to little more than a desperate grab for understanding and control.

Penthius

I hate Penthius.

He is such a a fucking perverted tyrannical foolish asshole and he deserved every bit of what he got " slave to my slaves" (δουλεύοντα δουλείαις ἐμαῖς) Penthius dear those are your people, as king caring for them is your duty you little shit.

But anyways

Firstly, as the main - mortal- character in the bachea he is part of a literal tragedy and we all know these idiots are doomed in every universe so unless they feel like being nice to us for once that's perfect.

If you don't know the story of the bachea I shall leave a summary of the plot at the bottom.

Despite Penthius's overall shittyness the themes fit perfectly. Firstly, as the cousin of Acteon he has a lovely little link with the moon - a very negative one, Artemis killed him, but so what- and with his constant war-mongering with violence as well. He is also royalty, and if you reinterpret his all around pervyness as curiosity that fits too.

He sought knowledge, and it killed him

Narcissus

This is a bit of a stretch here and I know it, but doesn't it just seem like the perfect, very derisive nickname for an alternate universe version of your ex who stabbed you?

Firstly, oh my God the knowledge association, Narcissus was cursed to die when he truly " knew himself" (A! Aimsey's urge to find out what happened to them?) and let's be honest that's probably the best case scenario for our lovely prince. He was literally killed by knowing too much, in this case about himself. Also, as much as we go on and on about the whole " narcissus rejected echo and she died because of his selfishness boo hoo!" Their deaths were very similar, if anything being simply an extension of the cycle of suffering cause by Zeus fucking around and someone else finding out. Oooh cycles... Could be parallel with A!Aimsey following in Tud's footsteps perhaps.

Again a bit of a stretch but I still kinda like it.

Bachea summary

First Dionysus arrives in Thebes and asks everybody to accept and worship him. Nearly everybody is fine with this but the king- Penthius- objects and refuses to believe in his godly power. In response, Dionysus mind controls all of the women of Thebes and they run off to the mountains and literally just sit there, not being a problem or anything.

Dionysus comes to talk to Penthius who tries repeatedly to threaten and insult the completely calm Dionysus. And reveals his preoccupation with sex and completely unfounded belief that the women are having a giant orgy on the mountain.

Penthius decides to attack the women but Dionysus "convinces" him otherwise ( oh look it's our good friend mind control again ) using his desire to be a voyeur to the non-existent mountain orgy. Dionysus then dresses Penthius for slaughter and parades him to the mountain where he is torn apart by his family.

Yay! I love happy endings.

#mcytblr #aimsey #mcyt #minecraft #asmp #aimsey smp #greek mythology #god im a geek #im definitely not using this to procrastinate revising some of these very texts

[peachyqueenly]

Okay so perhaps how I’ve said I see White Lily and DE has been confusing in the past, so let me try to explain it now that I think I have better words to do so-- putting this under a read more cause it got long.

We have the original White Lily-- she was sweet and kind. Wanting to help Cookies. She didn’t ever go out of her way to hurt others, and when she did hurt others on accident she felt terrible about it and owned up to it. Her moral ambiguity/greyness comes not from her lack of morals, but in how she can lose sight of them sometimes due to her curiosity. Even after being traumatized by a truth so ghastly it’d hurt anyone, her first response was a. how she needed to tell the others, and b. to try and help the Cookies at the banquet from succumbing to their fate, despite it seemingly being too late for them.

... when she fell into the dough, two souls came out of it.

You have DE, for one. DE is... but isn’t Lily. It’s complicated. DE is in direct opposition to the things White Lily believed in-- she is 100% willing to hurt others (even those under her-- Pom even isn’t immune to her anger and wrath when she’s feeling bad enough). And shows no remorse for said pain. However, there are parts of her that are directly informed by how she was once White Lily. Her feelings regarding Pure Vanilla for one-- I don’t think its complicated, she clearly just wants him dead imo. Which makes sense she likely has grown to see him and the other ancients complicit since they won’t give up their Soul Jam. But her seeing them as complicit is informed by the memories of Lily’s that stayed in her body.

For two, she does seem to put on the facade of caring for others like Lily did. It’s often how she ropes her minions in-- to offer them a place beside her and to give them what they desire. I could see this being a twisted version of Lily’s actual desire to help others.

The other Soul is who one would think of when we think of White Lily. How she came out of this is unknown as the story is incomplete-- my current guess is maybe something to do with the Soul Jam? As we have proof the Soul Jams carry the essence of their owner, yet have a personality and thoughts all their own. So perhaps as Lily’s original body was soured and burnt, her Soul Jam separated itself into a new conscious similar to the original White Lily.

I think they both had the memories-- but responded differently. From White Lily’s description in the artbook, its suggest the memory loss happened after the Dark Flour War. Saying she woke up somewhere with no memories of the past.

But yea. The two of them come from the same source, but they have gone on to live very different lives. And have handled things differently, so treating them as the same is reductive. It’s kind of a Ship of Theseus conundrum-- how much of the original White Lily can you take away before they’re no longer White Lily? DE has a unique appearance (yes they have things in common but there are still notable differences in design language), shifting personality, and different goals from her original counterpart. Some of her feelings are informed by who she split off from, and some of her personality is a twisted version of who Lily once was. But she outright rejects being Lily-- and Lily herself would likely reject DE as well (I mean she did fight her with the other ancients). So at this point, the two have gone on to live separate lives despite coming from the same source.

They read as two different sides of trauma-- repression vs anger. The White Lily that came from this either doesn’t remember what happened, or she chose not to tell the other four to run from the truth. DE meanwhile is so full of hate and rage from the truth that... its blinded her to the pain and suffering she’s causing other Cookies. She is now a monster Cookies fear too. 

That’s not to say anger isn’t justified when it comes to trauma-- but there’s a line in how much you can take it out on others before it becomes a problem. While being angry and frustrated due to what happened to you is extremely valid, taking it out on others who had nothing to do with it is a line crossed. And DE has long since crossed that line-- arguably traumatizing other Cookies now too.

To others though I can see how she is justified and sympathetic-- I can 100% see and understand that angle. I just personally don’t cause I know what both repression and anger from trauma feels like. And while anger from trauma is justified, owning up to it and recognizing you’ve hurt others is important too. And DE is completely unwilling to do that. 

#cookie run #cookie run kingdom #White Lily Cookie #dark enchantress cookie #they are the same but aren't but are but aren't but are but-- #its complicated tbh

[a-song-for-ages]

A Thousand Lives and One (B1)

alternately known as ; a thousand eyes and one

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Introduction < B1

Note: the amount of times i've written this and had it NOT saved. this is the last time - the third time. if it does not publish... then I'll cry

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Summary:

War came and war went, leaving behind a burning land and sons and daughters of the dead. Such is the price of war - spilled blood and sacrifice... such is the price of the Crown... the blood that the Iron Throne calls for.

And Saera Velaryon paid for it - as did her mother, as did her brothers, as did every Targaryen who rode their dragons into battle. They paid for it - the war they called for - in fire and blood.

And then Saera Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne, if only for a day, before she called for Fire and Blood once more.

For a Targaryen knows no rest, lest dragonflame claim then.

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The summary sucks because I suck at summaries and also because this is the third time I'm writing it and I have no braincells left to remember what I originally wrote which was a thousand times better than this muck.

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Part 1 | B1

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Warnings: angst (of sorts) ; major character death ; the whole "right person wrong time" vibes and and yeah

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They married on the night of her coronation -

"We best get the formalities out of the way," she told Cregan.

"If it is an order, then -"

"What if it were not?" Saera asked, looking to Cregan with a hard gaze. She was queen now, and the so called crown atop her head - a simple circlet of gold, not her mother's crown, or the Conqueror's, for looking at them only brought a sudden urge to weep and rage all at once - glinted as she stared down the man who seated her on the Iron Throne. 

He was a Stark - made of ice entirely, contrasting greatly to the fire that made her whole - and he was her mother's most loyal supporter... regardless of having never met the woman herself, he met her son, and then her daughter, both of them so different, yet so alike. 

One thing rung clear to him, the Warden of the North, that if Rhaenyra Targaryen had not the oath and fealty of his father, he would have still knelt and called her Queen, swearing his banners and men to her, for the children she raised and sent to him were not only of noble blood, but of noble character, and had only spoke of the Realm and their wish for peace. Not war - not like the Green's, who sought the Iron Throne for decades, it seemed. Not the Green's, who were the first to spill blood, declaring an end to a battle of words, and the beginning to a battle of steel.

Cregan managed a smile at his Queen, whose gaze remained hard - cold, it was, and strange, for Cregan could swear he saw a fire burn in the depths of her blue eyes. Fire that burns is surely no match to fire that freezes. 

"I would find myself hoping for festivities that would last a winter," was his response, and his Queen's lip had wobbled in the slightest at his words.

She would have laughed… had they been betrothed, and had there been no war. But all Saera felt after her ascension, was a heavy cloud of grief that began to weigh her down. But perhaps that was the Crown - or the price of it.

Saera wouldn't have known for very long - because she had soon married Cregan Stark in the godswood she would run around as a child, flowers falling from her hair. 

She was dressed as plain as a maid - her hair brought back in two plaits, the gold of the circlet that dug into her crown was removed, and Saera and Cregan knelt before the Weirwood tree, heads bent, appearing as they were… mere servants of the Crown - of the Realm.

And then it was her wedding night, and Saera and Cregan had only sat in the dimness of what was once the King's room - but was how the Queen's, and her Consort's, and Saera had whispered to Cregan, "Am I dreaming?"

"No more than I am," he whispered back, and he lightly touched her knuckles with the pads of his fingers, and Saera had looked at him, desperate for comfort. 

"Does it get easier? The loss?"

"War leaves a mark on men, and women," and Saera's eyes crinkled, remembering their talk on Valyrian and the fact that it was a gendered language, "one that never leaves. The pain never lessens, neither does the loss. You can only learn to live with it - the dagger set deep in your heart, frozen beyond thawing."

And Saera had gripped Cregan's hand just then, and he continued to talk when he noticed her closed eyes and listening ears, "You learn to live with it. But that does not mean it gets easier, or the pain lessens… you only get used to it, that constant presence."

And Saera had let out a ragged breath, before Cregan wiped away her tears, and she whispered, "I wish to see my brother… and my - my cousin."

And Cregan followed her - accompanied her to the room of her brother, who she only hugged and cried with. The boy refused to let his tears fall, but when Saera wrapped her arms around him, whispering in the tongue only they knew, his eyes began to weep. 

And then she looked to Cregan, and said, "Sweet Jahaera… my memory of Helaena. Will you bring her to me?"

And Cregan had nodded, going off to find the only living child of the late Princess, who Cregan knew, Saera never wished any harm, nor meant it…

And when Jahaera came, Saera had made her brother sit beside her, before she called the girl with open arms, crying, "Sweet cousin," and Saera broke down in tears when her eyes fell upon the emotionless ones of the girl who never made a sound - not even in Saera's arms that enveloped her, holding her, rubbing her back. 

"Are you of the same cloth as your mother?" Saera had asked. "Do you not like the feel of touch? Does it burn you as it did her?"

And Jahaera only said, "Only the touch of my enemies. And those of my father."

And it broke Saera, and it angered Aegon, and Saera had decided just then, as she let out a breath, "It is alright, then, for you to hate a person. But I ask that you have that person be responsible for our shared pain. I ask that you hate the ones who lusted after a throne that was never meant to be theirs - whoever that may be."

And Jahaera had only looked at her cousin - the Sad Queen, and she remained silent. 

When Aegon had fallen asleep, his hands fisted into her nightgown, Saera had asked, "Should you wish to retire to your own room, little Dragon? Or will you remain with me, the last of your House?"

Saera did not blame her when she said, "There is none left of my house." And the girl's lip pursed as she said, "I should like my room, your Grace."

And Saera bit her lip, reaching to touch Jahaera's hair - but refrained from doing it at the last minute, remembering how the girl expressed her dislike for her. 

She would not force the girl to conform to her ideologies. If she believed her father was the rightful king, then let her think so. If she believed her mother to be Maegor come again, then let her believe so. 

Jahaera was a girl - young, like Saera had once been, and she knew, further antagonizing the girl, would only make her seek to follow the footsteps of her mother… and Saera had seen enough death. So she let her go, the daughter of the Usurper King.

The two of them were similar, Saera had thought, walking with her cousin to her room, flanked by guards, after all, it was Jahaera, too, who helplessly watched her brother be killed.

With a heavy, torn heart, Saera bade her cousin goodnight, before she returned to Aegon's room, where Cregan was sat on the chair beside the bed, his head tilted back, eyes closed - but one opened when she opened the door, and he sat up, greeting her with the intensity of his grey eyes.

"Forgive me," she had whispered, "for I have not done my duty as your wife."

"We've enough time for duty," Cregan said. "Now, is time for rest."

And Saera had looked at him, a sad pout on her lips as her eyes filled with tears once more. Would it ever end? The crying? She almost wanted to ask Cregan if he cried for his lost brother still - but she stopped herself, knowing what it felt like to have the strings of her heart be pulled. She would not dare do it to him. Not now. Not ever.

"Then come rest," Saera had said, going onto the bed, her back facing Aegon's sleeping form, "with me, husband."

And Cregan had joined after her, holding onto her, and kissing her head, her crown, and her fingers - especially when they began to tremble and shake and hold onto the soft cotton of his tunic. 

The three had fallen asleep like that - with Saera's back turned to Cregan, and her arms holding tightly onto Aegon, and with Cregan's own arms draped over her and covering her hands that held the boy. 

They slept, but Saera woke in a sweat, and Cregan woke after her, having to hold her tightly as she began to gasp softly, whispering to her that it was done - the war was done - it was over, there would be no more bloodshed, and Saera had forced herself to calm, especially when Cregan said, "Little Egg is here, he is safe. You are safe. I swear it." And Saera had turned to him, before she made to sit on the edge of the bed, breathing. 

"I shall fetch you some water," Cregan said.

"No need, Creg," Saera whispered, but her husband had only said, "Wait here."

She assumed he needed a walk - wondered if his skin crawled as hers did, remembering the faces of the ones they both had lost. 

She felt ill just then, and even though her husband had told her to wait for him, she felt the world spin and the air burn with a haze, spinning around her.

It reminded her of Gaelithox, her beloved dragon, and the memories of that great loss had her heart screaming for release - for reprieve.

Not wanting to awaken her brother, Saera had brushed his hair past his forehead, and pressed a gentle kiss to it. 

He shuffled, and his hand caught hers, and Saera only left when her tears threatened to spill with the cry caught at the back of her throat.

She left the room, and dismissed her guards, saying, "Protect my brother, and tell my husband I shall come soon." 

And Saera had walked aimlessly - she hadnt recognized the Red Keep, and immediately knew she would remove every inch of Hightower from it. Every inch of the Faith. They were the cause for this, she raged, her heart looking for others to blame.

And before she knew it, she was facing the skull of Balerion - Meraxes was on an altar beside him, and she breathed in, before she fell to her knees, crying as broken Valyrian words left her mouth.

When her tears finally died down, as did the sound of her voice, Saera made herself stand.

"Even when I am brought to my knees," she croaked, staring into the empty sockets of the skull of the great Black Dread, fire dancing in her eyes - as if taunting the dragon - the god of death that he was named after, I am alive, and you are not, is that why you continue to take from me? 

"Still, I will rise." A statement? Or a promise? Whatever it may have been - it was between Saera, who had lost so much, and Balerion, the Valyrian god who had taken so much from her… it was between them two, a secret whispered in Valyrian, a promise that would prove to be true… but only when Saera had felt a sharp pain in her chest, and she had breathed in…

And she registered what was happening…

Balerion. Death. Have you come again?

And her ribs burned, and her blood fell, staining the back of her nightgown.

You coward.

But she was weak, and tired, and she had no fight left in her, not as she remembered the feeling of dying beside her dragon, and only awaking with a shout of a word, "Dracarys," did she repeat it - her first word would be the last she uttered… a whisper, a prayer, a promise.

And so did Saera Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, First of Her Name, fall to her knees as her assailant released the blade that was dug into her back - a cowardly act - with a smile on her face as the blood that stained her gown grew.

At last, an end. 

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Man do I hope this is the end of me writing this chapter and editing it a thousand times because I. Am. Tired. Of Tumblr fucking me up.

Anyways hope yall enjoyed thisssss. (It's not the end. Nor the beginning. It's quite literally the middle of a story that's at it end bit also it's beginning - does that make sense? Eh.)

#oc: saera targaryen #a thousand lives and one #wip: a thousand eyes and one #atlao: part 1 #oc: saera velaryon #cregan stark #rhaenyra targaryen #aegon iii targaryen #jahaera targaryen #dracarys

[robininthelabyrinth]

Polyphonic 

Chapter 3 ao3  (alt: tumblr pt 1, pt 2)

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Lan Qiren wanted to speak to Wei Wuxian about everything they needed to do, but it would have to wait: the moment they arrived, they were immediately swept up into the political mess that Jin Zixun’s ill-fated ambush had caused.

Jin Guangshan was there in the blink of an eye, despite normally taking his time in seeing anyone, and Lan Qiren didn’t like the way he started making excuses for his nephew’s behavior from the very start. It was to a certain degree understandable, as everyone would first incline towards defending their family, but the haste with which Jin Guangshan sought to sweep it all under the rug was disconcerting, and Lan Qiren thought it was almost suggestive of some level of premeditation. Even more distasteful, however, was how he sought to twist the entire event into being yet another reason Wei Wuxian ought to surrender the Stygian Tiger Seal to the Jin sect: for his own good, of course, in order to avoid being made into a target on account of the disdain of the cultivation world –

“Sect Leader Jin, your words are in poor taste,” Lan Qiren said sharply.

He could hear Jiang Cheng, who ought to be defending Wei Wuxian and was trying his stuttering best to do so, starting to waver; the boy had a pleasant rippling melody by nature, forced into a fierce allegro by his parents’ endless disputes and his later tragedies, and the weak foundation meant that he was too easily buffeted by uncertainty and doubt, as Jin Guangshan undoubtedly knew.

“Let us not speak in abstraction,” he continued. “It was your sect, your nephew, who launched this particular ambush. You ought to be making a formal apology to Wei Wuxian and thinking of reparations to repair the injury to your sect’s reputation, not acting like a thief complaining to the magistrate that his victim failed to hand over his property quickly enough to prevent violence!”

Jin Guangshan’s eyes narrowed in irritation, though he fought to keep the expression off his face as if it could disguise the swell of bitter rotten music that accompanied him wherever he went. “Teacher Lan,” he said, striving for composed and charming but mostly coming off as stiff and wooden. “Come now, I must be misunderstanding you. Surely you are not accusing me of being a thief.”

Historically, as Jin Guangshan well knew, this was when Lan Qiren backed down, mindful of his position as interim sect leader – his sect granted him much of the responsibility but not the full measure of power that typically accorded with the title, and he was conscious, always, that his role was to ensure there was something preserved for his nephews to inherit.

Perhaps Jin Guangshan had forgotten that Lan Qiren was no longer interim sect leader.

“I am describing the facts as I see them,” he said icily, straightening his back and levelling his best teacher’s glare, refined by years of troublesome students. “And they are this: by the agreement of the cultivation world and through his own powers, Wei Wuxian was inviolate and unbothered as long as he remained in the Burial Mounds. Despite this, he willingly chose to emerge in response to an invitation issued by your sect, only to be attacked by your sect – and when he comes to you for justice, rather than grant it to him, you suggest that he hand over his most prized possession to prevent any similar attacks in the future. Unfamiliarity may require me to consult my sect’s texts to be sure, Sect Leader Jin, but only to determine if I should be calling it extortion, blackmail, or outright thievery!”

“Teacher Lan!” one of the smaller sect leaders gasped, even as Jin Guangshan went utterly florid with rage. “You’re not suggesting that Jin-gongzi was involved in the ambush!”

Lan Qiren had been Jin Zixuan’s teacher and knew him well – he had been a shy, introverted boy whose awkwardness came off as aloofness, and would never have done anything like this. Even less so would Lan Qiren suspect such a thing of the man who had been steadied by war and responsibility into an adult with a firm moral foundation.

“No,” he said, and met Jin Guangshan’s eyes directly. “I believe Jin-gongzi’s invitation to have been wholly sincere.”

For a moment, Lan Qiren thought Jin Guangshan was actually going to strike him, his aura lashing out violently like a clash of cymbals, discordant and biting, and he braced himself, but in the last moment etiquette prevailed and Jin Guangshan refrained, although his fists were clenched so tightly that his veins stood out from the backs of his hands.

That was when Wei Wuxian opened his mouth.

Lan Qiren silenced him with the muting spell before he could get out a single syllable.

Jiang Cheng sent him a thankful glance and cleared his throat. “This is a serious matter,” he said. “It requires a full investigation; we won’t be able to solve it all talking now. Both Wei Wuxian and Teacher Lan have traveled a long way – I have no doubt that they need some time to rest and refresh themselves.”

A convenient way to stop anyone from starting a fight, and implicitly excusing Lan Qiren’s rudeness as a mere symptom of exhaustion, resolving the whole thing without losing any more face for anyone. The Jiang sect’s boy was picking up this whole politics business quite well, the poor child.

“I concur,” Jin Guangshan said, recovering a little of his poise. “There are rooms ready for you both.”

Lan Qiren inclined his head as well. “An excellent idea,” he said, and then, because he could now, added, “We can discuss reparations for the ambush later.”

“And what about the curse?” Jin Zixun hissed, clearly done with holding his tongue the way everyone had been so obviously instructing him with their eyes. “Am I to simply suffer while that criminal walks free and unharmed?”

“When I said there would be an investigation, I meant it!” Jiang Cheng snapped. “I doubt your curse is so advanced that it can’t wait another day, and if it is, then you should have brought it up earlier!”

“Why you –“

“Sect Leader Jiang has spoken,” Jin Zixuan interrupted, his voice hard. “Zixun, don’t forget that you must also answer to me as to what you did to my guest in my name without my permission. I think it might benefit you to ‘rest and refresh’ as well. One of the servants can take you to see a doctor.”

Jin Guangshan seemed on the verge of objecting, but Jin Zixuan seemed not to get the hint, already turning his face away.

“In the meantime,” he said, saluting politely, “Sect Leader Jiang, Wei-gongzi, would you come with me? A-Li is waiting to see you both.”

Lan Qiren allowed himself to be whisked off in a different direction to settle down, which in all honesty he did need to do. He hadn’t flown such a distance in years, had been in better health when he’d done so, and he had been tired even before all this excitement; some rest would do wonders for him, even if it did make him feel a bit like he’d become a doddering old man or an invalid. Before he could settle down, though, he heard a sound approaching – a little uneven, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow – and despite the fact that Jin Guangyao had never been anything but polite to him, he felt his back tense up at the reminder of why he was here in the first place.

“Honored teacher,” Jin Guangyao said, smiling and saluting deeply – more than he should, really, given that Lan Qiren was neither a sect leader nor had ever been his teacher. “Welcome to Jinlin Tower. I regret that your arrival was marred by such unpleasantness, and hope that the remainder of your visit is calmer.”

It’s not Jin Guangyao’s fault that Lan Xichen likes him, Lan Qiren reminded himself. Your suspicions, and your family’s terrible luck at love, are your own burdens to bear. They should not be put onto others.

He nodded to Jin Guangyao.

“It would be good to see a peaceable resolution to today’s events,” he said neutrally. “I appreciate that you have come to check on me personally. It is truly going above and beyond the call of duty.”

“Your nephew is my sworn brother, Teacher Lan. How could I fail to honor you as my elder?” Jin Guangyao said smoothly. “Let me know if there’s anything we can do to make you more comfortable.”

“A bath before dinner would be nice. Has my nephew arrived yet?” Lan Qiren privately hoped that he hadn’t, and was relieved when Jin Guangyao shook his head, confirming it. “Let me know when he does.”

“Of course,” Jin Guangyao said, and saluted again. “I’ll inform the servants; a bath will be made ready for you by afternoon.”

The moment Jin Guangyao left the room, Lan Qiren traced the pattern along the hem of his robes that shook off the dust of the road, returning them to being as clean and pristine as always – not a long-term solution to laundry, but very effective in the short-run, and one that he’d only refrained from doing earlier in order to drive home the point regarding how he had also been victimized by Jin Zixun’s ambush.

It was a profound relief to be clean again.

Once he could no longer hear Jin Guangyao’s familiar chords, he relaxed, which unfortunately these days meant coughing. He rubbed his chest when he was done, sighing, and settled down with his guqin to start playing a little, hoping to ease his nerves. Lan Xichen would be on his way already, he knew, and would probably move even faster once he got word regarding Lan Qiren’s presence. He’d made rather a lot of trouble for his nephew…

The door slammed open, and only years of experience with troublesome children, along with the warning echo of a song free and clear, full of shining righteousness, allowed Lan Qiren to remain unmoved by the cacophonous crash.

“So I have questions,” Wei Wuxian said. “Many, many questions, and I’m going to want answers to…uh, are you all right?”

Lan Qiren ignored Wei Wuxian’s rush, finishing the stanza he was playing and letting his hands still over the guqin. “Sit, and I will answer your questions to the best of my ability.”

Wei Wuxian closed the door behind him and put up a talisman for privacy, like the ones they used to use during the war, before coming to sit across the table from Lan Qiren. He was frowning. “Honored Teacher Lan, your lips are red,” he said cautiously. “Were you coughing up blood just now?”

“An old injury from the war,” Lan Qiren said, unable to resist recalling the memory of Wen Xu’s wild smirk as he’d deliberately smashed his ribs into pieces, grinding his palm against Lan Qiren’s chest to force the broken pieces to pierce his lungs. Nie Mingjue had executed Wen Xu only a few months later, a matter that had greatly eased his nightmares…truly Lan Qiren had to get to the bottom of this mystery as soon as possible; once Lan Xichen’s name was cleared, he could focus on trying to devise a solution to cleanse Nie Mingjue of the spiritual poison. “It can be aggravated by excess choler. Do not concern yourself about it.”

Wei Wuxian looked like he was concerning himself about it. “But you nearly –” Lan Qiren glared until he dropped the volume of his voice significantly. “You nearly got into a fight with dozens of cultivators back at the Qiongqi Path on my behalf! Wouldn’t that have aggravated it even worse than just getting angry?”

“Much worse,” Lan Qiren agreed peaceably. “My talents in battle are not especially notable, although better with the guqin than the sword. Regardless, the effort expended would almost certainly result in a severe backlash later.”

Wei Wuxian gaped at him. “Then why did you do it?”

“Was there an alternative?”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth opened and closed a few more times.

“How are your shijie and shizi?” Lan Qiren asked when it appeared that Wei Wuxian was not going to force any words out of his mouth any time soon. He folded his hands together in an appropriate manner – he, at least, knew his etiquette, and would continue to model it in the hope that Wei Wuxian might one day catch a hint. “Well, I trust?”

“Uh, yeah, they’re great. Jin Ling is perfect, shijie is wonderful, the peacock doesn’t deserve either of them, though he’s gotten better, I guess,” Wei Wuxian said, then shook his head as if to clear it. “And I wouldn’t have been able to see either of them if not for you.”

Personally, Lan Qiren didn’t think one Jin Zixun and any number of his friends would actually be able to stop Wei Wuxian, preplanned ambush or no, so he just hummed noncommittally. “You said you had questions?”

“Yeah, and now I have even more,” Wei Wuxian grumbled, but he seemed to settle down a little. “Let’s start with the fact that you said you needed help on a musical issue, but that it is also somehow an attempted murder. What’s that about?”

Lan Qiren grimaced. “Serve tea,” he instructed Wei Wuxian, and waited until he was midway through the process – and thus not staring straight at Lan Qiren – to start talking. “I have reason to believe that Nie Mingjue has been poisoned with spiritual poison.”

Wei Wuxian nearly spilled the tea, but managed to stop himself in time. “Chifeng-zun? Impossible!” Then he frowned. “I’d heard his temper was getting far worse, of late. Just mentions of it in passing…you think it’s because of that?”

“It may be. The Nie sect is prone to encountering qi deviations; a spiritual poison, especially one that specifically targets choleric feelings such as irritation and rage, would be particularly insidious when aimed against them. Should he die, everyone might be inclined to assume that the cause was hereditary rather than external.”

“A perfect murder. What type of poison?” Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows went up. “Wait – you think – musical poison?”

“My sect is renowned for using musical cultivation as healing techniques,” Lan Qiren pointed out, not sure why it seemed to come as such a shock to Wei Wuxian. “Antidotes grow alongside poisons, and all that can heal can also hurt – anyway, isn’t what you do a type of musical cultivation as well?”

“Good point,” Wei Wuxian said ruefully. “All right, that makes sense. That definitely seems like a real problem…but why do you need my help?”

“My health is poor, and I do not know what such an investigation will require,” Lan Qiren said. “And I cannot ask anyone in my sect to assist me.”

“Why not?”

“Because the primary suspect,” Lan Qiren said heavily, “is Xichen.”

Wei Wuxian stared.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a few long moments of blank gawping. “Please forgive me, honored teacher, but I think I misheard you. Are you saying that you think Zewu-jun is poisoning Chifeng-zun?”

“I hope dearly that he is not, of course,” Lan Qiren said. “In fact, part of the reason for my desire to investigate privately is to assist in clearing him of suspicion –”

“No, no, hold on, don’t move on just yet,” Wei Wuxian said, holding up his hands. “You think Zewu-jun – Lan Xichen! – might be capable of poisoning his sworn brother and, as far as I know, best friend? Your nephew?”

“Yes.”

“You really think he’s capable of something like that?”

“I have done my best to raise him to be the sort of man who would not be,” Lan Qiren said, and thought suddenly of his own brother – their father had treasured him, cared for him, valued him above all else. Would he have ever imagined that he would do what he had done and end up living out his life in seclusion, only to die pointlessly at the hands of the Wen sect? “And yet, who’s to say?”

“Uh, me? All the cultivation world? It’s Zewu-jun! He’s one of the most upright people I’ve ever met! You might as well suspect Lan Zhan – you don’t, do you?”

“No,” Lan Qiren said. He appreciated the righteous crescendo in Wei Wuxian’s voice, particularly when Lan Wangji was mentioned – unfortunate as it might be to find that Lan Wangji’s seemingly hopeless affection might actually be requited, since it remained a terrible idea – but it was a little inconvenient at the moment. “But equally I cannot burden him with the duty to suspect his brother. It would only hurt him.”

Wei Wuxian quieted down at that. “I can see that,” he said, grimacing. “But…why would you suspect Zewu-jun?”

“The evidence is – suggestive.” Lan Qiren shook his head. “To be clear, while I will of course value the truth above all else, I am not looking for evidence of Lan Xichen’s guilt. I am hoping to exculpate him.”

Wei Wuxian leaned forward, now frowning in earnest. “All right,” he said. “I still don’t really believe it, but other people might, and that’s bad enough. Even unfounded rumors can make for real trouble. Tell me what you know about it.”

“My nephew has been helping Nie Mingjue to ease the symptoms of his familial tendency towards qi deviations by playing him one of the strongest and most secret Lan sect healing songs,” Lan Qiren explained. “The spiritual poison I have observed in Nie Mingjue’s body is precisely a variation on that healing song – only instead of the pure version, which is designed to calm and heal disrupted qi, it is intermixed with another song that deliberately encourages spiritual turmoil.”

“All right. I suppose playing for Chifeng-zun gives Zewu-jun opportunity, but that doesn’t mean he’s the only one who could’ve applied the poison song.”

“The Song of Turmoil is a rare import, hidden away in one of sect’s forbidden books. Only very few people have access to that part of our collection.”

Wei Wuxian arched his eyebrows. “And yet you can immediately recognize it?”

“I enjoy studying obscure musical texts as an aid in composition,” Lan Qiren said, mild censure in his voice. “Would you dare claim you do not do the same?”

“…fine, fine, good point.” Wei Wuxian waved his hand. “Okay, fine…still, I’m not convinced. Even if the only source of the song is the Lan sect’s library, there was a lot of chaos these past few years. Someone else could have picked it up, couldn’t they?”

“It’s possible,” Lan Qiren admitted. “Unfortunately, the tune had the same starts and stops that are characteristic of Xichen’s playing.”

As a musical cultivator, even Wei Wuxian had to concede that the unique quirks of playing style were difficult, although not impossible, to replicate, and moreover that one would have to wonder why anyone else would bother doing so, especially in a spiritual poison they presumably hoped would go entirely undetected. He rubbed his forehead, clearly thinking it over. “So, wait, are you saying you heard this musical poison getting played? Were you affected by it? Why didn’t you interrupt in order to stop it or to find out who was responsible?”

Lan Qiren shook his head. “I did not hear the playing, only the effects.”

Wei Wuxian frowned. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t hear it get played, how do you know that the playing had Zewu-jun’s idiosyncratic characteristics?”

“I’m very familiar with how Xichen plays. How would I not notice it? Even if I only heard it intermixed with Nie Mingjue’s own base tone, the sound is distinctive enough to recognize.”

Wei Wuxian was staring at him, looking blank again. A moment later his brow furrowed as if he’d just had a thought that seemed strange to him. He said, “Honored teacher, a question. When I said I wasn’t the one who cast the curse on Jin Zixun, you said that the person who cast it played the guqin, not the flute. I’d been wondering…how did you know that?”

“The curse has the sound of a breaking guqin string, which does not accord with Jin Zixun’s own music,” Lan Qiren explained. “The person who cast it was moderately powerful and very well-trained, although this represents an overreach on their part. I think it is likely that they incurred a backlash due to the casting –”

“You just heard it?” Wei Wuxian interrupted. It was rather rude, but Lan Qiren supposed he’d signed up for that. “You just looked at him and heard the curse that had been placed on him?”

Lan Qiren nodded.

“You can hear what people’s spiritual energy sounds like?” Wei Wuxian was growing pale.

“Not spiritual energy directly,” Lan Qiren said, a little puzzled by what seemed like an outsized reaction. Not only was Wei Wuxian’s face pale, his fists clenched, but his song, normally so free and clear, had become suppressed, tense, tightly strung. “More in the nature of the sound of a person’s spirit itself. Your Ghost General, for instance; he has a very gentle melody, very soft, but the underlying base is harsh, jagged, thick with resentment, less playing than dying – he needs to learn to marry those two parts of his spirit together, or else he’ll have trouble finding peace. That’s why I offered to take him as a student.”

“What about me?” Wei Wuxian asked. He was almost vibrating with the need to know. “What about my music? Has it – changed?”

“It’s gotten a little more sober, which is not uncommon with tragedy,” Lan Qiren said, and felt as though he were on the edge of some terrible revelation. “But no, fundamentally you remain the same person you always were.”

Wei Wuxian exhaled, hard. A trill of relief.

“Something happened that made you think it would change,” Lan Qiren deduced, reaching up to stroke his beard thoughtfully. He watched as Wei Wuxian’s eyes flickered one way, then another. “Wei Wuxian.”

Wei Wuxian looked at him.

“Are you unwilling to return to orthodox cultivation – or unable?”

There was a world of difference between the two: one was arrogance, relentless and unrestrained, looking down at the truths the cultivators of the world and their ancestors had worked so hard to unearth, the other merely a depressing practicality – who wouldn’t choose to cultivate something if the alternative was nothing at all?

And yet…how could it be?

And why would Wei Wuxian be so terrified of letting others discover it?

“That’s none of your business,” Wei Wuxian said, teeth set in a bitter smile that was more of a grimace than anything else. “I agreed to help you, Honored Teacher, but my business is my own.”

“But –”

“Another question,” Wei Wuxian said. “Different subject: I know you don’t lie, and earlier you said…what you said. So tell me, what Lan sect girl has her heart so set on me that you decided to come tell me in person that I wasn’t allowed marry her?”

Lan Qiren blinked. “I only meant to advise you that it was a poor match for you both; it was not meant as an insult to you,” he objected, a little offended. “If you and Wangji insist, I will not stand in your way.”

He shook his head and sighed a little, regretful; he would not pursue the matter Wei Wuxian was hiding any further. He wanted to help, curiosity itching at him, but Wei Wuxian was right – it was none of his business.

“As long as your reliance on demonic cultivation does not impede your assistance in my investigation, I will not bring it up again,” he concluded. “How do you propose we begin?”

“…Lan Zhan?”

Lan Qiren frowned. “I already explained to you why I do not wish to involve Wangji, and that I do not suspect him. Why would we start with him?”

“Not for the investigation,” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, his face bright red. “About the – marriage!”

#mdzs #lan qiren #wei wuxian #jin guangshan #jin zixuan #jin guangyao #my fic #my fics #polyphonic

[starlightments]

                                     PREVIEW: part one

    The Galra, a hostile nation of magic-wielders, have finally been banished from the kingdom’s borders. The war is over, once and for all. The Crown City is more determined than ever to re-establish peace to its people when a mysterious boy is discovered in the outlands. Keith is taken under the wing of the Royal Guard, where he is to be groomed for knighthood, but his inherent and untamed magical abilities have branded him a threat, alienating him from the only family he’s ever known — until he meets Lance, a rambunctious young prince in search of a playmate.     But as the boys grow older and feelings grow stronger, their days of childhood whimsy evolve into a deeply unshakeable bond; one that is soon tested by rumors of a Galra counterattack and perhaps even a state-mandated betrothal to assuage political tension. Now, with both hearts and lives on the line, the two lovers find themselves at a complicated crossroads: duty or desire?  

Language: English  |  Rating: TBD  |  Art Credit: here  

FANDOM: Voltron: Legendary Defender

GENRE: Royal AU, childhood friends-to-lovers

PAIRING(S): Keith/Lance

                                                     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  A flash of light comes blazing through the half-parted curtains, followed by a violent clap of thunder that rattles the floorboards and, consequently, startles the young prince awake.

  Lance sits up with a gasp, clutching at the elaborately embroidered duvet, keeping it tucked under his chin for protection. The bedroom goes pitch black again, save for the bluish glow of a star-shaped nightlight in the corner, but the storm continues to rage outside. He can hear rain beating behind his window and the blustery sway of tree branches as they scrape up against the glass like fingernails.

  “Marco,” Lance whispers into the darkness. His brother remains fast asleep, snoring softly, on the other side of the room. “Marco.”

  Still no response. Lance spends a moment rooting around under the covers for his raggedy stuffed lion, then squeezes it close to his chest as he scuttles over to his brother’s bed and shakes him urgently by the shoulder.

  “Go away,” Marco grumbles into his pillow.

  “But the noises!” insists Lance. “What if it’s a—”

  “It’s not a monster, it’s just a storm. Quit being such a baby.”  

  Lance puffs up at that, bottom lip jutting out with defiance. He’s fully prepared to remind his brother that he turned seven last month — and is, therefore, no longer a baby by any means, thank you very much — when another loud noise cries out in the dead of night; except this time it’s unlike the rumbling thunder and howling winds. It’s a mighty whoosh of the front doors being flung open downstairs. Wet footsteps slapping against the marbled foyer. Low, angry-sounding voices.

  “Marco,” says Lance, shaking him again. “I mean it, I think there’s something—”

  “Cut it out, Lance,” Marco says, and then swats at the younger boy’s hand with an agitated grunt before rolling away to face the wall.

  But the noises persist. If anything, they’re only getting louder, more conspicuous, and Lance’s curiosity is not so easily brushed aside. So, bracing himself, with his trusty lion in tow, he pads across the room and pokes his tiny head through the door.

  Across from him, Lance’s older sister is doing the exact same thing, peering furtively down the dimly-lit corridor in a satin nightgown, her hair done up in curlers.  

  “Ronnie—”

  “Shh!” she hisses at him, a finger pressed to her lips in warning. “It’s Papa.”

  Lance’s mouth parts into a bewildered little ‘o’ shape as Veronica proceeds to slink out of her room and toward the staircase. At the opposite end of the hall, he spots Coran, the royal family advisor, where he appears to have dozed off in the middle of watch duty again, slumped over in a chair, his big orange mustache wiggling with every exhale, and so Lance decides to tiptoe after his sister.  

  The Citadel’s east wing is a winding labyrinth of passageways and gilded alcoves, but the further they creep into its bowels, the clearer the commotion becomes. One of the many chamber doors has been left slightly ajar, a strip of lamplight pouring out from the gap, along with their father’s voice, hushed and stern.

  “—What on earth were you thinking, Takashi?”  

  They both scamper up to the door, peeking inside. It’s a thin opening, just barely enough space to make out glimpses of shifting bodies: their father paces around a large wooden conference table, his brow drawn tight, while Shiro, in contrast, stands perfectly still like the soldier he was born to be. There’s a small boy hovering at his side in tattered clothes, similar to Lance in size, and his face is obscured by a curtain of damp fringe.  

  “I found him in the outlands, alone, with nowhere to go and no way to survive,” Shiro answers firmly. “That’s what I was thinking, your Majesty.”

  “You should know better,” the king fires back. “After everything that’s happened, you, of all people, should know better than to invite danger into this household.”

  “He’s not dangerous,” says Shiro. “He’s a child.”  

  “No, he’s Galra.”

  At that, Veronica inhales a sharp breath, then immediately clamps a hand over her mouth. Lance is startled, too, but only because he knows he should be. Only because he’s heard grown-ups murmur that word when they think no one is listening, like it’s something terrible and blasphemous. This boy right here looks like neither of those things.  

  Through the crack, Lance can see Shiro lift his arm; the mechanical one. “And so am I, now,” he states. “The very magic that this kingdom fears, the very magic that’s now a part of me, is what saved my life.”    

  A pause. “That’s different,” the king growls. “It was our only option.”  

  “Well, pardon me, your Majesty, but then what is his only option?” argues Shiro, pointing at the boy. “Death?”  

  “Death,” Lance echoes, scandalized, his grip on his stuffed lion tightening. He reaches for his sister’s ruffled sleeve and tugs. “Ronnie, did you hear that, he just said—”

  “Lance,” she shushes, “be quiet or they’ll hear—”  

  The sudden halting of footsteps lets them know they’ve been caught. But before either of them can think to run, the chamber doors are being swung open wide and their father’s long shadow is looming from above. His expression, however, has been transformed into one that Lance recognizes; gentle and warm.

  “Aha,” he chuckles. “I thought I heard some little mice scurrying around these halls.” Swiftly, the king scoops Lance up into his arm and takes Veronica’s hand with the other. “Back to bed, you two. What would your mother have to say if she knew you were up this late, hm?”

  Shiro, in the background, says, “Your Majesty, I—”

  “We will finish this discussion in the morning, Captain Shirogane,” the king replies tersely. He doesn’t even turn halfway to meet the other man’s eyes. “Right now, I have a family to take care of.”

  “Yes,” mutters Shiro, nodding. “Understood.”

  As Lance clings to his father, peering curiously over the top of his shoulder, he discovers that the strange Galra boy is staring at him with the darkest, saddest eyes that Lance has ever seen in his life. It makes Lance’s skin tickle, being looked at like that.

  So, he waves.  

  The boy freezes in place for a moment, but eventually waves back, looking a bit ashamed, as if he’s not sure whether he should be doing it. When he does, though, Lance notices that the skin of the boy’s palm is covered in black calluses, almost charred straight through to the bone.

  It’s the last thing Lance sees — and the only thing he’ll think about, later, tucked away in bed — before his father rounds the corner and carries him out of sight.

#klance #klance fic #star writes #fic: heartbound #i've been chipping away at this one for months so i thought i'd share the first scene :)

[allisondraste]

Death and Other Things That Should Have Been Fatal

Fandom: Mass Effect

Pairing: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian

Word Count: 4715

Summary: A follow up to Cockroaches and Other Things That Just Keep Living, Shepard wakes up after destroying the Reapers and copes with the fallout. Thankfully, she doesn't have to do so alone.

[Click Here for AO3]

“Shepard?”

The voice was little more than static in her ear, jarring her back into excruciating consciousness, head throbbing, extremities numb.  Spears of pain coursed through her chest with each and every breath, and she didn’t know whether it was the several broken ribs or the sight of Anderson's lifeless body slouched next to her.  She tore her gaze away from the closest thing she’d ever had to a good father figure, eyes fluttering closed as she attempted to focus only on the person speaking to her.

“Garrus?”  His was the first name that rolled off her tongue, the only person in the galaxy she wanted that disembodied voice to be.

“No.” Came the stern reply.  There was a long pause as any hope for comfort in her final moments came crashing down around her.  Then the voice spoke again. “It’s Hackett.”

A jolt of resentment toward the Admiral coursed through her at his introduction.  What more could he possibly want from her?  Had she not already done enough, sacrificed enough for just a ghost of a chance to stop the reapers.  Surely someone else could take it from there.  Why did everything fall on her?

Because someone else would have gotten it wrong.

She shook herself out of her head and back to the present. She would have been mortified under normal circumstances, but she couldn’t bring herself to give a damn now. “I apologize sir, I’m— What do you need me to do?”

“The Crucible is docked, but is not activated,” he explained, “We think there’s something that needs to be done on your end.  Is there a trigger? Some sort of terminal?”

His words clung to the air around her, and her eyes locked onto the terminal the Illusive Man had used earlier.  It was just a few feet in front of her and still so far away. She tried and failed to bring herself to her feet, legs buckling beneath her and sending her plummeting to the floor.  Hot tears burned in her eyes as a new array of pain shot through her body, and she groaned in agony.

“Shepard?”

“I’m here, sir,” she growled, forcing herself up onto an elbow and dragging her body to the terminal, vision beginning to blur at the corners.. Not yet , she pleaded with her consciousness as she reached up toward the terminal, hand sweeping clumsily across the haptic display. Not. Yet.   “I’m at the terminal but I… I don’t— I can’t find—”

Her vision went dark, supporting arm trembling and giving out as her consciousness faded.  Hackett’s voice called out to her repeatedly, further and further away until it was gone entirely.

She awoke to bright, burning light, buzzing in her ears, sensations anyone else would have associated with death.  But Shepard had been dead before, and this was nothing like the last time.  She’d never forget that dark, quiet empty.

“Shepard,” shouted a voice, both familiar and foreign, “Wake up.”

“What?” Blood dripped into her eyes from a wound she couldn’t feel. “Where am I?”

She scrubbed her face with the back of her hand, blinking until her vision cleared.  Her body screamed in protest as she rose to her knees, louder still as she brought herself to her feet and searched for who—or what— had spoken to her.

“The Citadel,” came the reply, “It is my home.”

She snapped her head in the direction of the voice, it’s owner a glowing, translucent entity in the shape of a ghost.  Her heart slammed against her aching ribs, and a name rushed to her mouth before she could stop it. “Kaidan?”

The entity examined her for a moment that felt more like an eternity, long enough for her initial relief to fade, consumed by dread as she awaited its answer.

“No,” it stated in a cold, matter-of-fact way Kaidan could never have managed, “I am the Catalyst.”

Rage ignited in her stomach and chest at the sound of him twisted and distorted by a chorus of synthetic echoes, and she growled. “I thought the Citadel was the Catalyst.”

“The Citadel is part of me,” it explained, then paused, tilting its head in examination of her again, “My appearance disturbs you.”

Shepard let out a derisive snort. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“I apologize,” it said, “I chose a form that I believed would help us communicate. You had fond memories of this one.”

“Too fond.”  She looked down, unable to meet its vacant eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Is this one more suitable?”  It’s voice shifted registers and when she glanced up Thane stood before her.

Hot tears burned in her eyes but she held them back and shook her head. “No.”

“Perhaps you would prefer this?” This time it’s tone was higher pitched, clipped.  Mordin.

“No,” she spat through clenched teeth, “I’d prefer if you’d just pick a nightmare and tell me whether you can help me or not. ”

“Very well,” it said, Kaidan once again as it motioned for her to follow after it toward the beam of light before them. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

She limped after it, listening as it spoke, as it explained its creation, it’s function, the purpose for its very existence.  It was nothing the Leviathan had not already revealed to her, but spun in a way that painted the Reapers as innocent pawns simply fulfilling their duty, wiping out entire civilizations to ensure galactic balance, to protect organic life from its own chaos.

Bullshit , she thought as flashes of destruction played behind her eyelids with each laborious blink.  She remembered the sinking void in her gut as she fled Earth, watching it burn beneath Reaper hands.  She thought of Palaven, the harrowed Turian faces as their military and government collapsed, the anger and disbelief that vibrated in Garrus’ voice and beneath his skin. She recalled Thessia, the most advanced civilization in the galaxy reduced to rubble before her eyes and she, helpless to even salvage one artifact, Liara’s anguished sobs as she trembled in her arms.

The Catalyst and its Reapers were responsible for every lost colony in Batarian space that Shepard had shouldered instead.  Every single face on the memorial wall at the Citadel, every orphaned child and refugee, every life touched by this goddamn war, and the lives of those in every cycle that came before— it was all their fault.  They had corrupted and indoctrinated some of the greatest minds of her time, broken some of the strongest wills.  She wondered what had been said to convince Saren and Benezia. What had the Catalyst become to take hold of The Illusive Man?

The echoes of Sovereign’s boasts of supremacy and Harbinger’s threats of annihilation rang out in her ears as clear as the days they’d been spoken. And this entity, this artificial intelligence with the power and capability to stop it all, expected her to believe they were simply creatures bound to a purpose. The Catalyst truly believed she would help it achieve its pinnacle of evolution.

No, just because it was in a shark’s nature to eat her, did not mean she would allow it to do so. Despite the original intent behind their creations, the Reapers were monsters, and they had to be stopped. The galaxy deserved justice. She took one lumbering step toward the trigger on the right, one step closer to settling things once and for all.

“It will happen again,” the Catalyst called after her, “Machines will be rebuilt, and chaos will continue. Organics and synthetics cannot coexist separately.

“That’s…not true,” she grunted, and took another step, “The geth and the quarians have brokered peace.”

“It will not last.”

“You don’t know that,” she shouted, fists clenched at her sides, “The beauty of chaos is that you can’t know that.”

The entity fell silent, briefly considering what she said, then continued. “Perhaps not; however if you choose to destroy the Reapers, the geth will be destroyed as well. The two will not have the opportunity to disprove your hypothesis.”

A pang of guilt pierced her and she halted in her tracks.“All of them?”

“Yes.  The Crucible’s beam is powerful but unfocused.  It will be unable to distinguish between Reaper technology and other forms of synthetic life.”

Another pang of guilt as realization dawned on her. That meant EDI would die, too. Someone who was every bit a friend and member of her crew as anyone else, someone who had put herself on the line multiple times to protect Shepard, to make certain she could get the job done.  EDI, who confessed just before the battle that she finally felt alive. Now, Shepard was forced to weigh her newfound life and the newfound intelligence of the geth race, against the destruction of the Reapers.

What was it Garrus had called it? Ruthless calculus, that brutal math that awaited anyone who spent enough time at war.  Shepard had done plenty of those calculations, had made more than her fair share of difficult decisions, and she’d dealt with the consequences, good and bad.

This time, it was different, more final.  And she was entirely alone.  The future of the galaxy lay upon her weary back, and she was far past the point of compromise.

Shepard wanted the Reapers to pay for what they had done for millennia, wanted to watch them disintegrate in space as the cheers of her fleet rang out over the comms.  She wanted to know with certainty that the war was over.

More than anything, however, and most heavy on her mind,  she wanted to survive. It was a potent wave of selfishness that overwhelmed her as she thought of her friends back on the Normandy, of the relationships she’d forged and that had forged her.  Her heart ached at the thought of never seeing them again, never hearing their voices. She was sick at the possibility that her last moments with those who had carried her through every storm were hurried and spent in a war torn camp on Earth.

Knowing that they were worried and waiting for her to return, remembering Garrus’ desperate plea that she come back alive, it was more than she needed to motivate her to do so.  For the first time in her three decades of life, she had something to go home to. She had given so much of herself to save the galaxy, and she had more than earned the right to live in it.

There was no certainty that destroying the Reapers would ensure her survival, but it was the only choice without the certainty that she would die.  She was willing to take her chances. She had to. With a trembling arm she raised her pistol, aimed at the glass case guarding the trigger mechanism, and fired.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as the glass shattered and her vision faded to white. “I’m so sorry.”

Shepard had been dead enough times to know that sound always came first, the discomforting beeping of medical equipment and garbled chatter ringing out in the darkness as her nervous system attempted to orient itself. Smell and taste came next, a package deal.  This time the antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood barely masked the rank of burnt flesh.

Then the pain set in, dull but constant and everywhere, numbed only slightly by neural blockers and local anesthetic.  She did not need to see her injuries to know how serious they were, how fatal they should have been.  Yet there she lay, once again waking up from something that would have killed anyone else.

And she was alone.  Again.

She began to panic as her eyes opened to the empty, sterile room, setting off the many monitors she was hooked up to.  Her heart pounded violently, each breath she took sharp and shallow as she yanked herself free from the dozens of tubes and IVs constraining her. How long had she been out this time? What covert operation for which secret, extremist organization had found and resurrected her for their benefit? How much more could one galaxy ask of her?

There was a hiss of opening doors and an unfamiliar asari entered the room urgently, arms extended out in front of her.  In one breath she reassured Shepard that everything was going to be all right  and in the next called for a medical restraint, a sedative.  She stepped slowly toward Shepard as one would approach a frightened, feral animal, and two more uniformed aliens entered the room.  Shepard stood tall, despite the ache in her bones and glared at the three of them.

“Ma’am, I know you must be very disoriented right now, and I am happy to answer any and all of your questions,” the asari said, holding her hands up, “But you are in no shape to be out of bed.  I need you to calm down before you hurt yourself further.”

Shepard glanced from the asari to the two salarians on either side of her.  They all wore generic attire that was standard for medical professionals across the galaxy, but their uniforms had no indication of their names or who they worked for.  She crossed her arms and winced through the pain as she argued. “How about you start by telling me where I am, then I’ll decide if I want to calm down or not.”

Just as she finished speaking the doors opened again, this time to faces she knew, and the subsequent wave of relief that washed over her nearly knocked her back into the bed on it’s own.  On the right stood Dr. Michel, who she remembered helping out on several occasions during the Reaper War.  A bit sweet on Garrus, if she remembered correctly. On the left, wearing a smirk and a raised eyebrow, was none other than Miranda Lawson.

“Sit down, Shepard,” Miranda asserted in her trademark tone.  She flashed the hint of a smile and continued, “The residents aren’t being paid enough for you to harass them.”

Shepard’s eyes flicked over to the three aliens who’d been tending to her just moments before.  They were now speaking nervously with the doctor, who muttered something about tests they needed to run followed by some other medical jargon that Shepard couldn’t decipher.  She did as her friend directed and eased herself back down onto her bed, offering a sheepish grin as she did so. “I feel like such an ass.”

“Don’t,” Dr. Michel chimed in as she approached the bed, and began to scan Shepard with her omni-tool, “You have been in a coma for almost a month.  It was expected that you would be agitated when you awoke, especially considering everything you’ve been through.”

Shepard’s chest swelled with something like gratitude.  A month .  She’d only been out for a month, and she had woken up in what she could now tell was Huerta Memorial under the care of a physician she trusted and one of her closest friends.  This was nothing like the last time she died. She looked up at Miranda and asked,“Had to put me back together again, I see?”

“I only helped this time,” Miranda explained as she worked to reconnect some of the IVs Shepard had ripped out, “Dr. Michel contacted me a few weeks ago for a consultation about your cybernetic augmentation.  I was already on the Citadel, so I came in person to oversee the repairs.”

“Is everything working?”

“Mostly,” Miranda shrugged, “Not quite up to specifications, but your injuries are still healing. With time, you should be fine.”

“And hopefully far away from any more life-threatening battles, yes,” remarked Michel, moving to a terminal near the wall and transferring data collected from her omni-tool scans.

Shepard let out a huff, and let herself recline onto the bed, walls crumbling away at the comforting conversation.  She took a breath and let her eyes flutter closed for just a minute, and said, “If I can. If the galaxy will let me.”

“The galaxy’s going to have to,” announced an unmistakable voice from the door, and Shepard bolted upright to face it.  To face him .

She hadn’t even heard the door open, and yet there stood her turian, with all that easy confidence he’d always carried himself with and a bouquet of indistinguishable gift shop flowers in each hand.  Her pulse jumped, a fact the vitals monitor in the corner was quick to inform her and everyone in the room about. She would never live that one down.

“Garrus!”

“Is that cardiac arrest—“ he motioned toward the screen with one of the bouquets— “Or, uh… are you just happy to see me?”

Shepard just rolled her eyes, unable to stop the grin that twitched at the corners of her mouth as he sauntered up to the bedside.

“I wasn’t sure which you’d like better,” Garrus explained, glancing with uncertainty between the flowers in each hand, “So I got both.  There’s also some chocolate and a few books of hanar poetry back at the gift shop if you just absolutely hate the flowers. I can run back down and—“

She laughed and shook her head at him. “They’re perfect.”

“Are you sure?” He examined each bouquet again.  “You might need the poetry to bore you back into a coma.”

“I thought that anthology was quite beautiful and romantic, myself,” Michel remarked, amused.  She approached Shepard again and administered something that relieved the throbbing pain in her head she’d barely noticed in all the commotion. “There, that should keep you comfortable for a time. I will come and check on you in a  few hours ”

“I’ll be going as well,” Miranda said, eyeing Shepard and Garrus knowingly. “Call me if you need anything.”

She turned to follow the doctor out of the room but stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, and Shepard?  I’m glad we got to see each other again “

Shepard nodded. “So am I.”

With that Miranda left the room, the door sliding shut behind her.  Shepard turned her gaze up to Garrus who was already looking at her, pale eyes scanning every inch of her face intently.  His mandibles twitched and flared in the very specific way they always did when he was agitated or worried.  He shook his head, discarded both bundles of flowers onto the nearby bedside table, and sat down on the edge of the bed next to her, staring off at the wall in silence.

“Shepard I— I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up,” he said finally, turning to look at her and placing a hand on her leg, “I’d just gone to get some air…I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“It’s okay,” she reassured him, reaching for his hand and wondering just how many sleepless hours he’d sat by her bed waiting for her to come to. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers, lingering there for several long moments.  She brought a hand up to trace the rough ridges of scarring along the right side of his face.  His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, and he let out a heavy sigh, as if she’d lifted some invisible weight off of him with just the tips of her fingers.

“You know,” she spoke up, breaking the powerful silence between them, “I think I finally have some scars that’ll give you a run for your credits.”

Garrus laughed, but it was quiet—almost sad— and he pulled back to examine her.

“How bad is it,” she asked, “There aren’t any mirrors in here.”

He laughed again, this time with more enthusiasm. “Hell, Shepard, I don’t know. You always were ugly, so it’s hard for me to say.”

“Okay,” she admitted with a smirk, “I had that one coming.”

The room went quiet again, with the exception of the buzzing and whirring of the equipment around them.  It wasn’t uncomfortable, though— nothing had ever been uncomfortable with Garrus— but it was heavy with unspoken pain and unasked questions for which Shepard wasn’t sure she wanted answers.

“How’s everyone else,” she ventured.

“Recovering,” he answered with a sigh, “Joker tried to outrun the blast, but even the Normandy wasn’t quick enough.  Crash landed on some human colony world. Everyone made it except—“

“EDI,” she said, name bitter on her tongue. She’d hoped the catalyst had been lying about the Crucible’s effect on synthetic life.

“Yes… how did you—“

This time, she was not able to dam up the wave of emotions that crashed into her.  Tears rushed to her eyes, shame and remorse tightening her chest like a vice. She was a soldier, and she knew that sacrifices won wars, but that did not make it any easier.

“It’s a long story,” she said with a sniff, looking away from him and attempting to wipe away the tears before he could see them, as if he hadn’t already.

“Well—” Garrus reached out and grabbed her chin, gently, giving it a tug until she brought her gaze back to him. “It’s a good thing I cleared my afternoon schedule, then. Tell me everything.”

And so she did. With a shaky voice, she recounted everything that happened from the time she called the evac for Garrus and Liara to the moment she was struck by the Crucible’s blast.  She told him about The Illusive Man, Anderson, the Catalyst who wore Kaidan’s face, and the impossible choice she was given.  He listened to every word, offered her his hand, and didn’t complain as her grip grew tighter and tighter with each devastating revelation.

When she was finished, eyes swollen and head throbbing, she looked at him and said, “I fucked up, Garrus. I had a chance to save EDI and the geth, but I just… couldn’t do it.  I was so angry and… scared , and—“

“Shepard,” Garrus interrupted her, laughing and shaking his head.

“What?”

“You’re about the only person I know who could save the whole damn galaxy and feel guilty because you didn’t save it better.”

“My life isn’t worth more than EDI’s was, and it definitely isn’t more important than the entire geth race,” Shepard argued.

Garrus blinked back at her a few times, then responded.  “It is to me.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but the words didn’t come, so she clamped it shut and frowned.  Her entire argument fell apart in the wake of his blunt confession. How the hell was she supposed to respond to something like that?

“It was selfish,” she finally managed past the lump in her throat, “It was genocide.”

“Maybe,” he answered, firmly, “Maybe not. We have no way of knowing that anything the Catalyst told you was true.”

“Why would it lie?”

“I don’t know, maybe to save it’s own ass?”  His words were pointed but not directed to her.  “It was clearly trying to get in your head, Shepard, using Alenko like that.”

“But—”

“No,” he snapped, “You made the right call, and no one is going to fault you for it except you.”

“ Garrus …” she began, but trailed off when she noticed him looking down at their intertwined fingers, shaking his head and seeming to struggle with his emotions.

When he spoke up, his voice was hoarse.  “You’ll forgive me if I say I don’t think you owe anyone—not EDI, not the geth, not the Alliance, not the rest of the galaxy— any more than you’ve already given.”

He paused for a beat, then added in a lighter tone, “Except me. You owe me a long retirement on your fancy Alliance pension.”

Shepard snorted out a laugh, despite everything, and reached up to take his face in her hands.  She pulled him closer to her, just so that she could press a kiss against the side of his mouth.

“I’ll think about it,” she whispered.

Just as they pulled apart, the door opened and they both turned to see who had entered. Dr. Michel stood at the threshold smiling at them apologetically.  “I am sorry for the interruption, but—”

“Someone tell Garrus to quit hogging the Commander,” complained an all too familiar voice as he pushed past the doctor and into the room. “The rest of us have been waiting just as long as he has.”

“Joker,” Shepard exclaimed, nearly jumping up out of the bed to greet him.

“The one and only,” he said proudly then held up a small plastic crate to show her, “And I brought you something.  Basically had to wrestle the Alliance brass for it when they declared you dead.”

“What—,” she asked as she squinted at the box, noticing movement in the corner, “Is that my hamster?”

He sat the container down carefully on the table next to the flowers Garrus had tossed aside,  “It’s not two bouquets of useless flowers or anything, but, well…you know.”

“We can’t all be as romantic as you,” Garrus said sarcastically as he stood up and stepped away from the bed, allowing the other man space to approach Shepard.

“Thank you, Joker,” Shepard said with a nod as she sat up in the bed, “And about EDI, I—“

He cut her off with the shake of his head, clearly not ready to discuss it. “Not your fault, Commander.”

Shepard just nodded, sorry, but not wanting to force the issue.  Joker puffed his chest out and saluted her, just as more commotion rang out from the door.  She darted her eyes across the room again to see the flood of other people pouring in from the hallway.

Ash was the first to rush to the bedside, throwing appropriate Alliance protocol out the window as she threw her arms unceremoniously around Shepard.  The embrace was firm, but not so forceful that it caused her aching body any extra pain, and when Ash pulled away, Shepard could see the tears glistening in her eyes. She stiffened up and saluted just as Joker had done, and said “Ma’am.”

Much to Shepard’s surprise, Ash then approached Garrus and embraced him briefly as well, pulling away and then giving him a pat on the arm.

The others followed suit after that, offering words of gratitude that she had saved the galaxy, and relief that she’d managed to pull through.  Tali and Liara had followed Ash’s example and hugged her.  The others didn’t but greeted her with enthusiasm all the same.  Vega mentioned how “epic” it was when the fleet realized she’d made it to the Citadel and got the arms opened while Traynor and Cortez nodded along.  Javik, in his typical fashion stood quietly in the corner but nodded at her with a look of admiration she had yet to see from the Prothean.  Dr. Chakwas and the crew from engineering squeezed themselves in the now cramped space as well. Chakwas approached the bed and gave Shepard’s hand a firm squeeze.

Humbling was not a strong enough word to describe the experience of seeing everyone who’d been on the Normandy with her in that final journey to Earth gathered around celebrating her survival.  They had all meant so much to her, and only now did she realize that she’d meant the same to them.

She’d grown accustomed to being a sole survivor, watching her own back and carrying on alone with each of her mistakes strapped to her shoulders.  She was used to blaming herself with the voices of those she lost, of nightmares and flashbacks and consoling herself back to sleep in the middle of the night.  She had trained herself to be numb because she could not bear feeling guilty.

Now, she didn’t have to.  For the first time in as long as she could remember, she had people who cared about her, people who she trusted, and they had survived. For the first time, she wasn’t alone with her grief and she didn’t have to be numb.  She had friends who would hold her together while she sorted herself out, just as she had done for each and every one of them.

“You okay,” Garrus asked as he approached the bedside again, letting a hand tousle her hair gently before falling to her shoulder.

“Yeah.” She nodded and glanced around the room slowly, taking it all in. “I really actually am.”

#mass effect #mass effect legendary edition #garrus vakarian #femshep #shakarian #angst #hurt/comfort #fanfic #my writing

[violet-knox]

heyy :) I saw that your asks were open and of course I read your rules before coming here and I was wondering if you can write an adult snape fic where the reader is a fellow professor that he’s know from his childhood and they start to rekindle thier relationship

thanks in advance and keep up the great work !! <33

Gifts of the Past

Pairing: Snape x Professor!Reader

Summary: Severus thought his week couldn’t get any worse after finding out he’d need to teach his Slytherin’s to dance until Dumbledore announces the arrival of a new Professor joining the staff.

Word Count: 6207

A/N: So when I read these requests, this idea formed in my head and I couldn’t help but merge them (side note: as the first request didn’t specify a gender while the second did, I adhered to the first). I hope both requests were satisfied while also providing a unique piece to the ever growing list of snape x reader stories on here and I hope you enjoy it! Thank you to both anons (I’m assuming you’re two different people) for your asks and your kind words!

Also I know the gif I picked is suggestive but the reader is gender neutral which I’m proud of because it was very difficult to keep it that way with the dancing scenes. I just thought the gif was so beautiful when I found it, just look at that cuff 🤤 but the gif choice doesn’t hint to the reader’s gender or race as it may appear. 

Nothing could have brightened his mood more than the thought of him walking into the Great Hall and finding the entire school deserted. It was really the only way Merlin could make up for the hand he’d been dealt this year and every other year since Potter invaded Hogwarts. This year however, the boy was clearly attempting to test his natural gift to bring trouble as the past three years hadn’t provided him with sufficient danger to prove his talent. It was bad enough he’d brought such a dangerous tournament to the school, but of course he had to go and get himself picked despite being underaged. Severus felt like he hadn’t gone a day without stressing since Dumbledore first made the announcement about the Triwizard Tournament and just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, the old Wizard had to instruct the head of houses to prepare their students for the Yule ball, as if the schools only Potion’s Master didn’t already have enough on his plate. 

He’d spent the rest of the day sulking after his attempts to persuade the Headmaster someone else should take up the privilege of teaching his Slytherin’s to dance failed. Sleep could barely find him last night as he kept hoping he’d wake up from this nightmare, that the universe would cut him a break, but it was clear as he walked by the tables housing the school’s guests, his eyes shooting Dumbledore daggers as he passed the smiling man on his way to his seat at the high table, that he wouldn’t rest so long as Potter slept under the same roof as him. He slouched in his seat and waited for the day to begin so he could look forward to its end, staring so hard at the table before him, he was sure it would eventually catch fire if food didn’t replace his rage soon. 

Dumbledore stood and cleared his throat to make his morning announcements, Severus finding himself focussing his anger towards him the more he rambled on about the first task and the current status of the tournament. His resentment towards the man only grew as he mentioned the Yule ball until he introduced the new professor who would replace Septima Vector for Arithmancy until the end of the year, a very familiar name washing away all his anger and replacing it with absolute horror. His head snapped to the side as he watched you stand with a smile, waving at the students who clapped for you. Severus’ eyes widened as he forced himself to join them, giving a few shallow claps but finding himself unable to slip out of the astoundment he found himself in. 

You smiled and looked over towards Severus as you sat back down, sensing everyone’s anticipation for breakfast to begin. You caught his eye and saw the shock written all over his face before breaking your stare and shifting your eyes to your lap. At least the expression on his face told you he hadn’t tried to ignore you when he’d walked right past you this morning to his seat at the high table. There were no words to describe how you’d been feeling today. Nervous about your first day as a professor at Hogwarts, concerned about being accepted into the family of staff, anxious to see Severus again after all these years and absolutely heartbroken when he didn’t even acknowledge you as he walked past you like you meant nothing to him.

The food appeared in front of you not long after you sat down, but you could hardly find your appetite as you felt Severus continuously glancing your way every chance he got. You did your best to chat with your new colleagues, keeping up polite conversation as they ate while you picked at your food. You watched Severus chug whatever beverage was in his goblet as he left his own plate completely untouched. He was the first to leave the table, watching with a frown as he slinked away behind some side door with no idea where it led. You let out a small sigh as you sat back in your seat, beginning to wonder if this career choice was a good idea. When Dumbledore approached you, mentioning Severus was now teaching at Hogwarts, serving as Potion’s master and Head of Slytherin, you felt excited. You’d missed him over the years since graduation, finding yourself regretting a lot about your relationship as time went on. But you’d taken this job offer as a sign to reconnect, a second chance to do what you didn’t have the courage for back during your school days.

You were so naive back then, thinking letters would be enough to keep you in contact with him after graduation, that you were closer to Severus than it seemed, but it was nothing more than a silly illusion created by your imagination. Looking back, you’d found yourself always claiming there was no good time to tell him how you felt, that you really liked him as something more than just a friend, but that was just an excuse for the fear you held onto every time you thought of him rejecting you. After seeing how close he was with Lily, how he buried himself in his schoolwork and made new friends when their friendship burned to the ground, you’d tried to push yourself, to be there for him and show him there was still someone in his life who thought he was worthy. But no matter what you did, you felt nearly as invisible as you did now, and perhaps in all these years since the war had ended, nothing had truly changed. 

One by one, professors and students began to file out of the Great Hall and as the room emptied, you slowly began to find yourself in complete distress, unsure of what to do about Severus, about this job and your possible conflict of interest. Pushing through, you tried to ignore your feelings and all thoughts of the Potion’s Master to focus on your classes. The day went by faster than you’d initially thought, each class easier than the last as the students seemed to accept you and your teaching style. Before you knew it, dinner had rolled around and knowing Severus had skipped lunch, eating nothing at breakfast, you anticipated seeing him already seated at the high table when you entered the room. Pausing a moment, you debated on what you should do, but your heart had already decided for you, your feet walking faster than you could process until you found yourself taking a seat next to him. 

“Hi Sev.” You spoke in such a low voice, soft yet reserved, like you were introducing yourself to a complete stranger. It saddened you that you felt so nervous with Severus when you used to be so close once upon a time. He looked back at you with those wide eyes of his and the more you stared into them, the more you felt like you didn’t know him at all. 

“(Y/N).” He stated your name with just a hint of surprise in his tone like his child-self was introducing you to him. He’d spent the day with such a headache thinking about what happened this morning, about you and everything that’s piled onto him. When he thought of you, he remembered the childhood friend who’d stuck by his side, who he’d taken for granted and who he could talk to about anything. But he struggled to feel that way again, to feel comfortable enough around you to open up to you and he wished that wasn’t the case. He needed someone to talk to, he needed someone there by his side these past few miserable years, but he could see now that he truly wasn’t deserving of such a thing, that he’d forever spend his life alone because that’s the card he’d dealt himself all those years ago and he had no right to try and get back what he’d lost.

“It’s nice to see you again.” You smiled, hoping this dense air between you would lighten with a bit of small talk. You wanted to tell him how much you missed him, his friendship and how close you once were. Everything was so much simpler back when you were eleven, still new to Hogwarts and oblivious to the world’s problems. Now, everything was different. You were both grown adults with responsibilities, changed as people and you weren’t even sure you’d mix well with him anymore.

“You too.” Severus happily retorted your attempt at making small talk, desperate to clasp at anything that could restore your lost friendship. Even as food appeared before him, he made no notion of filling his plate, his attention instead lay completely with you. “I-I had no idea you were joining the staff this year.”

You broke your gaze from his eyes and looked down at the table filled with food, your goblet was full and ready to be drunk, every other person in the room already indulging themselves in a well deserved meal. Looking over at Severus’ plate you found it as empty as yours, like he hadn’t even noticed the food had appeared as his eyes continued to study you while you slowly began to fill your plate, feeling less and less hungry as the seconds ticked by.  

“It was a last minute decision,” you said, continuing to avoid his eyes as you began to nibble on a muffin. Severus watched you a moment, feeling comfortable enough to eat for the first time that day as he picked up a sandwich.

“I’m glad you decided to take the job,” he said, keeping his gaze on you as much as he could before munching on his food. His tone sounded so sincere and you couldn’t help but stare at him, wondering how he truly felt about you being here. This morning, you’d felt so hurt by his cold shoulder, almost ready to quit if things didn’t go as well as they did during your first lesson for your classes throughout the day. Now, here he was claiming to be happy you were sitting here beside him, and you so badly wanted to believe that.

“Oh?” you asked curiously, hoping he meant what he said, hoping there was a chance to at least regain your old friendship. “Because it didn’t seem that way this morning.”

Severus’ eyes suddenly took on the weight of the world as he looked down at his lap. You could feel his own disappointment in himself, his shoulders slouching, his hair falling over his face in the same way it always did when you were kids. Clearly things hadn’t changed that much, and you were almost happy to see you still knew him as well as you did. 

“I apologize. I admit, you’ve caught me in a rather unpleasant mood,” Severus stated, feeling guilty for how he’d acted this morning. You were right. He should have said something to you, noticed you before Dumbledore spoke your name or at the very least came to find you earlier in the day to apologize sooner.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked him, relieved his stiffened attitude wasn’t the doing of the fact you’d re-entered his life. You turned your body towards him and began to feel like a child again, meeting Severus outside in the courtyard to talk about your day, to let him unburden his issues on you as you comforted him.

“There was a Head of House meeting yesterday. We were told by the Headmaster the responsibility of preparing the students for the Yule ball lay in our hands.”

You smiled, surprising a giggle as you remembered the night of Slughorn’s party, Severus tripping over his own feet when you asked him to dance with you, though you didn’t blame him for it after he’d just gone through his growth spurt. He had no such excuse now of course, but you could tell he hadn’t danced since that day, that he worried about how a lesson may go with his students, especially after the reputation you heard he held as a professor at Hogwarts. 

“If you’d like, I could help with your lessons,” you offered without a second thought. 

“You would do that?” Severus looked at you in awe, rather stunned by your selflessness after how he’d treated you. He couldn’t believe his luck, how you’d shown up just in time to help him with a secret he’d been dreading would be the talk of the entire school after he failed to teach his students to dance. He could only imagine the loss of respect he’d gain after working so hard to earn it all these years, how the students would make fun of him, how he’d never be able to step foot in the staffroom again without being ridiculed. 

“Of course. Anything for an old friend.” You sounded almost hurt as you spoke, knowing he’d likely see you as nothing more than an old friend. But if the universe had placed you in this new job, pushed you to him, perhaps you were meant to take the second chance and risk your current relationship with him. You were after all being trusted enough to help him develop his dancing skills, something you were sure the scary professor of the dungeons wouldn’t easily entrust to anyone. “Care to begin after dinner?”

Severus nodded with a smile, a look of content settling on his face and for a moment, you could have sworn you saw his eyes twinkle, something you hadn’t seen since the first day he’d stepped foot on Hogwarts grounds. You both continued your meal, Severus feeling calmer as he continued speaking with you, catching up on what you’d been up to all these years. Thoughts of the tournament, the upcoming war, the Potter boy’s knack for finding trouble slipping his mind if not for a brief moment. He allowed himself instead to turn back the clock to a time much simpler than his current life, a time where Lily was still alive, where he still had a friend who cared about him. He’d taken for granted so much of his life as a boy, so much of his younger years spent filled with hatred and resentment towards those he blamed for making him miserable that he’d missed all the good parts he could only hope to regain now as an adult. You were the one constant in his life, the one thing that didn’t complicate his life, the one person he could count on and he’d completely dismissed what you had to offer. He was a fool for focussing on what he didn’t have rather than what he did have, a greedy teenager who should have seen what was right in front of his eyes. 

Finishing off your food, you followed Severus down to the dungeons once the crowd of students had scattered throughout the castle. You walked alongside him, unable to help yourself from smiling at how easily you’d both settled back into your old selves, back to when your only concerns involved grades and who would win the next Quidditch match. You felt oddly nostalgic as you looked around the potion’s classroom, the layout exactly the same as when you were a student. You took your time to look around as Severus wove his wand and cleared some space. Walking up to the desk at the front of the room, you picked up the old quill sitting next to a pile of scrolls in the corner.

“You still have this?” You smiled as you ran the tips of your fingers along the feather, still intact and preserved rather well after all these years. You could still remember the look on Severus’ face when you’d given him the quill set you’d spent the majority of your money on for Christmas in your seventh year; complete shock with a dash of regret that he couldn’t afford something equally as stunning. He’d promised that one day he’d repay your kindness, that when he’d made something of himself, he’d buy you something worth ten times as much as the quill set that had gotten him through his Potion’s Mastery and all his days as a professor. 

As time passed, the memory the quill held began to fade and slowly, he’d forgotten the promise he made. He walked over to you and took the quill from your hand, realizing just how much he truly had to make up for after all these years. He set it back down on the desk and began to wonder if Merlin had sent you here for a reason, if his redemption wasn’t just about protecting Lily’s son, but about reconnecting with those who’d supported him, who he’d brushed away and to take the second chance at a normal life he was being offered. 

“I never thanked you properly for that gift,” he said under his breath as he stared at the quill, now the centerpiece of his desk, a new reminder for what he owed you. His eyes filled with longing, the sparkle you saw earlier slowly dwindling away as he hung his head low. You looked at him with such awe. Life had not been kind to him since graduation, that was clear through the weight he carried. He frowned when you asked him what he’d been up to since you last saw him, flashes of all his mistakes, all his sins passing before him. You could see it and it pained you to know that he hadn’t lived through the dreams he’d once shared with you as a child. 

“You don’t need to thank me Sev, that was a long time ago,” you told him with a smile, beyond touched that he’d kept something as simple as a quill when you knew he could afford much better now. He’d taken care of it, even kept the original nibs that came with the set and the inkwell which no doubt had to take a chunk of his time just to clean it out and refill. 

Taking his hand, you led him to the center of the classroom, turning to face him, gently positioning his hands to begin your first dry run of the dance you would soon share with him every evening before bed. His limbs obeyed you as you took his hand and pressed yourself to him, closer than you’d been all those years back when he’d first danced with you.

“Just, take it slow and let me lead. And then we can switch,” you whispered to him as you began to sway across the floor. The room fell into a soft silence as you led him, his feet struggling to follow yours at first, but he was a quick study as usual. Eventually, you felt confident enough in his movements to let him lead, switching position as you continued to sway in silence, Severus’ eyes lost in yours until the minutes passed by, turning into days. Before you knew it, you’d spent every evening after dinner for the past week with Severus, dancing with him for hours until it was time for bed. 

You’d never felt so close to someone as you did with him now, like that missing part of your soul had finally found itself again. A week had passed, yet you felt like you’d lived here for years as he had. Every time he held you in his arms, your heart slowed to match his even beat, your eyes flickering between his and his lips. You wanted to tell him how you felt about him, how much you’d admired him, how you’d always loved and cared about him even when he didn’t notice you, but every time you tried, your heart collapsed in on itself, stopping you in fear of ruining what you had now just like it had when you were kids. The emotions you felt when he pulled you closer were too much, when he looked deep into your eyes and gave you that smile like he was trying to bring you both back to that night at Slughorn’s party, how different things may have turned out if he’d known how to dance. Perhaps you would have had the courage to tell him how you felt then, kissed him before he’d tripped over himself. Time was such a delicate fragment in the ensembled artwork of the universe, affected by every movement, every word spoken by every human being on earth. 

Looking into his eyes, you saw that same twinkle he seemed to only let shine for you. It had been him who’d insisted he needed to practice again and again every night. It was him who’d always led you to his classroom, locking the doors and even bringing music to keep you both company as you danced the night away. He was as mysterious as the students had said, as lonely as your colleagues had told you, but you didn’t want to believe it. He was still that boy you met in the library in first year no matter the life he lived.

“Severus?” you whispered, his face so close to yours, his hands holding yours tightly. He looked at you with wonder, waiting for your words, for the question he knew you’d kept on the tip of your tongue since the day you'd arrived. He feared it, worried about what you may think of him if he answered it truthfully. He had yet to share everything about his life, how he’d betrayed your memory, his promise to you, that he was to blame for the death of their friend. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

You sounded so nervous, your eyes shifting down to look away from him and his concern suddenly grew. He stopped his motions as he held you still, waiting for the words he feared would slip your tongue. His hand tightened his hold on you, needing you to stay with him, to keep him company. You’d become the only thing this past week that kept him at peace, that kept him alive. He looked forward to your evenings together, the thought of simply swaying through the classroom the only thing keeping him whole. 

“What is it?” he mumbled cautiously, a bit of resentment present in his tone. 

You’d terrified him, you could see your words worried him to no end. You couldn’t tell how he would react if you told him the truth and you weren’t sure if you could handle it. You’d both cherished every moment you had together again, cherished the past, the present and the future you could see alongside one another, but you weren’t sure how much you could bear the days if all he saw in you was an old friend. Thoughts of how happy he’d seemed the last few days roamed in your mind, playing on repeat, bleeding into your childhood memories. You could almost feel your emotions reciprocated as you looked at him, your chest pressed to his as you leaned in, Severus frozen in his place, his mind blank with awe. 

Words could never be enough to describe how you felt, to tell him how much he meant to you. But Severus was never one with words anyways, never caring for them as he always read people better through their actions and as he did so now, he wondered why of all the people in the world, why of everyone you’d met in your life, he was the one you wanted to be close enough to press your lips to his. He wondered what made him so special, why he was so lucky to have you showing your affection for him through the gentle touch of a kiss. Your lips were barely parted, moving slower then he had when he danced with you. He could feel your nerves as you kissed him slowly wither away when he kissed you back. 

Your hands grasped at him, and for a moment, when he felt you pull your hand away from his, he thought the moment had ended, only to be snapped back into it as your fingers were buried in his hair. Your free hand tugged at the ascot he wore, Severus finding himself pulled into you as you walked backwards, your lips never leaving his. You moved your lips eagerly until your back hit the wall, pulling Severus closer as you encouraged him to press himself into you. He moaned into your kiss, his hands wrapping around you, one pressed into your lower back, the other between your shoulder blades. His senses heightened as he tried to memorize the feeling of your kiss, of your figure under his fingertips, your chest against his, your legs entangling themselves with his. 

You were almost disappointed when you both parted for air, huffing as you tried to catch your breaths, but the look on his face was more than worth the loss of contact. He looked as if he was still questioning reality, like he wasn’t sure about your intentions and of course, as before, words couldn’t help him make sense of the situation. Your hand slipped out of his hair instead and cupped his jaw, your thumb swiping across his cheek as he nuzzled into your touch. You could see the weight of the world returning as his smile weakened, his eyes closed as the soft sound of the music filled the room. 

It broke your heart to see him like this, like he found himself unworthy of love, like he thought himself destined to be alone. You began peppering him with light kisses over his cheek, his nose, his jaw, what little skin of his neck you could reach until you finally saw his smile returning to his face. He opened his eyes and held his hand up to press against yours, still nuzzling into your touch as the twinkle in his eyes sparkled brighter than before. 

“I’m not the same person you once knew,” he whispered, his heart breaking with every word, his instinct to push you away overtaking his need to have you as close to him as possible. He could hardly believe you felt this way about him, that after all these years, he’d been blinded by his own hatred to see what was in front of him and here he was trying to ruin what had yet to even be explored.

“Well, I’d be willing to get to know the new you if you’ll allow it,” you said softly, smiling as you showed no interest in running away from the spark between you. 

“(Y/N), there’s something about my past you should know-”

“Sev,” you interrupted him when you saw the hurt in his eyes, the pain he brought on himself during such a sweet moment. You’d waited years for this day, and you weren’t about to let him ruin it when you knew he needed a moment like this. A short period of time to simply exist in the presence of someone that loved him, to forget the rest of the world and live in the moment. “You don’t have to tell me anything now.”

You knew he wasn’t ready, that he was only pushing himself to tell you whatever it was weighing on him because you’d kissed him. But you could wait until he was comfortable enough to share, until the time was right and now was not that time. You’d learned a lot this past week, how truly stressed he was, how the Yule Ball was far from the only thing that had him stressing every second of every day. He needed a chance to relax, to find harmony in his life and whatever secret he wanted to tell you would do the exact opposite. 

Severus smiled as he felt the tension ease off his shoulders, the sound of the music returning to his ears. He reached down and took your hand, slowly stepping away as he led you back to the center of the room, offering to finish your dance, unable to thank you enough for all your patience, for everything you’d ever done for him. You happily obliged and danced the night away once more, looking forward to repeating your new routine tomorrow and the day after that until the holidays finally arrived. 

He couldn’t count how many times he’d danced with you, how many kisses you shared in between, yet this morning felt nothing like the last few weeks. Today, he was to dance in front of his entire house with you, to teach them what you’d taught him and though he was utterly grateful for your lessons, he couldn’t stop the shaking pressure he felt for his reputation and the reputation of his house. He wanted to make you proud today, to help his students excel and to keep the school from spreading awful rumours like it had when he was young. 

Tightening his ascot, he smoothed over his robes and ran his fingers through his hair a few times, sighing as it lay as flat as the pancakes he’d never managed to master whenever he cooked for himself. He held his head up high as he left his chambers and walked down the hall to his classroom, met with the majority of his house already waiting outside his door. You were nowhere to be found and he could hardly wait for this day to end. He let his students shuffle inside as he prepared the room for the lesson to come, minutes passing by as more students passed through those doors, but you had yet to arrive. Time was nearing and he was beginning to worry you had decided against aiding him in this particular lesson. He looked at the clock and sighed as the seconds hand passed twelve, indicating time was up. 

“Gather around,” he commanded the room as silence fell around him, all eyes gleaming at him with anticipation as he felt his heart pounding with fear. “The Yule Ball, is a celebrated event taking place on the night of Christmas Eve; a tradition carried out for centuries and as students of the hosting school, students representing the house of Salazar Slytherin, I expect nothing less than an adequate performance from each one of you when the night arrives.”

Severus spoke to each of his students, walking down the classroom, eyeing each and every one of them. He did his best to keep his mind off of you, trying to stay focused on the task at hand instead, but you’d been at the forefront of his mind for so long and as much of a skilled legilimens as he was, even he wasn’t susceptible to the effects of the love you had for him. 

“Now, the core event of the evening will of course be the dance. As such, today’s lesson will concentrate on the development of your dancing skills,” Severus froze in his place, losing his train of thought as his eyes met yours. You stood there with a smile behind all the students, closing the door behind you. “A demonstration will be presented, and you are each expected to pay attention as none of you will leave this room until you’ve performed well enough to uphold the reputation of your house.”

You pressed your lips together as you watched him address his class, rather taken back by his dominant presence. You couldn’t believe this was the same shy boy you’d met all those years ago, the same one that would rather be left alone than be placed in front of a room like this but you felt oh so proud of him and everything he’d accomplished thus far. “Professor (Y/L/N), if you may join me.”

He held out his hand for you as you stepped forward, the students parting like the sea as they stared in awe. The shock on their faces shouldn’t have surprised you, since you’d had many of them come complaining to you about all the Potion’s assignments they were being dealt, but you’d known Severus for so long now, you couldn’t imagine having any other relationship with him than the one that had blossomed over the last few weeks.

Severus led you to the centre of the room, waving his wand and allowing the music to fill the room before positioning himself waiting for the right moment to begin gliding across from floor with you. His eyes never left yours, his feet moving so elegantly. It felt nothing like the dry runs you’d done with him over the weeks, like he was almost trying to impress you. You missed how close you were to one another as you danced now, eyes all on you. But most of all, you missed the twinkle in his eyes, the smile he wore on his lips as he held you so sincerely. 

“Pair up and start practicing,” he ordered and immediately you watched his students obey. It wasn’t at all like what everyone had said about the Potion’s Master. It wasn’t fear that commanded them, it was the respect and admiration they had for their Head of House that pushed them to follow his instructions without question. You smiled at him as you both continued to dance, the students following your movements, many of whom continued to look over to you as an example. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” you whispered to him. Slowly throwing your arm over his shoulder to get as close to him as he’d allow in front of the students. “I was looking for this.”

You showed him your wrist and watched him let his guard down if not for a split second. His eyes analyzed the old green ribbon you had tied around your wrist, almost as well preserved as the quill he kept on his desk. He watched it disappear as you placed your hand back over his shoulder, memories of the first time you’d wrapped it around his wrist for good luck when Slytherin was playing Gryffindor in his first year during the Quidditch finals swarming his mind. That was of course, the one and only time he saw his team win the Quidditch cup during his days as a student, his first and only time to have worn that ribbon, giving it back to you in complete dismissal after the game. He’d abandoned you that night, choosing to party with his housemates who he hoped to fit in with over the simple celebration you’d invited him to. You looked so hurt the next day and it took a long while before you spoke to him again. But despite the horrible memories, the guilt he felt now, you’d still kept that ribbon and it warmed his heart. 

“I thought since you were so nervous about today, I’d wear it for luck,” you told him, hiding the fact you’d tossed the ribbon in the bottom of your trunk after he so rudely dismissed you, never to see the light of day until now. You’d debated tossing it out throughout the years, but you could never do it. It served as a reminder for what you’d almost lost, for the love you still carried and the potential your relationship with Severus had.

“(Y/N), I-I’ve been meaning to ask you,” He whispered in such a low voice, you could hardly hear what he was saying, his words spoken for your ears and yours alone. “Would you accompany me to the Ball?”

“Of course, I will.” You happily accepted his proposal as you continued to sway in his arms, your conversation coming to an end as a new song began. Severus stepped away from you, his hair covering his smile as he composed himself to address the class, instructing his students to continue practicing. You both spent the remainder of the evening helping the students, waiting to be alone once more as rumours spread throughout the school of Professor Snape’s dancing and his surprising partner. Many had looked forward to the sight, wondering how he may fare on the dance floor, though no one expected to see the grace in his movements and the chemistry between you. 

He’d spent all those nights with you in the hope’s rumours wouldn’t spread through these walls, but he supposed there was no avoiding it and if talk had to have spread, he was at the very least glad it didn’t tarnish his reputation. You and he would of course never hear the end of it from your colleagues; the first of the Hogwarts professors to have a chance at maintaining a relationship whilst holding a job at the school, many of whom still remembered teaching you as students. None of it mattered to him though. They could all talk as much as they liked, he would forever keep you close to his heart, safe from the rest of the world and cherish every moment he had with you so long as you allowed him in your life. He was utterly grateful for the second chance he was given, the one good thing to appear in his life amongst the sea of never ending darkness and he couldn’t have imagined any better way to combat it than to do it with you.

~

A/N: Can you tell I’m not a dancer? 😅

So this didn’t turn out exactly as I’d hoped. It doesn’t feel as organic as I wanted it to be, but then again, I can’t really expect it to feel organic since the dance lesson wasn’t in the books. Still, it was fun to write and I found myself restraining myself from going on forever with this story. I hope you found it refreshing and entertaining nonetheless. And who knows, maybe I’ll do a part 2 one day with the actual Yule Ball 😁

~

As mentioned previously on my schedule update post, I’m discontinuing my tag list so this will be the last time I tag anyone on any one-shots. Thank you all for sticking with me, your support truly means the world to me and I hope you’ll continue to read what I have planned for the future 💜

@sleepysnapesnake @wanderingtrails @darkthought15 @bush-viper-cutie @fluffymadamina @dracos-mudblood @mitchiesdungeon @severuslovebot @ravenhopeflyte54 @cuddlebunny0330 @flowerdementia

#Severus Snape #Severus x reader #Severus Snape x reader #one shot #Snape x reader #my fanfic #my writing #pro snape #snapedom

[flickeringart]

Satanism - a way to embrace Pluto?

My mind has been occupied with Pluto lately, the planet, god and symbol of “the hidden things”, the occult, the underworld, darkness, fate, rage, destruction, transformation, abduction, man’s primitive nature, life and death, power and powerlessness, fear, violation and fertility. There’s so much nuance to all planetary (archetypal) principles and there’s always more to explore. Pluto especially is a mysterious and threatening figure (force) in our lives and in the world at large. I have talked about it in previous posts, here / here and here… I’ve also explored the 8th house, which is the astrological house of Scorpio and Pluto here and here.

Many people understandably avoid anything that has to do with the darker elements of life and human nature until they are forced to deal with them. This is possibly why Pluto has been associated with violence because we are typically dragged into the depths; we don’t go there willingly. Some people, however, have lives that are marked by Pluto to such a degree that they can’t pretend that he doesn’t exist. By deciding to consciously accept him and embrace his influence it is possible to live a richer life. After all, Pluto is not only a god of destruction; he is also a god of riches. It seems to me, that the worship of Satan (as practiced by members of the Church of Satan) is very much in line with Pluto’s gifts and his riches. It’s an attempt to embrace the carnal nature. However, this Plutonian carnality is not as basic as it seems. It has its own intelligence, its own spirituality and its own laws. It seems to me that Pluto has to do with survival – psychological, emotional, spiritual and physical. He stands for survival and life at all levels of the being. As stated on the official website, “To us, Satan is the symbol that best suits the nature of we who are carnal by birth—people who feel no battles raging between our thoughts and feelings, we who do not embrace the concept of a soul imprisoned in a body. He represents pride, liberty, and individualism—qualities often defined as Evil by those who worship external deities, who feel there is a war between their minds and emotions.”

I think, that this philosophy attempts to treasure the whole (hu)man, to recognize his divinity even in his subjective thoughts and feelings. It’s an attempt to honor the darker aspects of human nature – anger, rage, and instinctual responses. It’s essentially to honor the earth, the dark void, and the merciless existence. Putting faith in external deities is robbing the individual of his divinity; it’s separating him from life. Christianity has, at least in part, made people think of Evil as an autonomous force (an external deity), corrupting good souls and creating fear and panic. By avoiding seeing reality as a whole, Christianity perpetuates fear instead of confronting it. As I understand it, Satanists don’t invest belief in any gods (symbolic of human drives and instincts) because they see that these mind-made constructs are part of their own psyche. Satanists place themselves at the center of their own subjective universe without seeking to befriend or worship mythical entities that are separate from them.

It seems to me though, from studying astrology, that there’s no way to escape deity. In the effort to not have any god, to place the self at the center, as is characteristic of the Church of Satan, one is in fact aligning or siding with an archetype. It’s impossible not to. I think this is made quite obvious when using astrology and analyzing natal charts. The archetypal energies are expressing themselves through and as the individuals.

In fact, let’s take a look at the chart of the founder of the Church of Satan, Anton Szandor LaVey. I would expect him to have a strong Pluto because of the emphasis on embracing the carnal side and the spiritual dimension of it. There’s also a big emphasis on being whole (a solar principle) through recognizing the totality of life, facing the strength and power within oneself and using the necessary tools to improve one’s own life. This would include consciously using symbols and images (like the image of Satan) in order to get the desired effect. If symbols are given autonomous power it’s a problem only if it puts the individual in a disempowered position. Personal integrity and liberty is also of utmost importance, which sounds rather Aquarian to me. Let’s have a look.

The chart of Anton Szandor LaVey, as found on astrotheme.com.

The Sun is in Aries, which is not surprising considering his strong faith in individuality, his initiative to start a “new religion”, to provide a contrasting influence, to place himself at the “center”, to go by no other rules than his own, to welcome opposition, the desire to be his own master and a leader of his own life. Aries as a sign is strongly linked to the warrior archetype, of fighting for what one believes in without compromise, to claim authority in spirit, to conquer, to place subjectivity over objectivity (because there’s no real difference from the perspective of Aries). Selfishness is the basis for existence; it is through honoring the self that one can honor other people’s independence. Mars, which is the planetary ruler of Aries, is concerned with personal strength and potency (note; Mars is sometimes referred to as the lower octave of Pluto). It seems like LaVey lived on his own terms, relying on his own natural instincts and gifts to get by in life. This is all very typical of Aries people, to live of off a self-generated optimism and conviction of one’s own ability. “The rules don’t apply to me” is the overall sentiment – the rules originated somewhere and that which originates from my own self is no less valuable or divine, even if it’s raw, ugly or imperfect it is still of “The Self”, the force that animates existence.

To no surprise, Pluto makes a square aspect to his Sun. He would’ve lived with the threat of his own destructive rage, his own inner violence and uncompromising desire. To him, it was probably difficult to consciously accept this side (the square aspect always represents a conflict) but he certainly tried to acknowledge his “darkness” through founding the Church of Satan. A person with a trine aspect between Sun-Pluto would not have been as motivated or pressed to bridge the gap between the self and the primitive and taboo because there wouldn’t have been anything to bridge. The square relationships between two planets usually motivate the individual to try to solve dilemma of conflicting principles within the psyche through external work. Squares usually force work in a very concrete fashion. When a person is serious about something, and is trying to make something happen it’s usually indicative of a square aspect within the personal chart. For example, I have a Neptune square Mercury aspect. I try to read and write and educate myself to some kind of higher state, some transcendent and elevated experience because the connection is not smooth between these planets. I try to articulate things properly in order to bridge the gap between personal mind and the nuance of collective feeling. I try to reflect the essence or feeling tone of energies through my writing.

The interesting thing about LaVey is that he truly took on the appearance of a devil – he was probably aware of the power of looks, the impact that certain clothing or symbols have. He was undoubtedly theatrical. Pluto in the 5th house might have something to do with this, as it’s the house of individual expression. The 5th house is all about personal creation; it’s the realm of children and play. In a sense, he was no different from a child dressing up in costumes and playing “the dark one”, which is probably why people mocked him for it. Even when Pluto is in the 5th house it is never light-hearted, he is all in, ruthlessly determined. Pluto placed in this house takes play seriously. He takes personal expression seriously. His creations are his and he should be at the center of them. The individual should be credited for his abilities, not the other way around, just as the individual shouldn’t be appreciated because his gifts are “of the gods”. They belong as much to the individual as it does to the deities. This is certainly the spirit of Pluto. He answers to no other god than himself and he sees life as it is, in its most vile forms, without flinching. Life is in all expressions, in the primitive as well as in the sophisticated. This is, in many ways, a deeply honest way to live. Another thing that catches my attention is the bi-quintiles Pluto makes to the MC (public image) and the AC (personal image/persona). The bi-quintile aspect is generally considered to say something about a certain talent or style, a mercurial quality or skill. He truly has the style of Pluto, both in his countenance and in his societal achievements. He looks dark and mysterious, preoccupied with the occult side of life. Perhaps he even had a certain talent for “magic”, at least he claimed to.

Satanists believe in indulgence (which doesn’t imply compulsion) over abstinence, primarily because there’s no belief in heaven or an after life. The individual is placed at the center of his own universe as his own master – through and through. Although many people would agree that self-mastery is a good thing, many also tend promote, in the same vein, that “people make mistakes” and that they “should be forgiven”. As I understand it, Satanism as a philosophy would state that mistakes are only mistakes if the self-mastered individual firmly believes it to be so in complete honesty and integrity. Self-deceit is considered to be a sin, unless of course it’s done intentionally - it would then not be a sin. Going along with roles that other people have cast one in is self-deceit – that is, for example, shouldering the role as a “sinner” because other people have imposed that label or role onto you is not indicative of self-respect, it’s a betrayal of your own reality. Notably, LaVey has an Aquarius Ascendant, Lilith in Aquarius in the 1st house and Uranus widely conjunct his Sun (both in the independent sign of Aries). He is definitely not a person to follow the herd – in fact “Herd Conformity” is one of the Cardinal Sins in Satanism. He leads life through the principle of being his own godhead, his own intellectual genius, and his own unique and separate individual, detached from the norms and conventions enough to go against them if he pleases. Aquarius is a sign that considers the map of life in an intellectual sense. This sign is also the sign of the progressive individual, someone who wants to make a difference on a larger scale. He certainly did, through constructing a thought-system that could benefit people. It’s no wonder that the first of the Nine Cardinal Sins (as found on the official website) is Stupidity. Of course it would be to an Aquarius Rising! “Think for yourself; don’t go along with everything you’re told” is the plea.

#pluto #astrology #planets in astrology #satanism #aries sun #aquarius rising #pluto in astrology #devil worship #plutonic forces #natal chart analysis #natal chart #satan #darkness #darkness and light #anton lavey #natal chart exploration #deity #religion #embracing pluto #individualism #philosophy #liberty #pride #power #sun square pluto

[oksana-moods]

Supernova

Summary: As the seasons passes you by, it is inevitable for you to watch the fall.

A/N: This is an AU requested by the darling @multi-muse-transect and you might find it in here. This request filled me with joy and worries at the same time, because it was hard to create a visible story in my head before trying to write it down. But I really enjoyed all the research about Nova Corps, hence it took me a little more than intended.

Warnings: Language, marvel’s canon violence… if there is any other that I should mention, please, let me know.

“You take my breath away. You're a supernova and I'm a space bound rocket ship and your heart's the moon.”

#not my pic

Carol is at a window looking at the sculptures and other buildings of Hala, she’s just arrived from a mission against Kree insurgents. ‘They're like weeds’, she thinks. No matter how hard she fights or fights back, they always come back and never learn that against the Empress they will never succeed.

The lights are beautiful in Hala, but they will never compare to the lights of the Old Earth. She takes a look at the latest reports of her home planet's reconstruction on the table beside her and sighs, knowing that New Earth will soon be ready.

Years ago, Ronan attacked Earth with the intention of destroying Carol and he did, in fact, destroy her heart. Even though she could absorb and redirect energy, she failed to destroy all the missiles before they hit the ground and then it was over. And the beginning at the same time.

Completely possessed by the grief of losing her home and loved ones, Carol went hunting for the Kree and, more importantly, for the Supreme Intelligence and, one by one, Carol brought down her tormentors until she became the Empress of Kree, residing in Hala.

Her patrols to different galaxies have been reduced as she monitors the Kree group responsible for rebuilding the Earth, chases mutineers and still rules the Empire. Her Empire. There's not even time for karaoke, she thinks, as her eyes follows a shooting star across the night sky of her capital.

Her eyes narrow when said shooting star seems to take a route, rather than a random path, because it is a celestial body without navigation. This shooting star is, in fact, very different, she observes. And, almost a second late, she notices that someone is heading right for her.

Taking her by surprise, you hit the balcony glass as if it were nothing and saw Carol's body hurl against the wall with the impact of your body. Not even spending a breath, it's your turn to be hurled against the wall when Carol fights back even harder than you.

You fight, exchange punches and blows. You notice that she's slightly surprised to find a worthy opponent, something that's still unheard of. Until today. Until you.

And that intrigues her, how could someone be so powerful without her knowing?

"Did the Kree insurgents send you?" She asks after you collide on Hala’s sky, the noise and vibrations being felt even in buildings far away from the fight.

"No." You answer. “I was sent by Nova Prime to deal with you” You barely finish your sentence, and you attack Carol again, but she's confused. She had heard of Nova Prime when she was still a Kree soldier. When she fought for the wrong side.

She then looks at you once more. She takes in the clothes you're wearing and your helmet, which covers your eyes with a blueish light but leaves your chin bare. The symbol that resembles a star painted in red on your golden helmet indicated what you are. Nova Corp. You are a corpsman.

A bright, gold insignia in a form of three circles linked in your chest shines even in the dark, showing her that you’re not an ordinary corpsman, but a Centurion. You are Nova Corps’ Commander. Okay, that explain why you’re so powerful.

"What do you want with me?" She asks without the slightest pretension to continue fighting and for the first time you don't attack, you stop and look at her. Wow, the reports of her strength and agility were consistent with what you see, but there was nothing about her beauty. Shaking your head, you answer it.

"Justice." Seeing the confused expression on Carol's perfect face, you continue. "You are crushing the democracy that existed for the inhabitants of this planet, the countless reports of an empress overthrowing entire communities have crossed galaxies."

"Justice, you say." You see her eyes flash with anger and hatred. "And what justice does Nova Prime intend to give Earth?" She approaches dangerously and you have to remind yourself to not cower under her glare.

"The Kree have destroyed my home, so I won't give them one until the New Earth is rebuilt and populated." The threat in her gaze, in her posture, was tangible. "And nothing and no one in the universe will make me concede freedom to this barbaric species."

"Being a barbarian yourself?" You turn your head to the side in a questioning tone, but she takes it as irony. Maybe it was. “An eye for an eye, as earthlings are fond of saying. Or should I say, used to like?” A kind of roar was the only warning before her fist collided with your face.

"Wash your mouth before you talk about Earth, soldier." She patched up a string of blows you couldn't get out of. "Nova Empire has always fought the Kree, why they want to protect them now?"

She was strong; you've already figured that out, but like many other very powerful beings in the universe, they tend to think they're the only ones with powers. Absorbing most of the blows and directing the energy against the empress, you use your power blast and with that, once again, Carol is hurled against the wall of her palace.

As an automatic response, Carol uses the powers of her fist and you feel the force of a thousand cannons throwing you backwards into space, grunting right after with the impact of Carol's body, engaging the fight once more.

You could tell that she was angry and, according to your studies, humans tended to be guided by such frivolous feelings. And that was something you intended to use to your advantage.

Being two beings bestowed with stamina, the fight would go on for hours until someone got tired, but if she uses her powers erratically and drenched in rage, she will be drained quicklier.

“I am the Empress of the Kree Empire! Answer me!" The tone of voice in which she addresses you makes it clear that your goal of getting under her skin is working. With a smirk, you respond.

“Nova Empire takes care of the galaxy and has balance as its main goal, your highness. To overpower other species is not our intention.” Your response seems to enrage her even more and the only reaction you got from her was more blows and more blasts in your direction.

You dodge, you block, and you realize she's getting careless then letting her guard down. And that's where you come in with quick jabs almost powerless, only to enrage her more and more. Just to remind her that even an Empress has weaknesses.

You hit the ground and certainly the people throughout the city felt like it was an earthquake. Something was off and before you could react, Carol hits you with a blast right in the middle of the chest, throwing you meters and meters into a random building.

This time, you start feeling the impact on every wall you hit. You feel dizzy, your hand is shaking, and you find yourself bleeding. ‘What's going on?’ You think as you watch Carol's figure to grow in your field of vision.

The smirk on her face is ridiculously sexy, but you barely have time to make any comments before her voice reaches your ears. "Apparently, you're not that tough without your helmet on, are you?"

You look at her hand that is carrying what was once your helmet, now just broken shards and she drops it into your lap. Without your helmet you are ruined, as is your mission.

The smirk and one last punch were the last thing you remember before she knocks you down cold.

---

Your head was about to explode inside your skull, and you blink at the light entering your cell. All that brightness was not helping your headache at all.

It's been a few days since you've been taken prisoner by Empress Carol Danvers and whether Xandar knows or has noticed your disappearance is something you have no idea of. And when Nova Prime sends reinforcements after you it won't be pretty.

Before proceeding on your mission, you had already been informed that all diplomatic avenues had been tried but completely closed by the Empress. That way, Xandar wouldn't try negotiations to try to get you back. Perhaps this would trigger a new war.

A war you couldn't afford. Certainly, you didn't want the weight of being the trigger or the spark in a cold battle of inflated tempers on your shoulders. Carol had a very short fuse, as you witnessed firsthand, while Prime could be an slayer when the situation called for it.

Days passed, becoming weeks and your monotonous existence is only interrupted by the Empress's daily visits. Visits that you don't know why she still keeps, when it's pretty obvious that you have no information to provide.

You are a member of the Nova Corp and have been sent on a solo mission to "dissuade" the Empress from continuing to rule her own empire with an iron fist. There were no ulterior motives, no espionage or reinforcements waiting in the moon not far from Hala.

You were a single, last resource. There was nothing but you and your broken form. A failed soldier.

You were standing, watching the sun shining on buildings across Hala through the small window in your cell, admiring the dots circling farther down the street, almost forgetting that each dot was a person. You wonder if Carol forgets who they are.

"Um, admiring my city, I see." You spare her a brief glance before you return it to the window. She was in a red robe with local designs, and you can't shake off your head at how beautiful she is. How beautiful she looks in red. Or any other color.

You don't exactly know why Carol still comes to your cell, but you can't lie to yourself that you don't like it. You do. But you convince yourself that any company is better than the solitude of these walls, just that and nothing else.

She is an empress after all. A Sovereign, considered by many to be evil and tyrant. But each gentle gesture towards you reminds you that her hands are stained with blood. Like yours. Your conscience doesn't seem to know which side it should be on.

"Forgive me if my boredom is exacerbated, your city is the only thing I have left to admire." You answer still looking ahead, afraid to look at her and be mesmerized. The Empress was a mystery that captivated you, as her answers were never what you would expect them to be. Just like now.

“I could end your boredom. Hala’s Summer Trade is famous across the galaxy, have you ever tasted Pluot Fruit?” Your head swivel towards her so fast it feels like a whip.

"Summer?" Quickly you do the math in your head, in this solar system the days and seasons were longer than in Xandar, so... "How long have I been kept in here?"

"Too long, Nova." Nova? What kind of nickname is this? Shaking your head, you question her. "Nova? This is not my name." She giggles and moves closer to the energy field that makes up your cell door, she’s one yard away so you can smell her perfume. White jasmine.

“I know it isn't. But I decided to abbreviate the title of Nova Corps to Nova, besides, I own this place…” she opens her arms to emphasize what she's talking about. "I can call you whatever I want, prisoner."

You decide to play her game and with a smirk on your face you respond. “Prisoner? Now, seconds ago weren’t you inviting me for a walk, your highness?”

You lick your lips when you see her face contorting in a mix of anger and something else, but what, you don't know. “You abuse my benevolence too much. Your precious Xandar never tried to open a ransom deal, you are of no use to them or to me.”

Her words crash into your chest, and you feel your heart break a little more. Months have passed and there was no sign of another corpsman coming to your rescue and now she tells you that Nova Prime didn't even try to negotiate your freedom.

You close your eyes and with small, defeated steps you walk to the window. A lifetime dedicated to Nova Corp and Xandar, to be abandoned like a stray dog ​​lost from its owners. Like someone worthless.

Defeated and hopeless, you ask Empress Carol why she still keeps you alive. Standing in the hallway leading to the dungeons hall she smiles triumphantly and speaks. "For my entertainment, prisoner."

--

"What do you think of the Pluot?" Carol's voice breaks your train of thought.

"Strangely delicious." You respond by referring to the strange appearance, as if it was a dried fruit and not completely juicy right after tasting it.

As with the fruit, such was your surprise to see Carol's interaction with her subjects. Many of them kept their distance, paid their obeisance and respects to the Empress, and continued on their way with their heads low.

However, a reassuring number of people seemed to genuinely like or even admire Carol and not out of obligation. Doing a 180° turn in the opinion you once held of the Empress, she was extremely adorable when interacting with children.

Who knew the fearsome tormentor of the Kree empire would be so… human? How can someone, who keeps a prisoner just for her own pleasure, be so kind? You wonder if they were the same person at all.

She smiles in response to what you said and you smile back, completely unsure of the reasons why you do.

After the Hala market tour went without incident, that is, without any attempt to escape on your part, Carol has granted you the right to stroll through the inner gardens of her palace. As much as you want to hate the way she plays as if you were a puppet, you can't.

You try to hate her, but each day you spend in her company makes it harder for you to deny the feeling that, gradually, grows in your chest. Then, you find yourself desperate to hang this passion before it's too late.

Your morning walks allow you to see autumn slowly approaching, little by little, with each leaf touching the ground. And if you used to enjoy Carol's garden alone, over time, the Empress's company became part of your routine.

"Why are you still keeping me alive, Carol?" You rarely addressed her by the title of empress or nobility, and she never forced you to use it, she seemed not to care whether you recognized her power or not. Nor did he seem to mind when you used it ironically.

"I like your company." She answered and that made you look directly into her eyes. "It isn't every day that I find a match." Her answer made something boil in your chest and you had to force your heart to understand that she was probably referring to the fight.

"I'm not a match for you, your highness." You spoke. "Everything special about me came from an enhanced helmet." A sad smile danced on your lips, remembering how powerless you felt when you saw it broken in her hand. You remembered how broken you felt yourself.

“Everything special about you comes from your heart, Nova.” Her tone was low and as much as you wanted, there was nothing to grasp in it. She spoke this sentence as if she were speaking about the weather but for you it just set your heart on fire.

--

Between stories from a lifetime ago, when Carol was only a human being without a single clue that the universe was bigger than her world and stories from her time adapting and training in Hala, you felt yourself slowly but surely falling for her.

The change for you was visible and you prayed it would be visible only to you. If before you thought she was beautiful, now she’s extremely attractive in your eyes. Even when choosing simple robes, Carol was always dressed impeccably.

After spending so much time together, it was only a matter of time before you realized that the Empress was possessed of vast intellect and knowledge about many different things.

But what strike you most was how funny and mundane she could be, yet, she still had that special something in her eyes that never failed in make you weak. You were a prisoner, indeed. A prisoner of her eyes.

Unlike many extremely powerful beings, Carol was humble enough to listen to your stories, and even encouraged you to tell more details about yourself. She never quite understood, but something about you drew her as if you were a magnet.

The sparkle in your eyes as you spoke about your homeland, friends, or your passion and honor in serving Nova Corp thrilled her. There were many things in you that stirred emotions in her, as well as aroused feelings that she thought she was no longer capable of feeling for a long time.

And so, without realizing it and at the same time fully aware of what was going on beneath her skin, the Empress fell in love with her Prisoner.

--

Winter at Hala marked when your quarters were no longer a cell but a room in Empress's palace. Larger than your home in Xandar, the room was beautifully decorated with art, and you could discern some Xandar artwork. You wonder if it was coincidence.

Despite being as warm as a star, Carol suggested that both of you should trade your walks in the garden for spending time in the library available at the palace. And that's how you began to be the Empress's company during her meals.

It started with lunch and then evolved into dinner and now Carol finds herself waiting for your presence before even touching her plate. ‘I shouldn't allow myself such weakness’, she thought. However, she couldn't bring herself to change or to avoid the need of your company.

--

"I beg your pardon?" You speak, barely able to avoid spilling your soup. The increasingly warm but shy rays of the sun and the many animals strolling in the courtyard tell you that spring is just around the corner. And that's exactly what almost made you spill the soup, in first place.

Carol cleared her throat, promptly speaking again, as if you had not heard her from the first time. “I’d be delighted if you grant me the honor of your company for the Spring Ball due in two weeks.” She looked at you expectantly.

Your mind was swirling as to why she would want you as her company, out of all people. She was the Empress; she could have anyone she wanted by her side. Yet, here she was, asking you to be her date.

The time in Hala flew slower as it did in Xandar, but it felt like the opposite, for the Ball came faster than you thought it be possible.

And here you were, walking down the entrance stairs in a beautiful golden gown with Carol’s arm locked with yours. Her deep green dress was marvelous and when you saw her welcoming you with that pretty smile of hers you thought you could melt.

Much to your dismay, Carol could sing just as she’d told you she could, but you never believed in her. It wasn’t hard for you to realize that you were free falling in love with her even more than you already were. If it was possible, you fell in love again. You’d be her prisoner, forever.

As the night went on, you were mesmerized by the ball, the music, and the way of life in Hala. It felt like a different life, one that very much resembled prince and princess’ tales that you heard when you were a kid.

A life that didn’t quite belong to you but looking into her eyes it made it feel like everything was possible, reachable, as if her power could create a different world. Just as she did. As ruler of the Kree empire, she created a new kingdom.

Standing in the balcony, you welcomed the cold air hitting your skin that was inebriating your senses, previously flooded by the Empress. The stars illuminated the sky of Hala making the city bellow you even prettier.

A soft touch in your hand brings your gaze back to its owner and a small gasp scape your lips when you see how close she is, even more so when you wish she were closer. “I never told you how beautiful you are tonight.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“You flatter me, your highness. You’re flawless yourself.” A small smile creeped up her lips and you forced yourself to keep your eyes locked with hers, proven to be a hard task when she started to lean into your ear.

“There is something that I wanted to tell you for a while ago.” Her hands on your waist made it difficult for you to pay attention to her words, along with the feel of her cheek touching your cheeks made your knees weak.

“You’re no longer a prisoner and you can leave Hala if you want to.” Her thumb drew patterns where it touched you and you could feel your skin burning. “You’re free, but I wish you’d stay here.” She backed down and now her eyes were boring into yours.

“I wish you’d stay here with me.” She stressed.

Your heart and head were running thousand miles per hour in completely opposite directions. The rational part of you wanted to take your freedom and go back to Xandar, even though you should find it suspicious that, almost after a year, she’d let you go. Specially after you’d learned so much about Hala. About her.

However, your heart’s been slowly giving itself to this woman right in front of you, and there was nothing that you wanted more than to stay here with her. Surely, you felt left behind by Nova Prime, but it still stings in you that no one came after you. Not even a fellow corpsman.

‘Not one that you know, for that matter.’ You shook your conscience’s voice away and gave in to your heart. The rational part of you broke at the exact same time as did your helmet.

“Carol, I…” You begin but she interrupts you by placing an oh so soft lips on yours and there is no voice to hear anymore. Nor rational, nor emotional. There are only her lips pouring her heart into a kiss and you do just the same.

Right in that moment you felt as if your heart was about to melt, maybe it would, if she hadn’t broken the kiss and rested her forehead in yours.

“Tell me you’ll stay and rule by my side.” Before the true meaning of her words could sink in, the sky of Hala suddenly shone as if thousands of stars appeared right in that moment, drawing the attention of you both.

Not long until you realized that it wasn’t stars, but thousands of spaceships painting the night over your heads, and you’d recognize those ships anywhere. Xandar was here. And a voice that you’d never forget was heard above all noise.

“I am Nova Prime and Xandar declares war to Empress Carol, accused of murdering Nova Corps’ Commander.”

‘Why are they accusing her of murder?’ You thought to yourself. It does not make sense that she’s being accused of killing you when you’re alive. Unless…

“Carol, what did you do?”

#carol danvers #carol danvers x fem!reader #carol danvers x reader #carol danvers x original character #cap marvel x reader #cap marvel x fem!reader #captain marvel x female reader #captain marvel x reader #cap danvers #cap marvel #captain marvel #nova corps #supernova #empress au #request #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel one shot #marvel wlw #wlw love

[jean-does-not-have-a-horseface]

Heyo! I was wondering if you could do a scenario during the uprising arc where the reader starts to realize she has feelings for Levi but at first he rejects her? Then during the night before Shiganshina he realizes about her feelings and ends up returning them knowing he doesn't want her to get hurt or die? Some angst fluff please and thank you!

Okay anon you have no idea how much I enjoyed writing this. It's super long and I love how it came to me so naturally. I hope you enjoy

Warnings: a little angst!?

Tags: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

Promise

It all started at the sight of his wet fingertips grazing the broken rim of a teacup. A flutter, a feisty spark in your heart that seemed to drown it in full might had made its presence known to you in a very particular, unwanted moment. The flicker of a tiny flame danced before your eyes, sat at the frame of the window near the sink where you proceeded to rinse through washed dishes.

Levi's pale, chapped skin pulled on his knuckles leaving an unnatural yellowish white tone behind, indicating his involvement with excessive amounts of cleaning products. And for the first time, the sight really pulled a string in your poor heart in a way that was enough to convince you to break the dense silence in the room.

But maybe, you thought, Levi wouldn't want to talk to you.

With an unforgiving steel gaze he stared at your face, blinking in soft, yet erratical paces as you stopped plumping the water from running. In response your tongue was forced to slip inside your mouth and push any unspoken word back to its source, in the depths of your brain. All of a sudden you felt so afraid to talk, so petrified by the general idea of a three syllabus word that wouldn't ever spare the misery off of anyone.

Rejection

Captain seemed to be on the rejective side nevertheless so nothing regarding your newly discovered feelings would matter to him anyway, so in a way you blamed yourself for getting overwhelmed with this whole situation. A dark cloud of doubt shadowed your mind with the intention of interrogating your heart's intentions; perhaps you were mistaken. How on earth could you have been in love with the short man, you didn't know. There were far too many differences between the two of you, be it in appearance, mannerism or even -and more importantly- experiences. Supposing you had lived through similar occurances in battles outside the walls was enough for anyone to consider the two of you to be very alike, it was at least dishonorable to compare your childhood or teenage years to his.

"Nice hands" Of course you had managed to utter the most embarrassing choice of words to him, your mind could never cooperate with you when it came to such serious situations, something you hated so very much. The obnoxious dryness of your eyes was slowly migrating in the caves under your tongue, you could feel your mouth drying more and more by each passing second, yet you did nothing to prevent it.

Judging by Levi's puzzled expression which included his head slightly tilting forward as if to hear you better you knew he was as awestruck as you were at your own words. "I don't really understand where you're coming from but thank you, I guess." He spoke, the usual monotone tint staining his voice. You whipped your head back to a fixed position -on your hands this time- to stare down at the sink. The awkward glances you would throw at him went seemingly unnoticed and as time passed by you felt your tention overwhelming you, this time, completely.

Levi wasn't dense to any body language thrown at him and you were painfully aware. His cold eyes never spared you not even a half cornered look as he rubbed the little sponge on the soap bar next to him. His fingers danced on the ceramic plate, cleansing it in fast and very effective movements, leaving you staring in awe. Whether he was ignoring you on purpose or not you didn't know and you didn't want to seek an answer as to why but at this rate he would probably be the one to inquire why you were burning holes in his hands with your gaze. Again.

"I'm so sorry I'm fixated on your hands" Your mouth run, ignoring your mind's orders to stay shut "It's just-" Dammit think quick for once "You have nice nail beds."

There it was. The evidence that your words had actual brains and that they formed the most improper sentences on their own, just to torture you and push you deeper into piles of goowey, mushy shit. If Levi was anyone else he would have been laughing his ass of at the stupidness of your speech, you knew you would be laughing too if this wasn't as serious. Just as you were sure you heard a chuckle Levi placed the sponge on the bar of soap carefully and extended his arm, fully displaying his hand.

He seemed to study it like it was the first time he had ever even noticed it. The slick, long fingers, the oval shaped nails, his torn open knuckles. Perhaps you were kidding him for the lack of hair on the base of fingers he used to hold his blades with, those were burnt with years of being worn out by the steel triggers of the blades. He speculated this was common among most soldiers, so it didn't seem like a reason to be kidded for and in addition you never were the person to just spit senseless insults as jokes to your comrades.

"Is there even a point to talk about my hands? They're normal hands to me."

You bit your lip as your eyes widened in shock. Realisation hit you that this was probably more that absurd to Levi as it was to you, seeing you had started to talk about his hands out of nowhere. Your mind, in a state of panic, was in the midst of attempting to process every idiotic sentence you had the audacity to blurb out, but it never seemed to find an answer. Boiling with embarrassed, you wiped the water of your hands to your pants, an act that caught Levi's eye, and went to grab the first wooden chair that was in your path. You needed to sit down, to process whatever this was.

Yet, the only explanation you could find was that there was a raging wildfire in the pits of your stomach everytime your thoughts wandered on Levi. Yes, it was possible that what had started as an admiration, a tiny spec of a crush for the slender featured man had been growing on you since forever, but you had always burried it deep, in any hellhole that should accommodate such emotions as this was war and not the plot of sappy romance novel.

The air was cut down short in the room when Levi sat at a chair beside you, watching you over in such demanding manner that only he could master. He proceeded to light the only candle that stood at the middle of the table, possibly in hopes of flaring a conversation or causing a sane sequence of sentences to finally fall from your tongue. It was still unbeknownst to him what had caused you to trip over words as if you were a learning toddler and he yearned to find out, as a sole friend, not as the stern corporal he presented himself to be.

"(y/n)" His voice was tender as he spoke either much mindful to the teens who were sleeping in the next room or unwilling to let a private conversation between the two of you be heard. "If you think I can help with whatever is going on quit acting like a brat and tell me what's on your mind."

Momentarily, you wondered whether he'd stick to his words in case you spilled your heart's infatuating agony but you felt unable to think of a possible dominating scenario in the chaos of your mind. As self destructive as it sounded, you'd prefer to be the one to break your own heart rather than having to stand back and be a martyr to him tearing it off your chest and tearing it. Knowing Levi, this wasn't anything physically impossible, but you doubt that he could ever be as harsh with you.

"I'm just stressed. I have a lot on my mind."

"Erwin's trial and the future of the scouts, huh? Or is it that Hange works your ass off with those experiments?" You scoffed in denial to all of his inquiries, knowing full well that you could have used them as excuses. Levi's sharp hand began a short trip with sole purpose to land at the top of your head, through your loose locks, in an affectionate manner, a little something you had picked up he would do when he really cared for someone. Everyone knew he wasn't particularly touchy, except for some emotional moments with his closest people; a hand on a shoulder and a pat in the head were mostly what you had witnessed him indulging. His hand ruffling with your hair wasn't profound and new at all, he had done so many times after the two of you would strongly disagree over formations and orders, showing you how much he appreciated your strong wits and your clever ideas. What was new was that the lone touch burned your sculp like hot iron and made your insides twitch.

"I'll make us some tea" the screeching creak of the chair being pushed back shook of your train of thoughts enough to form a reaction to his hand that still rested on your head. Almost as if he didn't want to take it off "We can discuss your problem in a-"

"Sit down" you demanded, voice stern, masked with seriousness that caught him off guard. "Take your hand off my hair, it hurts." You pleaded with your eyes to stay as dry as they were before but you were certainly unsure of whether they'd listen. "Can't you see?"

What was there not to see really. Levi probably knew of your fondness of him way before you managed to realise, as in second thought every move you had ever made in his presence betrayed you. He would have never tried to provoke a confession just to laugh at you, that you were sure of, but he had never made a move in reciprocation either, that alone made you sure of your confessions future's end and caused your gut to spit even more fire to the rest of your insides.

Levi was not perplexed, not even for a single moment, at your words that seeked to stab like daggers, he wouldn't allow himself to be toyed by his own emotions just this once. This is an erratical reaction to his touch, a rejection of his affections towards you and he feared he knew the reason. For someone as bright and emotional as you he never would have thought that you could have hid such tormentous emotions so well inside you, only to end up at this moment of snapping.

As much as he'd like not to be hurt in the slightest by your demeanor he couldn't help but feel a tiny string of his heart being pulled. Suddenly it was evident to him why you couldn't take part in normal conversations around him or why you acted so tense in his presence, why you were so rejective of his touches and he wondered if he should have done anything besides unknownably torture you for so long. Whether his heart wanted to hear a confirmation out of your mouth to it's pained pleading for reciprocation, his mind ignored. The time would never be right and as egoistical as it seemed he couldn't bear to lose someone else that close to him, let alone a significant other. From his experience feelings of love and adoration should never be spoken out loud in this cruel world, amongst soldiers, especially. It wouldn't lead to any good.

When you proceeded to speak the pit in his stomach was already welling in frustration and denial. "Levi we've known each other for years and whatever's forcing me to much on my words should stop."

None can do, this couldn't happen here, now, while being on the run by military police as collective criminal. Levi wouldn't allow you to speak those earth shuttering words, even if wanted for them to chaste kiss his ears and echo through his head. "Not like you haven't figured anyways. I'm so pathetic. To fall for my Capt-"

"Don't you dare utter any other word of that sentence. I won't forgive you if you do." His hand reached out to grab yours by the wrist, tightly, as if he didn't know you couldn't stand the intensity of the grip. The silence that towed over the room was freezing, irrational even; it made you want to puke your intestines right onto Levi's shoes. Your heartbeat was so fast, so unrhythmic that you felt like the vital blood red organ would burst out of your chest in a massive mess.

Τhere was an excessive amount of agony emitting from your eyes, slicing through Levi's chest, searching despairately for a sign he had a heart, just to remind you that it didn't belong to you. Your mind traveled through every possible scenario to find a reason as to why you had to endure this, did his affections belong to someone you didn't know of? Hange? Erwin? Nifa seemed to be close to him lately as well. Was he heartbroken before and swore to never love again? You hated that there was not a tiny little space in his heart for you.

Just as this tense moment began, it came to an end when Sasha burst into the room, shotgun on her shoulder and chestnut eyes as sleepy as they could be. Fatigue was overpowering her whole form and it was as evident as ever before your eyes. With a quick, exhausted salute she announced her self, unsure of if you and the captain could see her face under the shadows of the night.

"It's guard change sir!" She spoke.

"I'm coming sweetheart." You got up from the chair you were sat at, breaking your wrist away from Levi's grip in a harsh manner. You didn't spare him a second look as you took another deep breath and locked it in your chest in hopes of seeming a little more mighty. "Go take some rest. You deserve it."

With increasingly fast steps you storm outside the little cottage trying your best not to look back. You wouldn't bear to check if there was still light coming from the kitchen that should indicate Levi's persistent presence. Your knees trembled at the imagery but you wouldn't let your eyes rest behind you not even for a second. He would probably be drinking his tea, unbothered, thinking of anything but you and you would be lying if you were to day that it didn't hurt you. It hurt so much that it sent you on your ass, on the stone tile pattern under your feet. Your heart forced suffocating waves of pain through your whole body only to push out of your eyes in the form of hot, salty tears. As your sobs grew louder and your heartache became unbearable to the point you though you could feel your heart break in two, you pushed the ends of your palms into your eyes sockets to squeeze the pain and itchiness of the tears away. You promised to yourself this was the first and last time you would cry for him.

____

After that night you barely speak with Levi. Aside from following his orders with the eventual 'yessir' as a reply, you have managed to successfully establish a thick barrier between him end you. Your nights of accompanying him in his late hour tea sessions, or teaching him how to knit and embroider were no more. The times you would share your food with him after you'd hear his stomach growl from the small portion he would get were also no more. You had made sure to claim your small acts of affection back to yourself, how could you move on from him if you were trying to be nice.

You would profoundly ignore his gazes, his calls for you at his office at late hours of the night by random cadets. You wouldn't answer to him if it wasn't for something military related and you intended it to keep it that way until the announcements of the feast that would take place before the attempt of retaking wall Maria.

As you passed by a narrow street heading to anywhere away from the crowd of cadets with your drink in your hand, you bumped lousy into the onyx haired male. It was the first time in days or even weeks that you had spared him a glance but your eyes averted his upon impact. You couldn't stand this. It was suffocating you. The clicking of your ankle boots colliding with the ground might have been heard as you turned on your heels to flee the scene but Levi's stern clearing of the throat overshadowed it.

He wasn't having it anymore.

"Oi, wait! Stop on your tracks, this is an order!" He spoke, eliciting a groan out of you as you turned to face him. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"Captain, I seek to relax before a very hard mission, spare me with your punishments, I beg of you."

His blood boiled with your every word "Cut the damn crap (y/n) and talk to me like normal." It probably sounded more harsh than he intended but he couldn't find himself in a position to turn back time and rephrase those words. The drained look in your eyes tolled him as well. The fact that you were both so tired by this game of cat and mouse was profound and everywhere in the air around you and Levi didn't know if he could take it anymore.

At first he thought that it was for the best. If you both forgot about your feelings or found ways to distract yourselves by this distance then it would be so much easier for him to push through the upcoming events of Shiganshina, but he was surprised to know he was mistaken. Masking his feelings must have seemed easy when it came to grieve and loss; he'd spent hours in his room, with you, letting everything out and occupying himself with trying to improve his handwriting while doing paperwork, but infatuation, love, was different. Instead of fading by each passing day like anger and grief it only ever became stronger, fonder and more agressive, chewing on his insides in despair. He really did hate that he had allowed himself to feel that way but it was way too late by now. There was nothing he could do and the fact that you ignored him after almost squeezing out that much, much wanted confession was only making him feel more hollow and in pain.

But Levi knew how to control himself, he trusted his ability on that.

"What is there to talk about? Let me live my last day in peace." You barked, your eyes starting to dance towards his direction, landing on his chin, then at the curve of his unfairly full bottom lip, on his button upwards nose.

"Look." He paused, unsure of how to put his words into non hurtful sentences. "If you could just tell me why or share a few words with me. We could damn die tomorrow and I'd regret not ever talking you out of this unfair treatment you're giving me."

You wondered if you should open up your heart to him completely, without accepting any interruption from him just to cleanse your coincidence off of this weight. Upon deciding that there was truly nothing holding you back except for a silly fear of another rejection that could die with you tomorrow you opened your mouth to speak any words that came to your mind.

"Levi, I'm in pain. You rejected me. Plain and simple. I've spent so many nights wondering why I am unworthy of your affections but I can't wrap my head around you anymore."

"Is that the way you feel about me? That you're the one who's unworthy of me?"

"You always think so lowly of yourself. Makes me wonder how you trust your own abilities in battlefield. But yes. So I just want to know who is it for you? Who do you feel you're unworthy of?"

He paused for a moment, to regain any shattered piece of his heart you had thrown back to him with your statement. You didn't hate him, be always knew that, but hearing those words fall out of your mouth engulfed the matter into reality unlike before. He was ready to face it. Even if he was unsure of tomorrow he knew that if he was to stay alive while you were dead he would have torn his own brain out as to avoid overthinking this particular moment.

"You want the truth honestly, brat? I happen to think I'm the one unworthy of you. You've taught me how to write and read, you came into my office to check up on an underground scum like me to see if I was asleep. Dammit you even gave me portions of your food to help me withstand the long nights of sleeping in my chair. What have I done for you? Boss you around? Or is it my looks you're after?"

Your eyes widened at his last statement, momentarily preventing the tears that had gathered in the corners from falling. This wasn't a time to misunderstand his words and act foolish, this was the closest out of a confession you would get from the man and you were awestruck, amazed. If he wanted to know a reason you would give him one.

"I'll admit, you might have the face of an angel Levi and maybe that would initial draw anyone to you, including me but I didn't fall in love with you for that." You could tell he was taken aback by the raw nature of your words only by the small whimper that escaped his throat.

"Over the course of this relationship between us you have been there for me when I couldn't be there for myself, you've helped me improve, your hands are stained with blood and so are mine, but you've knitted with me, you've stitched my wounds, you've let me sleep in your bed when I found a giant cockroach in mine, you're so much more than what you paint yourself to be."

He stared at you with ogling, soft eyes. Had he looked at you like that before you were oblivious but there was something in those steel eyes that magnetised your own gaze, something you couldn't let go off. It was calming the knot in your chest with reassurance, bearing promises of the future but he didn't dare speak on them to ruin the moment. His head closed the distance between the two of you in sharp shiftings and now your lips were brushing his in the most suggestive manner possible. It had all happened so fast that you didn't have a chance to react.

"You realised" he whispered, voice soft as the melancholy of the theme of his words captured your breath "that if you happen to die tomorrow, I, myself will hunt you down, resecure you and then proceed to beat the living shit out of you every single day of your shitty life, right?"

He was so beautiful panting with desire under the moonlight and you would never forget. Out of all times this could have taken place it happened now, hours before a deadly expedition. The feeling of regret flooded your form, his as well for not acting upon your feelings sooner and Levi fought an internal battle as to whether he should kiss you or not. He desired to keep that kiss as a reward that you stayed alive for him but on the other hand he feared that this could well be his last chance to taste you for the first time.

"That's a weird way to say I love you" as his lips brushed closer to yours his heart felt like it would explode, he had pained to claim your lips, just once, just to know the taste of a beloved and he was sure he would be more pained to lose you.

As he pleaded that you came to him tomorrow he pressed his lips on yours, sealing the promise he demanded you to make to him. Your heart melted under the soft lights of a thousand stars.

____

As his arms wrapped around you, tears run down his eyes. That was it. You had fought to keep your promise nail and tooth. You had never managed let him down and to see that you were among the tiny amount of survivors lifted his soul to heaven. The touch of your skin, the salty taste of your neck, it all was real, you were indeed alive and safe in his arms. He wouldn't have to go insane over that fact that he would never get to look into your eyes again.

"I will always keep my promises to you." You hitched with tears running down cheeks, the shock in your core still trembling as ever.

"I know" He panted

"Besides, have you seen yourself in action, I wouldn't want you to hunt me down, oh Lord."

I am. In tears. Also I'm sorry (?) for such in depth descriptions of Levi's hands?

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #snk x reader #aot x reader #levi #shingeki no kyojin #levi ackerman #attack on titan #snk #aot #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x y/n #levi ackerman imagine #captain levi #x reader #listen here i am crying #i am not okay #THIS WAS SO CATHARTIC TO WRITE WTF

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Of something beautiful, but annihilating🚬2

Warnings: nonconsensual sex, violence and abuse, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of death [other warning to be added throughout series]

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader’s husband brings home an unexpected houseguest.

Note: Still working a lot but here’s another chapter. I work gaming and the console launches are just killing me for real. Why do (some) gamers have to be idiots?

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You awoke stiff and cold. Your legs were tucked up under your nightgown as the early spring turned frigid in the night and your muscles ached as you fell onto your back. You were still young but you didn’t feel it. The deep snores still rose from the bed as you sat up and the soft light of dawn broke through the curtains.

You suspected that Roy would be just as unpleasant once it came time to rouse him. You got to your feet with a grumble and rubbed your tender stomach. You could feel the bruise and winced as you went to the closet to gather your clothes for the day. The usual; a plain blouse and dull skirt. Then you took a pair of old nylons, some underwear and your brassiere from the chest of drawers.

You wrapped yourself in a robe and crossed to the washroom to quickly clean yourself up before you dressed. You stared in the mirror, your eyes puffy with fatigue. You sighed and dumped your robe and nightgown in the bedroom before you continued on downstairs.

If there was anything that would placate your husband, it was food. Since your wedding day, he had put on quite a few pounds, not that he had ever been particularly slim. He had also aged more than three years of your union, though he was ten years your senior already. Well, your father and mother had about the same difference between them; it was far from unusual.

You took out your iron pan and placed it on the stove, a relic of the Depression era but still able to catch a flame. Your father was always proud of his old appliances. Before you were born and in the early years of your life, he’d worked hard to build not only the farmhouse but a home for his young family. Those years before the war had remained his most precious until the end.

You took out the tray of eggs and the small sausages bartered at a discount from the butcher. You hated to think of replacing the puttering fridge but you doubted it would hold up another couple decades. That in itself would be a battle with Roy. He worked hard for his money. It was difficult enough to negotiate a pair of nylons without holes from the terse man you called your husband.

You were startled as you heard a footboard whine. You turned and accidentally cracked an egg onto the floor as you did. Arvin was dressed in jeans and a plain tee. His overalls were slung over his arm as he entered.

“You’re up already?” You asked as you bent to clean up your mess. “Hope it’s not ‘cause of me.”

“I’ve always been an early riser,” he assured you, “Need any help with that?”

“No, no,” you stood with the egg and shell in your hand, “I think I can manage.” You went to the bin and dumped your handful. “You drink coffee? Orange juice?”

“I wouldn’t mind some milk, if it isn’t too much a bother,” he smiled. “But I can fetch it myself.”

“You don’t have to--”

“You keep saying that. I respect that this is your house, ma’am, and you’re used to doing all the upkeep but I don’t mind at all.”

You pursed your lips and nodded. You wiped your hand on a dish cloth and went back to adding eggs to the mixing bowl. You listened to his footsteps as they continued onto the dining room and he returned to search for a glass among the cupboards.

“Here,” you reached up and opened the cabinet, “Milk’s on the middle shelf in the fridge.”

He neared and grabbed a tall glass from the rows. He was awfully close as he did. He set the glass down on the counter and went to the fridge. You listened as he struggled with the handle.

“You gotta wiggle it. Don’t be afraid to put some muscle into it.” You chuckled.

The door popped open and you heard him grunt. You whisked up the eggs as he approached with the milk jug and filled his glass. He paused as he watched you work. A long silence rose between you, interrupted only by the clink of the whisk on the bowl.

“You got any laundry?” You asked suddenly. “I can manage another load today.”

“If it’s not too much,” he lifted the jug and slowly backed away, “The laundromat isn’t much for efficiency. Sometimes I think my shirts come out more stained than before.”

You listened as he put the jug away and took his glass from beside you. You felt his lingering gaze before he left you but ignored it as your tendency to overthink. He was a kind, young man and you had grown unused to that. 

You loved Roy, tried to at least, and you reminded yourself that he hadn’t always been bad. You hoped that he could be good again. Perhaps Arvin could help with that.

You moved stiffly around the stove. Your muscles strained more with each stretch of your arm or bend of your leg. The floor never left you in very good shape and your apron reminded you of the bruise that deepened along your torso.

When the eggs were fluffy and the sausage browned, you climbed the stairs to wake your husband. You stayed in the doorway as you called to him. It was best not to get close when he was hungover. 

He grumbled and threw a pillow. When you reminded him he would be late to work, he lobbed the lamp. It landed a good foot from you but still caused a thunderous thump on the floor before the bulb shattered.

You left him. He would rouse himself and be too late to bother much with you. He would also have an audience to keep him in line.

You went back downstairs and plated the food; you covered Roy’s before you laid it out on the table along with your own and Arvin’s. You sat across from your houseguest as he greedily eyed his breakfast.

“What was that?” He asked as his brown eyes flicked up to the ceiling.

“Silly me,” you twirled your fork nervously, “I tripped over the cord of the lamp and brought the whole thing down.”

Arvin nodded and his cheek twitched. He said nothing as he cut into a sausage and you pushed around your eggs without eating. Your appetite was soured by memories of the previous night. If fate and alcohol favoured you, Roy would not recall it so well.

“Did you sleep well?” You asked suddenly as you tried to distract yourself. “I know the attic gets a bit gusty, walls aren’t very thick and that couch is old…”

“I slept finer than I have in months,” he replied, “Thank you.”

“You’ve been down at the motel, Roy said. You new in town?”

“Was meaning to just pass through,” he swallowed, “But a few odd jobs turned into a full gig down at the garage. I used to fiddle around with my aunt’s truck when I was a kid and… guess I figured a few things out.”

“Oh? And where’s home? Is that where you were headed?”

“Leavin’, actually. Sometimes you just outgrow where you’re from.” He said wistfully, “Life shakes you awake and says ‘go or die’ and you’re too restless to wait around for the inevitable.”

Your mouth fell open. His face had fallen, a lifetime worth of worries and tragedies set in his thin lips and squared his jaw. He looked through you at the past that had chased him all the way to your doorstep. The naive boy fractured before you to the frightened young man. And then, he was gone.

He smiled and was once more firmly sat in the present.

“I know what you mean.” You said quietly.

“So…” He set his fork down, “You from here then?”

“Daddy’s house. Never left it.” You confessed, “Never had the courage to stop waiting, I suppose.”

“You got lots of time for that,” Arvin said, “You know, when life’s seemed to slow down, it starts back up all at once.”

You rubbed your fingertips along the tablecloth. You looked at your plate, your food barely touched.

“You okay? You’re not eating.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, “I didn’t sleep too much…. there’s this shutter that just knocks against the house when it’s windy, you know?”

He leaned back and considered you. He grabbed his glass of milk and drained it.

“So, how long have you and Roy… been married?” Arvin asked.

You heard the stairs creak and stiffened in your seat. You tapped your fork on the lip of the plate and cleared your throat.

“Three years,” you said as Roy’s grumbles grew louder. 

“Oh,” Arvin glanced over as Roy stumbled in and caught himself on a chair. You stood and uncovered his plate as he sat. He waved you away groggily and swiped up his fork. “A long time and not very long at all, then.”

“Mhmm,” you sat and watched Roy nervously. He said nothing as he shoved a whole sausage in his mouth and groaned. 

“Coffee,” he choked out.

You diligently went to the task of pouring him a mug and returned as Arvin watched him with a placid awareness. You set down the cup and Roy emptied it just as fast as it appeared.

“Too much beer, huh?” Arvin chuckled.

Roy tilted his head and gulped down his mouthful. “Maybe you’ll join me tonight,” your husband challenged. “Boy your size, one bottle’ll have you on your ass.”

“Probably,” Arvin said coolly. “Maybe I’m better stickin’ to water.”

You sat gingerly and looked between the two men. You realised how easily Arvin had distracted Roy. How he kept the temperamental man from his usual morning rage with a few words. You wondered if he had dealt with men like Roy before. Or maybe he had no idea what he was doing at all.

“You want me to drive today?” Arvin ventured, “You can close your eyes on the way.”

“Probably best you do,” Roy smacked his lips, “Don’t know I’ll be very useful at the garage.”

“Ah, just keep your head under that old Chevrolet and no one can tell you’re napping,” Arvin laughed at his own joke. “I won’t tell.”

🚬

You filled your day as any. Your chores kept you busy; laundry, sweeping, dusting, prepping dinner for the return of your husband and the houseguest you kept having to remind yourself of.

You made certain to fold Arvin’s clothes and stack them neatly in a basket for him. He didn’t have much; a few pairs of jeans, some tee shirts, two sweaters, and a denim jacket. You would search through your father’s stuff and see if there was anything worth salvaging.

When the old truck rumbled in front of the house, you were shoving a glazed ham into the oven. You wiped your hands on your apron and strode through to peek through the window. Arvin was quicker than Roy, smaller, younger. Your husband stomped across the gravel as the other man kept a deliberately slow pace behind him.

You opened the door to greet them as they neared the porch.

“How was your day?” You asked as you held open the door.

“A day that calls for a beer,” Roy snarled as he brushed past you. You couldn’t remember when he’d stopped kissing you; sometimes, you were certain you’d imagined he ever had. 

“It was good,” Arvin said softly as he smiled at you. Roy ambled into the front room and fell onto the sofa. “How was yours, ma’am?”

“Well enough,” you replied pensively as you watched your husband, “You want a beer too?”

“No, it’s still a bit early… Actually, I’ll get his beer.” Arvin said, “Why don’t you take a break?”

“She can do it herself,” Roy growled. “What else she gonna do around here?”

“I’m goin’ that way anyhow.” Arvin said. “Think I’ll get myself some water.”

“She’s my wife. She can serve me. Well, you would think she could.”

“Please,” you looked to Arvin pleadingly, “Just sit down.”

He stared at you and nodded slowly. His arm jerked as if he was going to touch your elbow but he backed away and turned to drag his feet into the front room.

“I have some Coke?” You offered, “If you prefer that.”

“Water,” Arvin said dully, “Thank you.” 

You slowly retreated but didn’t miss the way Arvin glared at Roy. He sat in the armchair and bit his thumb as he watched the other man. You spun before you could overthink it and scurried into the kitchen. You grabbed a bottle from the fridge and poured a glass of water. You hurried back to offer the refreshments and rung your hands as you hovered in the doorway.

“Your laundry’s on the landing,” you said meekly, “And Roy, I fixed the lamp.”

Roy merely belched as Arvin lifted his chin and sighed.

“Thank you,” Arvin uttered and set aside his glass, “Show me where that bed is and I’ll move it after dinner.”

“I--” You hesitated and looked at Roy fearfully. He was entirely unconcerned with anything but his beer. “Sure.”

Arvin stood and you led him to the stairway. He followed you up and bent to lift the basket from the landing. You turned to him and he was quick to take the clothes from you.

“I didn’t want to go up there without you knowin’,” you said, “Since it’s your space now.”

“I appreciate all you’ve done.” He hugged the basket. He pressed his lips together and peered back down the stairs. “Are you alright?”

You frowned as he looked at you again. You turned your hands out and shrugged. 

“I’m just fine.” You lied.

He squinted then his eyes fell to the clothes. “Well, you let me know if you need help. With anything.” He slowly edged away from you, “I might be payin’ Roy but I won’t be living on your hard work, ma’am.”

“I-- It’s my job to--”

“It’s his job to love you, with all due respect,” Arvin set down the basket and grabbed the cord of the attic hatch, “Ain’t no work hard enough at the garage that he can’t do that.” The stairs slid down and he picked up the basket again. He placed a foot on the bottom of the latter as he cradled the laundry in one arm. “I’ll be down for dinner.”

🚬

Several days passed with little change. Arvin barely seemed to affect things around the old farmhouse; he kept to himself mostly but helped where he could. Roy didn’t change either. His moods, his brutality, his demands. As you always had, you distracted yourself with your chores.

On Saturday, Roy announced that he was going fishing. Arvin refused an invitation and it didn’t seem to bother your husband. It did, however, make you wonder. Most men in the area were eager to be away from the homestead with a rod or rifle in hand. Well, it didn’t seem like your houseguest was most men.

You bid Roy goodbye. He was in a happier mood and let you kiss his cheek as he packed up his bait box. When he was gone, you went about your usual. You would sweep and dust the entire house before you started lunch; a small one as Roy took his with him.

When you got to the dining room, Arvin was at the table. He had a small, leather-bound notebook before him as he scribbled in it with a stubby pencil. He smiled as you hit the doorframe with the broom and apologized under your breath. He went back to his work and you went about your own, quietly, carefully.

As you bent to sweep up the dirt into the pan, you looked at him. His reddish-brown hair hung forward, the strands dangled along his nose. You stood and neared the table.

“I don’t know how you see anything,” you remarked.

He lifted his head and his hair tickled his cheeks. He chuckled and closed the notebook around the pencil.

“Guess I’m just used to it,” he said, “Do you ever sit down? Don’t think I could run around like you in those heels?”

You glanced down at your kitten heels. Not very high or fancy. You gripped the broom and leaned on it.

“I just think my feet are naturally curved now,” you kidded. “Sorry, if I interrupted you.”

“No, no, you’re right. I need a haircut,” he pushed his hair back and stretched as he bent his arms behind his head. “Been a while.”

There was silence between you. You weren’t sure why you’d broken it in the first place. Usually, you wouldn’t dare bother Roy. He always had the first word. And the last.

“I cut Roy’s hair. I could do yours.” You were shocked at your own words and snapped your mouth shut bashfully. “Or you could go down to Hannon’s and get him to give you proper trim. I’m just… offerin’.”

“Really?” He sat up, “If you wouldn’t mind. I’m tryna save my money for a car of my own right now. I’ll pay in labour? Got this old batter recipe I learned as a kid. Roy brings back some good fish and we’ll have some filets.”

“You don’t--” You voice died as he gave you that look. How many times had you said those words? ‘You don’t have to do that.’ You took a breath. “Bring a chair in the kitchen and I’ll get the scissors.”

You went to the kitchen and dumped the dustpan. You leaned the broom against the wall and searched for the scissors in the second drawer. You heard Arvin behind you as you took a dish cloth and turned to him. He placed the chair in the middle of the floor and sat.

You tucked the scissors into your apron along with the comb you kept with the old silver shears. You neared him and held up the cloth. “I’m just gonna tuck this into your shirt to catch the hair.”

“That’s fine,” he smiled at you as you bent to wrap the dish cloth around his neck and tucked it into his collar carefully. Your fingers grazed his neck and you saw him tense.

You backed up and took out the comb. 

“Where do you usually part it?”

“I usually just comb it back but then it just kinda… falls,” he snorted bashfully. “So, just wherever.”

You rounded him and combed his hair back before parting it along the left side. It split naturally from his crown and you did your best to be precise. You pulled his hair up with the teeth of the comb and began to cut away the length. The chopped ends fell over the towel and the shoulders of his tee. 

As you came around the front, he watched you with his deep brown eyes. You tried not to fidget against his intent gaze.

“Close your eyes,” you said and he seemed reluctant to do so. You began to snip as you let the hair hang to see the length and lifted it again to cut away more. 

“So, you got any records for the player?” He asked. The question surprised you but eased you.

“My daddy loved Sinatra and Crosby.” You said. “But I don’t suppose many listen to that anymore.”

“Well, some,” he said, “You ever listen to Ray Charles? I was down at the general store and they… they were selling his album at discount.”

“Oh?” You leaned closer as you softened the blunt ends of his hair, “I think… on the radio. Sometimes, I turn it on when Roy’s workin’ but I always make sure to turn it back to his station before he gets home or he--”

You stopped yourself and focused on your task. You didn’t want to mangle his hair. He had such nice hair. Soft and thick.

“Or he what?” Arvin opened his right eye.

“Or, you know… he just gets real upset. The dial on that old thing is so fussy,” you moved around him so the heat receded from your cheeks. “Just don’t want him breakin’ it.”

“You think he’d break it? Over that?” Arvin asked gently.

You chewed the inside of your lip. “No,” you said after a pause, “No, Roy can be grumpy but he wouldn’t…” You sniffed and combed his hair, “Maybe we can dig out some of my daddy’s records when I’m done.”

“Maybe,” he said evenly as he tapped his fingers along his thigh. “A little music might brighten this place up.”

#arvin russel #arvin russell x reader #the devil all the time #reader x oc husband #fic #dark!fic #Dark Fic #of something beautiful but annihilating #series