Quinn moved on from Shawn meanwhile i’m still back at the restaurant
also, ARMSSSSSSS!!!!! that is all.
Misplaced Lens Cap
we're not kids anymore.
Monterey Bay Aquarium
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

titsay
i don't do bad sauce passes

@theartofmadeline

shark vs the universe
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
hello vonnie
Cosmic Funnies
wallacepolsom
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Keni
noise dept.

JBB: An Artblog!

trying on a metaphor

Kaledo Art
seen from Japan

seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States

seen from Singapore

seen from Germany

seen from United States

seen from Indonesia
seen from United States
seen from India
seen from Italy
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Malaysia
seen from India
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia
seen from Netherlands

seen from Singapore
seen from Portugal
@hotleaf-juice
Quinn moved on from Shawn meanwhile i’m still back at the restaurant
also, ARMSSSSSSS!!!!! that is all.

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pairing: andrew “pope” cody x reader
content: angst | fear of infidelity (?) | pope and reader are married | reader is pregnant with pope’s baby
🟡 author’s note: blurb i came up with while watching animal kingdom. it’s based on the animal kingdom plot from season two, but i tweaked it.
part one. part two.
—
you had finally hit the second trimester of carrying your baby. you thought you’d be thrilled… in fact, you should’ve been over the moon that you were finally living out the life you’ve always wanted with your husband, but instead, you’d spent the past few weeks stewing in bitterness, jealousy, and a deep, gnawing insecurity you couldn’t quite shake.
you’ve always been well aware of who pope cody was. you knew about the jobs, the lies, the things the codys did to survive. and despite pope’s deep entanglement in a life of crime and violence, none of that had ever scared you away from him. especially not when your sweet pope practically worshiped you. throughout your time with him, he never once hesitated to spoil you, to keep you fed and comfortable, to make sure that you were utterly fulfilled. what you hadn’t expected however, was having to watch your husband play house with another woman.
amy wheeler was the target.
amy was soft-spoken, effortlessly pretty, with shoulder-length blonde hair and bright blue eyes. god, you could go on and on about all the great and wonderful attributes this woman had, but it felt like she was the complete opposite of you in every conceivable way. she led a bible study group at the megachurch the codys were planning to hit, and from the beginning, you had hated the idea. you couldn’t stand the thought of pope being used to manipulate someone, even when manipulation was practically second nature to his family.
at first, pope hated it too. he resisted the assignment longer than anyone expected. he’d get all stiff and visibly uncomfortable anytime craig or deran teased him about “wooing the church lady.” but eventually, like he always did, he folded under pressure from his brothers along with the promise that it was only temporary.
temporary somehow turned into weeks.
you endured weeks of your husband getting too close to amy. endured them going on dates, holding hands, even kissing, all because he had to sell it. it also meant that you’d have to tolerate him staying over at her apartment because that was what the job required. he always promised you the same thing afterward, “none of it is real. i’m doing this for you. for us, okay?” but lately the reassurance felt thin and worn-out, like something repeated too many times to still mean anything.
it felt like a slap to the face when you started noticing the change in him. and you hated yourself for noticing.
in the beginning, he would come home tense after seeing amy, irritated and restless, like he couldn’t wait for the whole thing to be over. but now he lingered before answering questions. stayed quieter. less defensive. like somewhere along the line he stopped forcing himself to spend time with amy, and started tolerating it a little too well.
the pregnancy only made everything sharper. or maybe it had made everything messier. you couldn’t tell anymore. but every emotion sat too close to the surface now, raw and impossible to contain. it was hard not to let your mind wander down a rabbit hole as you contemplated just how far he’d gone with her.
there were days when you’d catch your reflection in the mirror. a fuller face, more swollen chest, the growing bump beginning to round out your stomach. it should’ve made you happy seeing the physical evidence of the love you and pope created, but all you could think about was how different you were from amy. you were softer, moodier, exhausted all the time. while amy was easy, gentle, and painstakingly understanding.
to top it off, pope barely touched you anymore. it wasn’t intentional, and that made you feel even worse. he still hovered around you constantly, made you food, checked the locks at night, watched you with that same intense concern he always carried, but the intimacy between you two had become strained and fragile. as if the both of you were waiting for the other to snap first.
the prenatal appointment only made the tension more obvious. pope sat stiffly beside you in the exam room, knees spread apart, arms folded tightly over his chest while the doctor reviewed charts on a tablet. you stayed quiet next to him, absently rubbing your palm over your stomach.
“everything looks healthy so far,” the doctor said with a reassuring smile. “baby’s measuring right on track.”
you gave her a small nod, but the doctor’s eyes flicked between the two of you for a moment too long, picking up on the silence hanging in the room.
the doctor continued carefully, unaware of the exact bruise she’d pressed on. “you know, stress hormones can affect both mom and baby long-term, so emotional support, consistency, reassurance… all of that matters just as much as physical health right now.”
you could practically feel pope withdrawing into himself, the same way he always did when someone implied he was failing at something he cared about.
after you two left the clinic, the drive back home was filled with uncomfortable silence. he didn’t even spare you a glance until he was helping you out the passenger seat.
“i—i gotta stop at amy’s place… but i’ll be back and we can have dinner together. just tell me what you want and i’ll get it,” pope said, his voice soft and careful.
your face immediately tensed at his words, an ugly wave of jealousy threatening to spill over. “okay,” you replied plainly, quickly turning toward the front door to hide your disappointment.
“hey,” he called out, “i’ll be back soon, okay? i love you.”
you gave him a nod as you glanced back to look at him. because even now, after amy, after the lies, the distance, the sleepless nights, pope still looked at you like losing you would destroy him.
“why do you care that i’m using AI to write my fics?”
putting the environmental and ethical considerations aside, it’s because writing is a craft even if it’s ’just a hobby’. to practice becoming a better writer, you have to read because it will expand your vocabulary and understanding of tone, syntax, and plot development. so when i’m scouring for fics and they turn out to be AI, i’ve learned nothing from it. AI uses consistent phrasing and signals that it learned to mimic from humans. writing is a craft and AI will only ever mimic the work it has stolen from authors, and can never be original or genuine because it is not human. you cannot learn to sew if you cannot thread your own needle. you cannot learn to sing if you refuse to learn your scales. you can learn and you can write.
THE GREAT — aerion targaryen (i)
synopsis. You are married into the Targaryen dynasty, and soon enough, its princes begin dying like flies—leaving you and your husband as the last people anyone disastrously trusts with the Iron Throne. THE GREAT!AU
pairing. aerion targaryen x lyseni&fem!reader
word count. 8,437
authors note. mind you, it can get a little annoying at first since the reader genuinely lives in a fantasy of sunshine and happy endings 😭 but i tried to follow the plot/tone of the great so… yeah. she will become a baddie as the story progresses. enemies to lovers hallelujah!!!! also, i’m not planning to follow the canon events after the ashford tourney which means we are absolutely getting king aerion 🤍 and yes, i shamelessly stole some dialogue from the show because they were simply too funny not to include <3 likes n comments are very much appreciated! lemme know if u enjoyed it!! warnings. violence, mentions of virginity loss and references to sex, eventual smut, reader is from lys and from house rogare (also described to have brunette hair and green eyes for the plot!), death/killing, arguing, attempted suicide, toxic relationship (VERY), misogyny, cheating, aerion being bitch as always (let me know if I missed smth).
eternity.
part I: jack abbot x f!reader, jack abbot x late wife
cw: angst, fluff, eventual smut (?), mentions of untimely death, drinking, cancer
synopsis: there is life and then there is... eternity. jack thought the hardest thing in the world had already happened to him once... then, twice? and now one more time for good. here in the after life, he can only chose to spend eternity with one: his first or his last love.
a/n: this is all very inspired and based on the movie eternity with just small twists and adjustments!
part ii coming soon...
Every morning was the same. Jack would wake first, and after some struggle, he'd get to the kitchen. The two of you had stopped drinking caffeinated coffee some time ago, but you still enjoyed the taste; that's where decaf came in. Too many mornings, Jack would accidentally drop the mug on the way back to the room, struggle to find balance between his crutches and the cups in his hand. After reassuring Jack with sweet kisses to his cheek that he didn't have to do that, he'd instead get the machine brewing before making his way back to the bedroom to wake you up.
The bed dipped beneath him as he leaned over your sleeping form. There was a peaceful look on your face, but this morning it felt off. Too still. He leaned over, kissing your cheek and murmuring softly,
"Wake up, honey. Got the coffee brewing..."

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that you might never be forgot pt. 2 ⊹⟢
aerion targaryen x wife!reader
-after many many letters sent to aerion in lys, he returns to find things are not in fact as he left them...angst angst (you die) ᥫ᭡
Thinking of you (Jack Abbot x reader)
Summary: Jack really thought he was ready to date again
Warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, i named Jack's dead wife Lisa, small description of sexual acts so +18
Word count: 1.3k
A/N: I wrote half of this last night bc i coulnd't sleep and half while i was on the bus today so probably not my best work. Not proof read bc we die like men
Yall- I can’t. Amazing writing but I’m sobbing
like oh um… haha
I beg for a ddba writer out there to write dex x waitress!reader…. literally all that’s on my mind after that diner scene
when you’re reading a fic and you can immediately tell it’s written by ai

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He’s so real for this
Imagine losing a game you rigged
PSA: For fan works, reblog and like from OP
Tumblr is rolling out a new reblog/notes system that completely disregards creators. In their new system, they're taking a twitter-style approach where reblogs will have their own notes that DO NOT contribute to the original post's notes.
Because of this, creators will no longer be able to see an accurate display of likes/reblogs/etc. This is completely altering the way feedback and responses to works are going to be received on this website.
If you come across a fan work that you enjoy, please take the extra step to go to OPs original post, and leave your comment/like/reblog there. Or go one step further and send an ask to OP directly to tell them what you liked!
I really hope Tumblr staff reverses course and reverts to the original reblog system for the sake of the large base of creators who use this site to share their works, but until then, please be considerate and make sure the creators here see/feel the love.
You Were Never the Problem.
Pairing: Prince Valarr (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her)
Prince Aerion (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her)
Word Count: ~5k+
POV: Reader-Insert (Third Person, She/Her)
Setting: Modern AU | University Campus | Corporate Heiress/Heir World
Summary:
She loved him for three years. Valarr loved her too — just not enough to choose her.
Now there are two pink lines, a closed door, and Valarr's cousin standing in a campus café asking for her number.
Rating: Mature (18+)
Warnings:
Reader addressed as “she” | Pregnancy Angst | Class Difference | Filthy Rich Heir Energy | Poor Scholarship Student Reader | Secret Relationship | Emotional Breakup | Swearing | Mean Valarr (controlled, calculating) | Legacy Pressure | Unplanned Pregnancy | Hurt / Comfort (eventual) | Aerion Getting His Shit Together | NOT Polyamory | NOT a Threesome | Foolishness from Valarr | Aerion good guy? | Reader has mother, younger brother | open ended, don't know feeling the sad vibes
⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。
Her apartment was small, but not in a way that felt pitiful or neglected. It was the kind of small that came with effort — with compromise — with someone making something work because it was what they could afford. The building itself was a second-floor walk-up with chipped beige stairs that creaked under every step, as though the wood had grown tired of carrying other people’s lives. The metal railing rattled faintly if you leaned on it too hard, a thin, hollow sound that echoed in the narrow stairwell. The hallway outside her door always carried the scent of someone else’s dinner — onions sautéing in oil, curry simmering low, sometimes the sharp tang of something burnt and forgotten on a stove.
THE BLOOD OF MY FATHER
pairing: romantic aerion targaryen x targaryen cousin reader / father baelor targaryen x daughter reader / brother valarr targaryen x sister reader
summary: she wouldn't let her father fall, she wouldn't let anyone she loved fall in honor even if she would herself perish
warning: english is not my first languaage, arrange marriage, violence, injury
She was born into thunder.
The storm that broke over King’s Landing the night she and her twin came screaming into the world rattled the shutters of the Red Keep and sent servants scrambling with candles guttering in their hands. The midwives would later claim the rain ceased the moment she drew breath, though no one could say whether that was truth or fancy.
She grew beneath her father’s steady shadow.
Baelor Targaryen was not a man given to softness in public. He was measured, deliberate, iron-bound in honor. But in private chambers, when courtiers were dismissed and armor set aside, he would sit with his daughter and listen as if her every word were a matter of state.
She adored him.
Not with the distant reverence courtiers showed, but with a fierce, luminous devotion. She watched the way he weighed justice, how he heard petitions without impatience, how he never forgot a name once spoken to him. She tried, always, to be worthy of that gaze.
Her twin, Valarr, was her other heart. They trained together, studied together, quarreled and reconciled before the sun set. When she returned bruised from sparring, Valarr would scold her recklessness while cleaning her wounds with careful hands. When he faltered under the pressure of expectation, she would clasp his shoulders and remind him that their father believed in him without reservation.
She rode like she meant to outrun the horizon. She fought because she loved the feel of strength earned. She embroidered dragons in crimson silk and played the harp with gentle precision. She slipped coins to the hungry and remembered the names of washerwomen and fishmongers.
The smallfolk loved her because she saw them. She remembered names. She knelt in the mud beside children. She gave freely—not in spectacle, but in habit.
If Baelor was the realm’s unbending spear, she was its open hand.
She alone could soothe Aerion.
After the death of his mother, when the boy’s grief turned sharp and cruel, when servants trembled and even knights avoided his gaze, she would sit beside him in the godswood and let him speak of dragons and fire and destiny. She did not flinch when his words grew fevered. She did not rebuke him when he called himself brighter than the sun. She would only say, softly, “Even the brightest flame needs air, cousin.”
For a time, that was enough.
It was whispered for years that prince Maekar pressed their father ceaselessly. That a union between Baelor’s beloved daughter and Maekar’s tempestuous son would bind the branches of House Targaryen tighter than steel. At last, worn thin by counsel and politics and perhaps by hope that marriage might tame what affection could not, Baelor agreed.
She accepted without protest.
She would be the balm. She would be the bridge. She would endure.
Ashford Castle was older than the tourney fields that sprawled beyond its walls. Its stones were thick and cool, its towers rounded by wind and years. The royal family was housed within its keep, banners of the dragon hanging beside the sigil of House Ashford, crimson apples bright against gold.
She liked the sound of the castle at night—the muffled crackle of hearthfires, distant laughter from the kitchens, the steady rhythm of guards’ boots along the corridors. It felt almost like home.
Almost.
She had ridden hard that morning, as she always did before a tourney day, letting her horse stretch across the dew-silvered fields beyond the castle walls. Riding cleared her thoughts. It reminded her that she was not only a princess, not only a betrothed pawn in political designs. She was flesh and breath and strength.
She returned flushed and wind-tangled, only to be met by whispers.
The whispers became words.
Aerion had broken the puppeteer’s fingers.
The council chamber within the castle keep was thick-walled and high-ceilinged, narrow windows letting in blades of afternoon light. Lords stood in clusters, their faces uneasy. At the head of the long table, Baelor stood tall, composed as ever.
And already there—already burning—was Aerion.
He paced before the gathered men like a caged beast.
“She made mock of dragons,” he was saying when she entered. “A painted puppet flapping cloth wings while peasants laughed.”
“She was performing for coin,” Baelor said evenly. “As smallfolk do.”
“She mocked our blood.”
“She played a story,” princess countered. “Stories are not treason.”
Aerion turned as she stepped forward.
“You defend her too?” he demanded.
“I defend what is right.”
“She insulted our blood.”
“She entertained,” she answered evenly. “And you shattered her hands for it.”
“She is smallfolk.”
“She is a woman,” she said sharply. “A woman who must earn her bread.”
“She dared make a dragon a puppet.”
“And you dared make a prince a monster.”
The words fell heavy.
A muscle jumped in Aerion’s jaw. “Mind yourself.”
“I do,” she replied, stepping closer. “Do you?”
The chamber held its breath.
Silence fell, heavy and dangerous.
“Trial of seven!” Aerion thundered. “Let the gods judge.”
Even as the words left his mouth, she felt dread bloom like poison in her veins.
Seven against seven. Mounted with lances. Then steel until one side yielded or perished.
Baelor’s jaw tightened. He did not look at her when he agreed that the law must be upheld.
But she saw the weight settle on his shoulders.
Night fell heavy over Ashford Castle.
The royal family was housed in chambers within the keep—rooms lined with tapestries, thick rugs underfoot, hearths burning low. The scent of beeswax and old stone hung in the air.
She meant only to seek her father.
Instead, as she approached the solar assigned to him, she heard voices through the half-closed door.
Valarr’s voice was strained. “You cannot mean to fight.”
“I do,” Baelor replied quietly.
“You are Hand of the King.”
“I am also a knight. And a prince.”
“You have not ridden in a charge for years. The armor—”
“I will wear yours.”
“It will not fit.”
“I will make it fit.”
She pressed her hand against the cool stone wall, breath shallow.
Ill-fitting armor could twist under impact. A lance strike at full gallop would find every weakness. She imagined it the thunder of hooves, the crash of wood, her father thrown violently from the saddle because straps were too loose, because plates shifted a fraction too far.
“No,” she whispered to herself.
Inside, Baelor’s voice softened. “You are my son, Valarr. I would not have you risk yourself for your cousin’s pride.”
“And I would not have you risk yourself at all,” Valarr replied, his voice breaking slightly.
She closed her eyes.
He would go.
He would die if the gods were unkind.
And it would be because she had failed to temper Aerion’s fire.
She did not sleep.
Instead, she sought out her little helper Egg, whose loyalty to her was as fierce as his boyish heart.
When she told him her plan, his face went pale.
“He will never forgive you,” Egg whispered.
“He will,” she said, though her voice trembled. “If he lives to.”
The herbs were mild—she knew enough from maesters’ lessons to measure carefully. Crushed finely, dissolved fully, tasteless in wine.
But the act of preparing them felt like treason.
She carried the flagon herself to her father’s chambers.
Inside, the hearth burned low. Baelor had shed his formal doublet, wearing only a simple tunic. Valarr sat across from him, a half-smile on his lips as they spoke of childhood mischief.
“Come,” Baelor said warmly. “Sit with us.”
Valarr smiled faintly. “You missed supper.”
“I was not hungry,” she replied.
She poured the wine carefully, praying her hands did not betray her.
They spoke of childhood that night.
Baelor recounted how she had once tried to climb into the Dragonpit to see the skulls up close and declared she would ride one someday. Valarr teased her about falling into the fishpond at seven. She laughed with them, feeling each memory cut deeper because she knew what she was about to do.
“Father,” she said softly, “do you ever regret… fighting?”
Baelor studied her. “Regret? No. I regret necessity. I regret that men make such choices required.”
“And if one day,” she pressed gently, “someone you loved chose to stand in your place?”
His brow furrowed. “I would forbid it.”
Valarr nodded fiercely. “You would.”
She swallowed.
They drank.
Her father’s voice grew slower. Valarr blinked heavily.
“You look tired,” she said, forcing calm.
“Long day,” Baelor murmured.
Valarr tried to stand and nearly stumbled.
Guilt hit her like a physical blow.
She rose quickly, steadying him, guiding him gently to his chamber. When he lay down, she brushed hair from his brow the way she had done since childhood.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
She returned to Baelor last.
He was half-asleep in his chair.
“My brave girl,” he murmured faintly, not fully aware. “Whatever comes, remember—you are the best of us.”
Her breath broke.
She knelt before him, pressing her forehead against his hand.
“I learned from you,” she whispered.
When he slept fully, she wept silently.
Before dawn, she dressed in plain armor taken from the armory within Ashford Castle. She checked every buckle twice. She wrapped linen beneath her plates to soften impact. She bound her hair tightly, tucking it beneath a helm unmarked by sigil.
Each strap tightened felt like a farewell.
When she stepped onto the field, mounted among Duncan’s seven, the smallfolk cheered as they always did for spectacle.
They did not know.
Across the field, Aerion shone like living flame.
The horns sounded.
Seven lances lowered.
The thunder of hooves shook Ashford Meadow.
Her first charge shattered wood against steel. The second nearly unhorsed her. The third ended when her uncle met her head-on.
His lance struck her breastplate squarely.
She flew from the saddle.
The world spun sky and grass and sky again before she crashed hard, air blasted from her lungs. Pain seared up her spine. She rolled, barely avoiding trampling hooves.
She rose, drawing sword as mounted knights fell and the melee began.
Steel screamed.
A blade cut deep into her thigh. A shield smashed her ribs; something cracked audibly. She fought through it, blood soaking into her greaves.
Then Maekar found her again.
His mace descended like judgment.
The first blow crushed her shield. The second broke her guard and struck her shoulder, dislocating it with sickening force. She screamed despite herself.
“Yield!” he commanded.
She spat blood inside her helm.
The third blow shattered part of her helm and split the metal, cutting deep into her scalp. Blood flooded her vision.
The fourth struck her side where her armor had shifted from the fall. She felt ribs give way.
She dropped to both knees.
Across the field, Aerion saw her helm crack. Saw silver hair spill free.
“No,” he breathed, horror swallowing pride whole. “No, no—”
“I YIELD!” he roared, voice breaking.
Silence tore across the meadow.
She pulled her broken helm free.
Blood poured down her face, into her eyes, from her mouth where teeth had cut her lip. One eye was swelling shut. Her arm hung useless at her side.
The smallfolk screamed.
“The princess!” someone cried.
Wails rose like a funeral dirge.
Maekar staggered backward, ripping off his helm, face stricken. “Gods…”
Aerion stumbled toward her, pale, shaking, hands outstretched but afraid to touch.
At the edge of the field, Baelor burst through the crowd.
He saw her.
He dropped to his knees in the dirt, gathering her broken body into his arms.
“My girl!” he shouted, voice cracking across the field. “My beautiful girl!”
Blood soaked into his tunic.
“Maesters!” he roared. “MAESTERS!”
Valarr fell beside them, hands trembling as he pressed against her crushed side, tears streaming unchecked.
“You should have let me,” he choked on his tears. “You should have let me.”
Baelor looked up at Maekar, fury raw and uncontained.
“You struck her!” he shouted, voice shaking. “You struck my child!”
Maekar stood stricken, horror etched deep.
Aerion fell to his knees in the grass, staring at the blood on his hands where he had tried to steady her.
She tried to speak.
Blood bubbled at her lips.
Baelor cradled her head carefully, pressing his brow to hers as he had when she was small.
“Stay with me,” he begged hoarsely. “Stay with me, my brave girl. Do not leave me.”
Around them, the smallfolk wept openly. Some cursed Aerion. Some cursed the dragons. Many knelt in prayer.
Ashford Meadow, moments before roaring with glory, now echoed with grief.
And in the center of it all, Baelor Breakspear held his gravely wounded daughter, rocking her gently as if she were once more the little girl who had clutched his fingers in the halls of the Red Keep his beloved child who had loved him enough to betray him, and loved him enough to bleed in his stead.
THE END
...... or is it?????
Hiiii I hope you enjoyed my little story and if you read until now you have my gratitude and I wish you a cold pillow tonight.
If you have any AKOTSK request i will be very happy to hear them please I love all of the characters so please let me know

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hopelessly devoted to you — b.t.
summary: baelor wakes up, and yet, somehow, your heart breaks even more.
pairing: baelor targaryen x wife reader
word count: 2k
based off of this!
from the moment the sun rose to when it fell, every moment for an entire fortnight, you had not left your husband’s side.
OOHHH MY HEART!!! If you continue the story I will love you forever! Amazing story!! I hope you continue to write for Baelor
Men only ever learn the things that ruin them
Pairing: None, Reader is a Targaryen, Maekar's oldest daughter and Baelor's niece
Warnings: Violence, character death, angst, hurt/no comfort
Words: 1800
Your father's body has not registered much of anything except the single desperate imperative driving it forward — get to him, get to him, get to him — and in approximately two seconds that imperative is going to put a mace through your uncle's skull and your father is going to have to live the rest of his life knowing what his hands did whilst he was not himself. One second. No. Absolutely not. You move. The blow that was never meant for anyone it loved finds the one person on this field who was paying attention.
A/N: This hurts, I'm still hurting, I'm sorry
Divider by @dingusfreakhxrrington
The night Egg comes to you, he is not himself.
This alone stops your breath. Your brother is many things — stubborn, principled, occasionally insufferable — but he has always been himself, with a consistency you have come to rely on the way you rely on the sun rising. To you, he is your sun, your dearest brother, a fact you do not bother hiding at all. The boy in your doorway has his face and his voice and his infuriating charm, but the pit you see when you look into his eyes nearly brings you to tears.
You are in the private garden next to your quarters, so graciously provided by Lord Ashford, seated against an elm tree, enjoying the cool evening air, stargazing in the hopes you’d see a fallen star.
"Sister," he says, and stops.
"Egg," you say back, patient.
He tells you everything in a rush. About Ser Duncan the Tall, the trial of seven, how Aerion has backed the hedge knight into a corner with no way out but combat, and how they need six more knights and have barely half of that.
AMAZING!!! Had me sobbing so bad!!